Ramona and Her Father Read Online Free Page A

school to make fun of me.” The newscaster was talking about strikes and a lot of things Ramona did not understand.
    â€œThe merest smidgin,” promised her father. Snip. Snip. Snip . He laid a hair-ensnarled bur in an ashtray. Snip. Snip. Snip . He laid another bur beside the first.
    â€œDoes it look awful?” asked Ramona.
    â€œAs my grandmother would say, ‘It will never be noticed from a trotting horse.’”
    Ramona let out a long, shuddery sigh, the closest thing to crying without really crying. Snip. Snip. Snip . Ramona touched the side of her head. She still had hair there. More hair than she expected. She felt a little better.
    The newscaster disappeared from the television screen, and there was that boy again singing:
    Forget your pots, forget your pans.
    It’s not too late to change your plans.
    Ramona thought longingly of the days before her father lost his job, when they could forget their pots and pans and change their plans. She watched the boy open his mouth wide and sink his teeth into that fat hamburger with lettuce, tomato, and cheese hanging out of the bun. She swallowed and said, “I bet that boy has a lot of fun with his million dollars.” She felt so sad. The Quimbys really needed a million dollars. Even one dollar would help.
    Snip. Snip. Snip . “Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Quimby. “Money is handy, but it isn’t everything.”
    â€œI wish I could earn a million dollars like that boy,” said Ramona. This was the closest she would ever come to telling how she happened to set a crown of burs on her head.
    â€œYou know something?” said Mr. Quimby. “I don’t care how much that kid or any other kid earns. I wouldn’t trade you for a million dollars.”
    â€œReally, Daddy?” That remark about any other kid—Ramona wondered if her father had guessed her reason for the crown, but she would never ask. Never. “Really? Do you mean it?”
    â€œReally.” Mr. Quimby continued his careful snipping. “I’ll bet that boy’s father wishes he had a little girl who finger-painted and wiped her hands on the cat when she was little and who once cut her own hair so she would be bald like her uncle and who then grew up to be seven years old and crowned herself with burs. Not every father is lucky enough to have a daughter like that.”
    Ramona giggled. “Daddy, you’re being silly!” She was happier than she had been in a long time.

3
The Night of the Jack-O’-Lantern
    â€œP lease pass the tommy-toes,” said Ramona, hoping to make someone in the family smile. She felt good when her father smiled as he passed her the bowl of stewed tomatoes. He smiled less and less as the days went by and he had not found work. Too often he was just plain cross. Ramona had learned not to rush home from school and ask, “Did you find a job today, Daddy?” Mrs. Quimby always seemed to look anxious these days, either over the cost of groceries or money the family owed. Beezus had turned into a regular old grouch, because she dreaded Creative Writing and perhaps because she had reached that difficult age Mrs. Quimby was always talking about, although Ramona found this hard to believe.
    Even Picky-picky was not himself. He lashed his tail and stalked angrily away from his dish when Beezus served him Puss-puddy, the cheapest brand of cat food Mrs. Quimby could find in the market.
    All this worried Ramona. She wanted her father to smile and joke, her mother to look happy, her sister to be cheerful, and Picky-picky to eat his food, wash his whiskers, and purr the way he used to.
    â€œAnd so,” Mr. Quimby was saying, “at the end of the interview for the job, the man said he would let me know if anything turned up.”
    Mrs. Quimby sighed. “Let’s hope you hear from him. Oh, by the way, the car has been making a funny noise. A sort of tappety-tappety