Ramona and Her Father by Beverly Cleary Page A

said Beezus. Noticing Ramona’s work, she added, “Making out a Christmas list in September is silly.”
    Ramona calmly selected an orange crayon. She was used to being called a pest. “If I am a pest, you are a rotten dinosaur egg,” she informed her sister.
    â€œMother, make her stop,” said Beezus.
    When Beezus said this, Ramona knew she had won. The time had come to change the subject. “Today’s payday,” she told her sister. “Maybe we’ll get to go to the Whopperburger for supper.”
    â€œOh, Mother, will we?” Beezus’s unhappy mood disappeared as she swooped up Picky-picky, the Quimbys’ shabby old cat, who had strolled into the kitchen. He purred a rusty purr as she rubbed her cheek against his yellow fur.
    â€œI’ll see what I can do,” said Mrs. Quimby.
    Smiling, Beezus dropped Picky-picky, gathered up her books, and went off to her room. Beezus was the kind of girl who did her homework on Friday instead of waiting until the last minute on Sunday.
    Ramona asked in a quiet voice, “Mother, why is Beezus so cross lately?” Letting her sister overhear such a question would lead to real trouble.
    â€œYou mustn’t mind her,” whispered Mrs. Quimby. “She’s reached a difficult age.”
    Ramona thought such an all-purpose excuse for bad behavior would be a handy thing to have. “So have I,” she confided to her mother.
    Mrs. Quimby dropped a kiss on the top of Ramona’s head. “Silly girl,” she said. “It’s just a phase Beezus is going through. She’ll outgrow it.”
    A contented silence fell over the house as three members of the family looked forward to supper at the Whopperburger, where they would eat, close and cozy in a booth, their food brought to them by a friendly waitress who always said, “There you go,” as she set down their hamburgers and French fries.
    Ramona had decided to order a cheeseburger when she heard the sound of her father’s key in the front door. “Daddy, Daddy!” she shrieked, scrambling down from the chair and running to meet her father as he opened the door. “Guess what?”
    Beezus, who had come from her room, answered before her father had a chance to guess. “Mother said maybe we could go to the Whopperburger for dinner!”
    Mr. Quimby smiled and kissed his daughters before he held out a small white paper bag. “Here, I brought you a little present.” Somehow he did not look as happy as usual. Maybe he had had a hard day at the office of the van-and-storage company where he worked.
    His daughters pounced and opened the bag together. “Gummybears!” was their joyful cry. The chewy little bears were the most popular sweet at Glenwood School this fall. Last spring powdered Jell-O eaten from the package had been the fad. Mr. Quimby always remembered these things.

    â€œRun along and divide them between you,” said Mr. Quimby. “I want to talk to your mother.”
    â€œDon’t spoil your dinner,” said Mrs. Quimby.
    The girls bore the bag off to Beezus’s room, where they dumped the gummybears onto the bedspread. First they divided the cinnamon-flavored red bears, one for Beezus, one for Ramona. Then they divided the orange bears and the green, and as they were about to divide the yellow bears, both girls were suddenly aware that their mother and father were no longer talking. Silence filled the house. The sisters looked at one another. There was something unnatural about this silence. Uneasy, they waited for some sound, and then their parents began to speak in whispers. Beezus tiptoed to the door to listen.
    Ramona bit the head off a red gummybear. She always ate toes last. “Maybe they’re planning a big surprise,” she suggested, refusing to worry.
    â€œI don’t think so,” whispered Beezus, “but I can’t hear what they are saying.”
    â€œTry