Free Ramona and Her Mother by Beverly Cleary Page B

on as fast as she could in her stuffed condition, her mouth open, wailing like a fire engine, her boots clomping on the sidewalk. She paid no attention to the people walking to the bus stop who looked at her in surprise. Firemen must get awfully hot, thought Ramona, when she arrived panting and sweating at Glenwood School.
    Ramona was glad to sit down on the floor of the cloakroom and pull off her boots. At least her feet felt cooler. She flopped down at her desk. Her face was flushed, and her pajamas no longer felt as soft as a baby rabbit. They were damp with sweat. Maybe pretending to be a fireman wasn’t such a good idea after all, thought Ramona, and wondered if anyone would think she looked different. As it turned out, only Davy noticed because Davy always kept an eye on Ramona, who had been chasing him ever since kindergarten. “You look fat,” he said.
    â€œI ate a big breakfast,” answered Ramona. Then she added, “Davy-in-the-gravy” to keep Davy quiet. She knew he did not like to be called Davy-in-the-gravy.
    The classroom seemed unbearably hot, and her clothes felt as tight as the skin on a sausage. As Ramona stood for the flag salute, she wished she had something to unbutton. Later, as she bent over her workbook, she could not help trying to squirm inside her damp clothes.
    Mrs. Rudge walked slowly up and down between the desks, looking over shoulders at workbooks. Ramona, finding it difficult to think about her work when she was so uncomfortable, noticed that Davy crooked his arm around his page and bent his head low to hide his work while Becky sat up straight so Mrs. Rudge would be sure to see how perfect her work was. “I like the way Davy keeps his eyes on his own work,” said Mrs. Rudge. Davy’s ears turned pink with pleasure.
    Ramona quickly lowered her eyes to her workbook and remembered that her parents had had more serious talks in their bedroom about school. What was wrong? she wondered again. Mrs. Rudge paused beside her desk to look, not at Ramona’s workbook, but at Ramona whose pajamas felt so damp she thought they might be shrinking.
    â€œRamona, how do you feel this morning?” whispered Mrs. Rudge.
    â€œFine,” answered Ramona, trying to sound as if she spoke the truth.
    â€œYour cheeks are very pink,” said Mrs. Rudge. “I think you had better go to the office and ask Mrs. Miller to take your temperature.”
    â€œNow?” asked Ramona.
    â€œYes,” said Mrs. Rudge. “Run along.”
    Ramona laid down her pencil and tried to look thin as she walked out of the room to a rustle of whispers from the class. What was the matter with Ramona? Was she sick? Would she have to be sent home?
    Once in the hall she grasped her sweater and pajama top and pulled them up an instant to feel the relief of cool air against her sweaty skin. Then she took hold of both her elastic waistbands and pulled them out and in several times to fan a little cool air inside her slacks.
    In the office Mrs. Miller, the school secretary, had Ramona sit on a chair and poked a thermometer under her tongue. “Be sure to keep your lips closed,” she said. “We don’t want any thermometers falling on the floor and breaking.”
    Ramona sat still while Mrs. Miller answered the telephone and carried on a long conversation with a mother who was worried about her child’s schoolwork and was anxious to talk to the principal. She sat still while a sixth-grade boy came in to use the telephone to call his mother to tell her he had forgotten his lunch money. She sat still while a mother came in to deliver a lunch to a fourth grader who had gone off without it.

    Ramona sat and sat. She thought of the long day ahead, of recess and of lunchtime, and began to wish she really were sick. Maybe she was. Maybe she had a fever, a fever so high Mrs. Miller would telephone her mother at work, and her mother would come and take her home and put her to bed