Free Ramona the Brave by Beverly Cleary

Nothing could possibly get any worse. She might as well say anything she pleased.
    â€œNow see here, young lady—” began Mr. Quimby.
    Ramona had had enough. She had been miserable the whole first grade, and she no longer cared what happened. She wanted to do something bad. She wanted to do something terrible that would shock her whole family, something that would make them sit up and take notice. “I’m going to say a bad word!” she shouted with a stamp of her foot.

    That silenced her family. Picky-picky stopped washing and left the room. Mr. Quimby looked surprised and—how could he be so disloyal?—a little amused. This made Ramona even angrier. Beezus looked interested and curious. After a moment Mrs. Quimby said quietly, “Go ahead, Ramona, and say the bad word if it will make you feel any better.”
    Ramona clenched her fists and took a deep breath. “Guts!” she yelled. “Guts! Guts! Guts!” There. That should show them.
    Unfortunately, Ramona’s family was not shocked and horrified as Ramona had expected. They laughed. All three of them laughed. They tried to hide it, but they laughed.
    â€œIt isn’t funny!” shouted Ramona. “Don’t you dare laugh at me!” Bursting into tears, she threw herself facedown on the couch. She kicked and she pounded the cushions with her fists. Everyone was against her. Nobody liked her. Even the cat did not like her. The room was silent, and Ramona had the satisfaction of knowing she had stopped their laughing. She heard responsible old Beezus go to her room to do her responsible old homework. Her parents continued to sit in silence, but Ramona was past caring what anyone did. She cried harder than she ever had cried in her life. She cried until she was limp and exhausted.
    Then Ramona felt her mother’s hand on her back. “Ramona,” she said gently, “what are we going to do with you?”

    With red eyes, a swollen face, and a streaming nose, Ramona sat up and glared at her mother. “Love me!” Her voice was fierce with hurt. Shocked at her own words, she buried her face in the pillow. She had no tears left.
    â€œDear heart,” said Mrs. Quimby. “We do love you.”
    Ramona sat up and faced her mother, who looked tired, as if she had been through many scenes with Ramona and knew many more lay ahead. “You do not. You love Beezus.” There. She had said it right out loud. For years she had wanted to tell her parents how she felt.
    Mr. Quimby wiped Ramona’s nose on a Kleenex, which he then handed to her. She clenched it in her fist and glowered at her parents.
    â€œOf course we love Beezus,” said Mrs. Quimby. “We love you both.”
    â€œYou love her more,” said Ramona. “A whole lot more.” She felt better for having said the words, getting them off her chest, as grown-ups would say.
    â€œLove isn’t like a cup of sugar that gets used up,” said Mrs. Quimby. “There is enough to go around. Loving Beezus doesn’t mean we don’t have enough love left for you.”
    â€œYou don’t laugh at Beezus all the time,” said Ramona.
    â€œThey used to,” said Beezus, who was unable to stay away from this family discussion. “They always laughed at the funny things I did, and it used to make me mad.”
    Ramona sniffed and waited for Beezus to continue.
    Beezus was serious. “Like the time when I was about your age and thought frankincense and myrrh were something the three Wise Men were bringing to the baby Jesus to put on his rash like that stuff Mom used on you when you were a baby. Mom and Dad laughed, and Mom told all her friends, and they laughed too.”
    â€œOh, dear,” said Mrs. Quimby. “I had no idea I upset you that much.”
    â€œWell, you did,” said Beezus, still grumpy over the memory. “And there was the time I thought toilet water was water out of the