to speak up.“Mrs.Whaley,” she said with her heart pounding, “you told Mrs. Larson that I’m a nuisance, and I don’t think I am.”

Mrs. Whaley looked astonished. “When

did I say that?”

“The day I got egg in my hair,” said

Ramona.“You called me a show-off and said

I was a nuisance.”

146

Mrs. Whaley frowned, thinking. “Why,

Ramona, I can recall saying something about my little show-off, but I meant it affectionately, and I’m sure I never called you a nuisance.”

“Yes, you did,” insisted Ramona.“You said

I was a show-off, and then you said, ‘What a nuisance.’ ” Ramona could never forget those exact words.

Mrs. Whaley, who had looked worried, smiled in relief. “Oh, Ramona, you misun-derstood,” she said. “I meant that trying to wash egg out of your hair was a nuisance

for Mrs. Larson. I didn’t mean that you

personally were a nuisance.”

Ramona felt a little better, enough to come out from under her mask to say, “I wasn’t

showing off. I was just trying to crack an egg on my head like everyone else.”

Mrs.Whaley’s smile was mischievous.“Tell

me, Ramona,” she said, “don’t you ever try to show off ?”

Ramona was embarrassed. “Well . . .

maybe . . . sometimes, a little,” she admitted.

Then she added positively, “But I wasn’t

showing off that day. How could I be show-

ing off when I was doing what everyone else was doing?”

“You’ve convinced me,” said Mrs.Whaley

with a big smile. “Now run along and eat

your lunch.”

148

Ramona snatched up her lunch box and

went jumping down the stairs to the cafe-

teria. She laughed to herself because she

knew exactly what all the boys and girls

from her class would say when they fin-

ished their lunches. She knew because she

planned to say it herself.“I can’t believe I ate the whole thing!”

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9

Rainy Sunday

Rainy Sunday afternoons in November

were always dismal, but Ramona felt

this Sunday was the most dismal of all. She pressed her nose against the living-room

window, watching the ceaseless rain pelting down as bare black branches clawed at the

electric wires in front of the house. Even lunch, leftovers Mrs. Quimby had wanted to clear out of the refrigerator, had been dreary, 150

with her parents, who seemed tired or dis-couraged or both, having little to say and Beezus mysteriously moody. Ramona longed

for sunshine, sidewalks dry enough for roller-skating, a smiling, happy family.

“Ramona, you haven’t cleaned up your

room this weekend,” said Mrs. Quimby, who

was sitting on the couch, sorting through

a stack of bills. “And don’t press your nose against the window. It leaves a smudge.”

Ramona felt as if everything she did was

wrong. The whole family seemed cross today, even Picky-picky who meowed at the front

door.With a sigh, Mrs. Quimby got up to let him out. Beezus, carrying a towel and shampoo, stalked through the living room into