Beezus and Ramona - Beverly Cleary [2]
“Mother,” wailed Beezus. “You aren’t going to let her wear those awful ears to the library!”
“Why, I don’t see why not.” Mother sounded surprised that Beezus should object to Ramona’s ears.
“They look so silly. Whoever heard of an Easter bunny in September?” Beezus complained, as Ramona hopped up and down to make her ears flop. I just hope we don’t meet anyone we know, Beezus thought, as they started out the front door.
But the girls had no sooner left the house when they saw Mrs. Wisser, a lady who lived in the next block, coming toward them with a friend. It was too late to turn back. Mrs. Wisser had seen them and was waving.
“Why, hello there, Beatrice,” Mrs. Wisser said, when they met. “I see you have a dear little bunny with you today.”
“Uh…yes.” Beezus didn’t know what else to say.
Ramona obligingly hopped up and down to make her ears flop.
Mrs. Wisser said to her friend, as if Beezus and Ramona couldn’t hear, “Isn’t she adorable?”
Both children knew whom Mrs. Wisser was talking about. If she had been talking about Beezus, she would have said something quite different. Such a nice girl, probably. A sweet child. Adorable, never.
“Just look at those eyes,” said Mrs. Wisser.
Ramona beamed. She knew whose eyes they were talking about. Beezus knew, too, but she didn’t care. Mother said blue eyes were just as pretty as brown.
Mrs. Wisser leaned over to Ramona. “What color are your eyes, sweetheart?” she asked.
“Brown and white,” said Ramona promptly.
“Brown and white eyes!” exclaimed the friend. “Isn’t that cunning?”
Beezus had thought it was cunning the first time she heard Ramona say it, about a year ago. Since then she had given up trying to explain to Ramona that she wasn’t supposed to say she had brown and white eyes, because Ramona always answered, “My eyes are brown and white,” and Beezus had to admit that, in a way, they were.
“And what is the little bunny’s name?” asked Mrs. Wisser’s friend.
“My name is Ramona Geraldine Quimby,” answered Ramona, and then added generously, “My sister’s name is Beezus.”
“Beezus!” exclaimed the lady. “What an odd name. Is it French?”
“Oh, no,” said Beezus. Wishing, as she so often did, that she had a more common nickname, like Betty or Patsy, she explained as quickly as she could how she happened to be called Beezus.
Ramona did not like to lose the attention of her audience. She hitched up the leg of her overalls and raised her knee. “See my scab?” she said proudly. “I fell down and hurt my knee and it bled and bled.”
“Ramona!” Beezus was horrified. “You aren’t supposed to show people your scabs.”
“Why?” asked Ramona. That was one of the most exasperating things about Ramona. She never seemed to understand what she was not supposed to do.
“It’s a very nice scab,” said Mrs. Wisser’s friend, but she did not look as if she really thought it was nice.
“Well, we must be going,” said Mrs. Wisser.
“Good-by, Mrs. Wisser,” said Beezus politely, and hoped that if they met anyone else they knew she could somehow manage to hide Ramona behind a bush.
“By-by, Ramona,” said Mrs. Wisser.
“Good-by,” said Ramona, and Beezus knew that she felt that a girl who was four years old was too grown up to say by-by.
Except for holding Ramona’s hand crossing streets, Beezus lingered behind her the rest of the way to the library. She hoped that all the people who stopped and smiled at Ramona would not think they were together. When they reached the Glenwood Branch Library, she said, “Ramona, wouldn’t you like me to carry your ears for you now?”
“No,” said Ramona flatly.
Inside the library, Beezus hurried Ramona into the boys and girls’ section and seated her on a little chair in front of the picture books. “See, Ramona,” she whispered, “here’s a book about a duck. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“No,” said Ramona in a loud voice.
Beezus’s face turned red with embarrassment when everyone in the library looked at Ramona’s ears and smiled. “Sh-h,” she whispered, as Miss Greever, the grown-ups’ librarian,