Ramona and Her Mother by Beverly Cleary Page B

girls’ old school, had become an intermediate school, which meant Ramona had to go to Cedarhurst Primary School.
    â€œHa-ha yourself.” Beezus was too excited to be annoyed with her little sister. “Today I start high school.”
    â€œ Junior high school,” corrected Ramona, who was not going to let her sister get away with acting older than she really was. “Rosemont Junior High School is not the same as high school, and besides you have to walk.”
    Ramona had reached the age of demanding accuracy from everyone, even herself. All summer, whenever a grown-up asked what grade she was in, she felt as if she were fibbing when she answered, “third,” because she had not actually started the third grade. Still, she could not say she was in the second grade since she had finished that grade last June. Grown-ups did not understand that summers were free from grades.
    â€œHa-ha to both of you,” said Mr. Quimby, as he carried his breakfast dishes into the kitchen. “You’re not the only ones going to school today.” Yesterday had been his last day working at the checkout counter of the ShopRite Market. Today he was returning to college to become what he called “a real, live school teacher.” He was also going to work one day a week in the frozen-food warehouse of the chain of ShopRite Markets to help the family “squeak by,” as the grown-ups put it, until he finished his schooling.
    â€œHa-ha to all of you if you don’t hurry up,” said Mrs. Quimby, as she swished suds in the dishpan. She stood back from the sink so she would not spatter the white uniform she wore in the doctor’s office where she worked as a receptionist.
    â€œDaddy, will you have to do homework?” Ramona wiped off her milk moustache and gathered up her dishes.
    â€œThat’s right.” Mr. Quimby flicked a dish towel at Ramona as she passed him. She giggled and dodged, happy because he was happy. Never again would he stand all day at a cash register, ringing up groceries for a long line of people who were always in a hurry.

    Ramona slid her plate into the dishwater. “And will Mother have to sign your progress reports?”
    Mrs. Quimby laughed. “I hope so.”
    Beezus was last to bring her dishes into the kitchen. “Daddy, what do you have to study to learn to be a teacher?” she asked.
    Ramona had been wondering the same thing. Her father knew how to read and do arithmetic. He also knew about Oregon pioneers and about two pints making one quart.
    Mr. Quimby wiped a plate and stacked it in the cupboard. “I’m taking an art course, because I want to teach art. And I’ll study child development—”
    Ramona interrupted. “What’s child development?”
    â€œHow kids grow,” answered her father.
    Why does anyone have to go to school to study a thing like that? wondered Ramona. All her life she had been told that the way to grow was to eat good food, usually food she did not like, and get plenty of sleep, usually when she had more interesting things to do than go to bed.
    Mrs. Quimby hung up the dishcloth, scooped up Picky-picky, the Quimbys’ old yellow cat, and dropped him at the top of the basement steps. “Scat, all of you,” she said, “or you’ll be late for school.”
    After the family’s rush to brush teeth, Mr. Quimby said to his daughters, “Hold out your hands,” and into each waiting pair he dropped a new pink eraser. “Just for luck,” he said, “not because I expect you to make mistakes.”
    â€œThank you,” said the girls. Even a small present was appreciated, because presents of any kind had been scarce while the family tried to save money so Mr. Quimby could return to school. Ramona, who liked to draw as much as her father, especially treasured the new eraser, smooth, pearly pink, smelling softly of rubber, and just right for erasing pencil