Ramona's World Read Free Page A

at a callus but did not pull it off. Calluses were one thing she had to be proud of. Right now she felt they were the only thing.
    Before Mrs. Quimby could coax, the telephone rang. “I’ll get it!” Beezus shouted. She and Ramona usually tried to beat each other to the telephone in the hall.
    Of course, Ramona eavesdropped. She heard Beezus say, sounding surprised, “Yes, I’d love to, but I’ll have to ask Mother. Just a minute—”
    Beezus, her eyes shining and her face alight with joy, came back into the room and said, “Mother, guess what! Mrs. Lucas wants me to baby-sit with Benjamin Saturday evening. They won’t be out late, and they’ll pay me and everything!”
    And stuff, thought Ramona.
    Beezus continued. “And Mrs. Lucas says she wants me because she knows I’m responsible. Oh, please, please —”
    â€œI don’t see why not,” said Mrs. Quimby. “We’ll be home, so we could help if there is an emergency, which I’m sure there won’t be.”
    Not with good old Beezus being so responsible all over the place, thought Ramona as Beezus danced off to the telephone. After she had accepted the offer, she returned, gathered up her books, and started down the hall to the room the sisters had shared since Roberta was born. The baby now occupied Ramona’s old room.
    Beezus paused and said, “Au revoir.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” asked Ramona, annoyed with Beezus for using words she did not understand.
    â€œIt means good-bye in French,” answered Beezus, and went off to the room the sisters shared. Probably to be responsible about her homework, thought Ramona.
    Mrs. Quimby shifted Roberta to her lap and patted the couch beside her. “Ramona, come sit by me,” she coaxed.
    Reluctantly Ramona moved to the couch, staying as far away as she could from her mother. She balanced the heel of one sandal on the toe of the other and longed to lean against her mother and confide her troubles. Life was hard enough, and now Beezus would be showing off by speaking French. She picked at a callus.
    â€œCan you tell me what’s bothering you?” Mrs. Quimby’s voice was gentle. Roberta stared at Ramona as if she were giving her serious thought.
    â€œNothing.” Ramona sighed.
    â€œNow, Ramona,” her mother said in her soothing voice, “I know something’s bothering you. You’ll feel better if you tell me.”
    Ramona knew her mother was right, but she sighed again before she burst out, “My spelling is rotten and Mrs. Meacham doesn’t like me and makes me feel stupid in front of the whole class and they laughed at me and made me feel super-stupid and everybody says Beezus is responsible and nobody says I’m responsible and everybody fusses over Roberta and says she is cute and adorable and stuff and nobody pays any attention to me and I’m not supposed to say ‘stuff’ and—and—stuff.”
    Roberta looked worried.
    Mrs. Quimby ignored the stuffs. “Has anybody ever said you weren’t responsible?” she asked.
    Ramona thought. “Well—no,” she admitted, “but Mrs. Meacham probably will. She only likes people who can spell. She loves good spellers. She adores good spellers.”
    Mrs. Quimby smiled. “Ramona, I think you are exaggerating.”
    Ramona knew her mother was right, but that was the way she felt. Exaggerating felt good .
    â€œBring your spelling words home, and we’ll help you.” Mrs. Quimby was comforting, but Ramona was not ready to be comforted. “And don’t forget,” her mother went on, “this is only the second day of school, and Mrs. Meacham is there to teach you. You’ll feel differently when you get to know her better and when your spelling improves.”

    Ramona felt calmer after spilling out her troubles, but she wasn’t ready to admit it. How did she know her