“You 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.”

“Really, 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?”

“Really.” 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

“Please 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.

“And 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 sound.”

“It’s Murphy’s Law,” said Mr. Quimby. “Anything that can go wrong will.”

Ramona knew her father was not joking this time. Last week, when the washing machine refused to work, the Quimbys had been horrified by the size of the repair bill.

“I like tommy-toes,” said Ramona, hoping her little joke would work a second time. This was not exactly true, but she was willing to sacrifice truth for a smile.