came to remove the tray. “Your temperature is down, and you’re going to be all right.”

Ramona did feel a little better. Her mother was right. She had not thrown up on purpose.

Other children had done the same thing.

There was that boy in kindergarten and the girl in first grade. . . .

Ramona dozed off, and when she awoke,

she was bored and cranky. She wanted butter on the toast her mother brought her and

scowled when her mother said people with

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stomach flu should not eat butter.

Mrs. Quimby smiled and said, “I can tell

you’re beginning to get well when you act

like a wounded tiger.”

Ramona scowled. “I am not acting like a wounded tiger,” she informed her mother.

When Mrs. Quimby made her a bed on the

living-room couch so she could watch tele-

vision, she was cross with the television set because she found daytime programs dumb,

stupid, and boring. Commercials were much

more interesting than the programs. She lay back and hoped for a cat-food commercial

because she liked to look at nice cats. As she waited, she brooded about her teacher.

“Of course I didn’t throw up on purpose,”

Ramona told herself. Mrs. Whaley should

know that. And deep down inside I am really a nice person, she comforted herself. Mrs.

Whaley should know that, too.

“Who pays teachers?” Ramona suddenly

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asked, when her mother came into the room.

“Why, we all do.” Mrs. Quimby seemed

surprised by the question.“We pay taxes, and teachers’ salaries come out of tax money.”

Ramona knew that taxes were something

unpleasant that worried parents.“I think you should stop paying taxes,” Ramona informed her mother.

Mrs. Quimby looked amused. “I wish we

could—at least until we finish paying for the room we added to the house. Whatever put

such an idea into your head?”

“Mrs. Whaley doesn’t like me,” Ramona

answered. “She is supposed to like me. It’s her job to like me.”

All Mrs. Quimby had to say was,“If you’re

this grouchy at school, liking you could be hard work.”

Ramona was indignant. Her mother was

supposed to feel sorry for her poor, weak

little girl.

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Picky-picky strolled into the living room and stared at Ramona as if he felt she did not belong on the couch. With an arthritic leap, he jumped up beside her on the blanket, washed himself from his ears to the tip of his tail, kneaded the blanket, and, purring, curled up beside Ramona, who lay very still so he would not go away. When he was

asleep, she petted him gently. Picky-picky usually avoided her because she was noisy, or so her mother said.

A funny man appeared on the television

screen. He had eaten a pizza, which had given him indigestion. He groaned. “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.” Ramona smiled.

The next commercial showed a cat step-

ping back and forth in a little dance. “Do you think we could train Picky-picky to do that?” Ramona asked her mother.