Since no one paid any attention, Ramona spoke louder as she lifted the bowl of stewed tomatoes. “Does anybody want any tommy-toes?” she asked. The bowl tipped. Mrs. Quimby silently reached over and wiped spilled juice from the table with her napkin. Crestfallen, Ramona set the bowl down. No one had smiled.

“Ramona,” said Mr. Quimby, “my grandmother used to have a saying. ‘First time is funny, second time is silly, third time is a spanking.’”

Ramona looked down at her place mat. Nothing seemed to go right lately. Picky-picky must have felt the same way. He sat down beside Beezus and meowed his crossest meow.

Mr. Quimby lit a cigarette and asked his older daughter, “Haven’t you fed that cat yet?”

Beezus rose to clear the table. “It wouldn’t do any good. He hasn’t eaten his breakfast. He won’t eat that cheap Puss-puddy.”

“Too bad about him.” Mr. Quimby blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

“He goes next door and mews as if we never give him anything to eat,” said Beezus. “It’s embarrassing.”

“He’ll just have to learn to eat what we can afford,” said Mr. Quimby. “Or we will get rid of him.”

This statement shocked Ramona. Picky-picky had been a member of the family since before she was born.

“Well, I don’t blame him,” said Beezus, picking up the cat and pressing her cheek against his fur. “Puss-puddy stinks.”

Mr. Quimby ground out his cigarette.

“Guess what?” said Mrs. Quimby, as if to change the subject. “Howie’s grandmother drove out to visit her sister, who lives on a farm, and her sister sent in a lot of pumpkins for jack-o’-lanterns for the neighborhood children. Mrs. Kemp gave us a big one, and it’s down in the basement now, waiting to be carved.

“Me! Me!” cried Ramona. “Let me get it!”

“Let’s give it a real scary face,” said Beezus, no longer difficult.

“I’ll have to sharpen my knife,” said Mr. Quimby.

“Run along and bring it up, Ramona,” said Mrs. Quimby with a real smile.

Relief flooded through Ramona. Her family had returned to normal. She snapped on the basement light, thumped down the stairs, and there in the shadow of the furnace pipes, which reached out like ghostly arms, was a big, round pumpkin. Ramona grasped its scratchy stem, found the pumpkin too big to lift that way, bent over, hugged it in both arms, and raised it from the cement floor. The pumpkin was heavier than she had expected, and she must not let it drop and smash all over the concrete floor.

“Need some help, Ramona?” Mrs. Quimby called down the stairs.

“I can do it.” Ramona felt for each step with her feet and emerged, victorious, into the kitchen.

“Wow! That is a big one.” Mr. Quimby was sharpening his jackknife on a whetstone while Beezus and her mother hurried through the dishes.