Free Ramona the Brave by Beverly Cleary Page A

toilet. You practically had hysterics.”
    â€œNow you’re exaggerating,” said Mrs. Quimby.
    Comforted by this unexpected support from her sister, Ramona scrubbed her face with her soggy Kleenex. “Mama, if you really do love me, why do I have to go to school?” At the same time she wondered how she could find out what frankincense and myrrh were without letting anyone know of her ignorance. She had always thought in a vague sort of way that they were something expensive like perfume and whiskey done up in an extra-fancy Christmas wrapping.
    â€œRamona, everyone has to go to school,” Mrs. Quimby answered. “Loving you has nothing to do with it.”
    â€œThen why can’t I be in the other first grade, the one in Room Two?” Ramona asked. “Mrs. Griggs doesn’t like me.”
    â€œOf course she likes you,” contradicted Mrs. Quimby.
    â€œNo, she doesn’t,” said Ramona. “If she liked me, she wouldn’t make me tell Susan in front of the whole class that I was sorry I scrunched her owl, and she would ask me to lead the Pledge Allegiance. And she wouldn’t say bad things about me on my progress report.”
    â€œI told you Mrs. Griggs was great on apologies,” Beezus reminded her family. “And she will get around to asking Ramona to lead the flag salute. She asks everybody.”
    â€œBut Beezus, you got along with Mrs. Griggs when you had her,” said Mrs. Quimby.
    â€œI guess so,” said Beezus. “She wasn’t my favorite teacher, though.”
    â€œWhat was wrong with her?” asked Mrs. Quimby.
    â€œThere wasn’t anything really wrong with her, I guess,” answered Beezus. “She just wasn’t very exciting is all. She wasn’t mean or anything like that. We just seemed to go along doing our work, and that was it.”
    â€œWas she unfair?” asked Mrs. Quimby.
    Beezus considered the question. “No, but I was the kind of child she liked. You know…neat and dependable.”
    â€œI bet you never wasted paste,” said Ramona, who was not a paste waster herself. Too much paste was likely to spoil a piece of artwork.
    â€œNo,” admitted Beezus. “I wasn’t that type.”
    Ramona persisted. “ Why can’t I change to Room Two?”
    Mr. Quimby took over. “Because Mrs. Griggs is teaching you to read and do arithmetic, and because the things she said about you are fair. You do need to learn self-control and to keep your hands to yourself. There are all kinds of teachers in the world just as there are all kinds of other people, and you must learn to get along with them. Maybe Mrs. Griggs doesn’t understand how you feel, but you aren’t always easy to understand. Did you ever think of that?”
    â€œPlease, Daddy,” begged Ramona. “Please don’t make me go back to Room One.”
    â€œBuck up, Ramona,” said Mr. Quimby. “Show us your spunk.”
    Ramona felt too exhausted to show anyone her spunk, but for some reason her father’s order made her feel better. If her mother had said, Poor baby, she would have felt like crying again. Mrs. Quimby led her from the room and, skipping her bath, helped her into bed. Before the light was turned out, Ramona noticed that Wild Animals of Africa had been returned to her bookcase.
    â€œStay with me, Mama,” coaxed Ramona, dreading solitude, darkness, and the gorilla in the book. Mrs. Quimby turned off the light and sat down on the bed.
    â€œMama?”
    â€œYes, Ramona?”
    â€œIsn’t guts a bad word?”
    Mrs. Quimby thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say it’s exactly a bad word. It isn’t the nicest word in the world, but there are much worse words. Now go to sleep.”
    Ramona wondered what could be worse than guts.
    Out in the kitchen Mr. Quimby was rattling dishes and singing, “Oh, my gal, she am a spunky gal! Sing polly-wolly doodle