The school secretary laid a sheet of clean paper on the pillow on the cot, motioned

Ramona to lie down, and then covered her

with a blanket. “I’ll phone your mother and ask her to come and take you home,” she said.

“But she’s at work,” Ramona whispered,

because speaking aloud might send her stomach into reverse again. “And Daddy is at

school.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Larson. “Where do you

go after school?”

“To Howie Kemp’s house,” said Ramona,

closing her eyes and wishing she could go to sleep and not wake up until all this misery was over. She was aware that Mrs. Larson

dialed a number and after a few moments

replaced the receiver. Howie’s grandmother was not home.

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Then the terrible, horrible, dreadful, awful feeling returned.“Mrs. L-Larson,” quavered Ramona. “I’m going to throw up.”

In an instant, Mrs. Larson was holding

Ramona’s head in front of the toilet. “It’s a good thing I have three children of my own so I’m used to this sort of thing,” she said.

When Ramona had finished, she handed

her another cup of water and said cheerfully,

“You must feel as if you’ve just thrown up your toenails.”

Ramona managed a weak and wavery

smile.“Who’s going to take care of me?” she asked, as Mrs. Larson covered her with the blanket once more.

“Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Larson. “We’ll

find someone, and until we do, you rest right here.”

Ramona felt feeble, exhausted, and grate-

ful to Mrs. Larson. Closing her eyes had never felt so good, and the next thing she knew she 109

heard her mother whispering, “Ramona.”

She lifted heavy lids to see her mother standing over her.

“Do you feel like going home?” Mrs.

Quimby asked gently. She was already

holding Ramona’s coat.

Tears filled Ramona’s eyes. She was not

sure her legs would stand up, and how

would they get home without a car? And

what was her mother doing here when she

was supposed to be at work? Would she lose her job?

Mrs. Quimby helped Ramona to her feet

and draped her coat over her shoulders. “I have a taxi waiting,” she said, as she guided Ramona toward the door.

Mrs. Larson looked up from her type-

writer. “’Bye, Ramona. We’ll miss you,” she said. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.”

Ramona had forgotten what it was like

to feel better. Outside a yellow taxicab was chugging at the curb. A taxi! Ramona had

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never ridden in a taxicab, and now she was too sick to enjoy it. Any other time she would have felt important to be leaving school in a taxi in the middle of the morning.

As Ramona climbed in, she saw the driver

look her over as if he were doubtful about something. I will not throw up in a taxi,

Ramona willed herself. I will not. A taxi is too expensive to throw up in. She added