Bored with television and cramped from

lying still so she would not disturb Picky-picky, Ramona waited. How sorry they

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would be to see her so pale and thin. Surely her father would bring her a little present, something to entertain her while she had to stay in bed. A paperback book because she

could now read books with chapters? New

crayons? Her father understood the impor-

tance of sharp-pointed crayons to someone

who liked to draw.

Beezus arrived first with an armload of

books that she dropped on a chair.“Home-

work!” she said and groaned. Now that she

was in junior high school, she was always

talking about all the work she had to do, as if Ramona did nothing in school. “How do

you feel?” she finally got around to asking.

“Sick,” said Ramona in a faint voice,“but

my whole class wrote to me.”

Beezus glanced at the sheaf of letters.

“They copied them off the blackboard,” she said.

“Writing a whole letter in cursive is hard work for lots of people when they are in the 128

third grade.” Ramona was hurt at having her letters belittled. She pushed Picky-picky off the couch so she could stretch her legs.The television droned on and on.

“I wonder what’s keeping your father,”

remarked Mrs. Quimby, looking out the front window.

Ramona knew why her father was late,

but she did not say so. He was buying her a little present because she was sick. She could hardly wait.“My class is giving book reports,”

she informed Beezus, so her sister would

know she had schoolwork to do too. “We

have to pretend to sell a book to someone.”

“We did that a couple of times,” said

Beezus. “Teachers always tell you not to tell the whole story, and half the kids finish by saying, ‘If you want to know what happens

next, read the book,’ and somebody always

says, ‘Read this book, or I’ll punch you in the nose.’”

Ramona knew who would say that in her

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class.Yard Ape, that was who.

“Here he comes now,” said Mrs. Quimby,

and she hurried to open the door for

Ramona’s father, who kissed her as he

entered.

“Where’s the car?” she asked.

“Bad news.” Mr. Quimby sounded tired.

“It has to have a new transmission.”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Quimby was shocked.

“How much is that going to cost?”

Mr. Quimby looked grim. “Plenty. More

than we can afford.”

“We’ll have to afford it somehow,” said

Mrs. Quimby. “We can’t manage without a

car.”

“The transmission people are letting us

pay it off in installments,” he explained,“and I’ll manage to get in some more hours as

Santa’s Little Helper at the warehouse.”

“I wish there were some other way. . . .”

Mrs. Quimby looked sad as she went into

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the kitchen to attend to supper.

Only then did Mr. Quimby turn his atten-

tion to Ramona. “How’s my little punkin?”

he asked.

“Sick.” Ramona forgot to look pitiful, she was so disappointed that her father had not brought her a present.