Ramona’s days were bad, but her nights

were worse.At eight o’clock she sat very, very still on a chair in the corner of the living room with an open book, one that Beezus

had read, on her lap. If she did not move, if she did not make a sound, her mother might

forget to tell her to go to bed, and more

than anything in the world Ramona did not

want to go to bed. She pretended to read,

she even tried to read, but she could not

understand the story, because she had to skip some of the most important words. She was

bored and uncomfortable from sitting so

still, but anything was better than going off 109

alone to her new room. The nights her father went bowling were worst of all, and

this was one of those nights.

“Isn’t it time for Ramona to go to bed?”

asked Beezus.

Ramona would not allow herself to say,

Shut up, Beezus, because doing so would

call attention to herself. She lifted her eyes to the clock on the mantel. Eight sixteen.

Eight seventeen.

Beezus, always her mother’s girl, went

into the kitchen to help prepare lunches for the next day. Ramona wanted something

besides a bologna sandwich in her lunch, but she knew that if she spoke, she risked being sent to bed. Eight eighteen.

“Ramona, it’s past your bedtime,” Mrs.

Quimby called from the kitchen. Ramona

did not budge. Eight nineteen. “Ramona!”

“As soon as I finish this chapter.”

“Now!”

110

What worked for Beezus would not work for Ramona. She closed her book and

walked down the hall to the bathroom,

where she drew her bath, undressed, and

climbed into the tub. There she sat until

Mrs. Quimby called out, “Ramona! No

dawdling!”

Ramona got out, dried herself, and put

on her pajamas. She remembered to dip her

washcloth in the bathwater and wring it

out before she let the water out of the tub.

She brushed and brushed her teeth until her

mother called through the door, “That’s

enough, Ramona!”

Ramona ran back to the living room and

seized the unsuspecting Picky-picky asleep

on Mr. Quimby’s chair. “Picky-picky wants

to sleep with me,” she said, lugging the cat in the direction of her room. Picky-picky

did not agree. He struggled out of her arms

and ran back to the chair, where he began to 111

wash away the taint of Ramona’s hands. Mean

old Picky-picky. Ramona longed for a soft,

comfortable, purring cat that would snuggle

against her and make her feel safe. She wished Picky-picky would behave more like Fluff in

her reader. Fluff was always willing to chase a 112

ball of yarn or ride in a doll carriage.

“What time will Daddy be home?” asked

Ramona.

“Around eleven,” answered her mother.

“Now scoot.”

Hours and hours away. Ramona walked

slowly down the hall and into her room,

which smelled of fresh paint. She closed her new curtains, shutting out the dark eye of