the kitchen, where she began to wash her

hair at the sink. Mr. Quimby, studying at the dining-room table as usual, made his pencil scratch angrily across a pad of paper. The television set sat blank and mute, and in the 151

fireplace a log sullenly refused to burn.

Mrs. Quimby sat down and then got

up again as Picky-picky, indignant at the

wet world outdoors, yowled to come in.

“Ramona, clean up your room,” she

ordered, as she let the cat and a gust of cold air into the house.

“Beezus hasn’t cleaned up her room.”

Ramona could not resist pointing this omission out to her mother.

“I’m not talking about Beezus,” said Mrs.

Quimby. “I’m talking about you.”

Still Ramona did not move from the

window. Cleaning up her room seemed such

a boring thing to do, no fun at all on a rainy afternoon. She thought vaguely of all the

exciting things she would like to do—learn to twirl a lariat, play a musical saw, flip around and over bars in a gymnastic compe-tition while crowds cheered.

“Ramona, clean up your room!” Mrs.

Quimby raised her voice.

152

“Well, you don’t have to yell at me.”

Ramona’s feelings were hurt by the tone of her mother’s voice. The log in the fireplace settled, sending a puff of smoke into the

living room.

“Then do it,” snapped Mrs. Quimby. “Your

room is a disaster area.”

Mr. Quimby threw down his pencil.

“Young lady, you do what your mother says, and you do it now. She shouldn’t have to tell you three times.”

“Well, all right, but you don’t have to be so cross,” said Ramona. To herself she thought, Nag, nag, nag.

Sulkily Ramona took her hurt feelings

off to her room, where she pulled a week’s collection of dirty socks from under her bed.

On her way to the bathroom hamper, she

looked down the hall and saw her sister

standing in the living room, rubbing her hair with a towel.

“Mother, I think you’re mean,” said Beezus 153

from under the towel.

Ramona stopped to listen.

“I don’t care how mean you think I am,”

answered Mrs. Quimby. “You are not going

to go, and that is that.”

“But all the other girls are going,” protested Beezus.

“I don’t care if they are,” said Mrs. Quimby.

“You are not.”

Ramona heard the sound of a pencil

being slammed on the table and her father

saying, “Your mother is right. Now would

you kindly give me a little peace and quiet so I can get on with my work.”

Beezus flounced past Ramona into her

room and slammed the door. Sobs were

heard, loud, angry sobs.

Where can’t she go? Ramona wondered,

as she dumped her socks into the hamper.

Then, because she had been so good about

picking up her room, Ramona returned to

154

the living room, where Picky-picky, as cross and bored as the rest of the family, was once again meowing at the front door. “Where