happily, humming a tune from a television

commercial. She used a pencil to draw cat

fur, because she could draw finer lines with it than she could with a crayon. She used her crayons for Puss’n Boots’s clothes, but when she came to his boots, she discovered her red crayon was missing. Most likely she had left it in her room.

“Beezus, have you seen my red crayon?”

The girls had made an agreement that

Ramona could call her sister Beezus at

home, but in public she had better remem-

ber to call her Beatrice or look out!

“Um-hm.” Without looking up from her

20

book, Beezus waved her hand in the direction of Ramona’s bed.

Peace between the sisters could not last.

Ramona saw the broken remains of her red

crayon lying in the middle of her bed.“Who

broke my crayon?” she demanded.

“You shouldn’t leave your crayon on

other people’s beds where it can get sat on.”

Beezus did not even bother to look up from

her book.

Ramona found this answer most annoy-

ing. “You should look where you sit,” she

said, “and you don’t have to be so bossy.”

“This is my bed.” Beezus glanced at her

sister.“You have your own half of the room.”

“I don’t have anyplace to put anything.”

“Pooh,” said Beezus. “You’re just careless

and messy.”

Ramona was indignant.“I am not careless

and messy!” Picky-picky woke up, leaped

from Beezus’s bed, and departed, tail held

21

straight. Picky-picky often made it plain he did not care for Ramona.

“Yes, you are,” said Beezus. “You don’t

hang up your clothes, and you leave your

toys all over.”

“Just because the clothes bar is easy for

you to reach,” said Ramona, “and you think

you’re too big for toys.” To show her sister that she did pick up her things, she laid the 22

pieces of her broken crayon in her drawer on top of her underwear. She had lost interest in crayoning. She did not want to color boots

with the rough ends of a broken crayon.

“Besides,” said Beezus, who did not like

to be interrupted when she was deep in a

good book, “you’re a pest.”

Pest was a fighting word to Ramona, because it was unfair. She was not a pest, at 23

least not all the time. She was only littler than anyone else in the family, and no matter

how hard she tried, she could not catch up.

“Don’t you call me a pest,” she shouted, “or I’ll tell Mama you have a lipstick hidden in your drawer.”

Beezus finally laid down her book.

“Ramona Geraldine Quimby!” Her voice

and manner were fierce.“You’re nothing but

a snoop and a tattletale!”

Ramona had gone too far. “I wasn’t