8 Guesstimating

Chapter 8 Guesstimating The next day at school, we learned more about weighing things. We learned about Greater Than and Less Than. We learned that a little pumpkin's weight is greater than a quarter. We even learned that a medium pumpkin weighs less than Ms. Diz. The more I thought about weighing stuff, the more I wished I'd taken a guess about the giant pumpkin's weight. It didn't seem fair that a fuzzy, mewing, purring animal with bad-luck germs was ruining my chance at winning. All day long I thought about that giant pumpkin. All day long I thought about that black cat. Heading home on the school bus, I finally came up with the perfect plan.

I could guess that pumpkin's weight AND keep away from the black cat and her bad luck. All I had to do was send someone else into the bookstore to write down my guess! That way, I wouldn't have to go anywhere near that cat. I knew just the guy to help me out. I ran into the house. Dad was doing work stuff in the kitchen. "How was school, Roscoe?" he asked. He kissed me on top of my head. I plopped my backpack onto the kitchen table. "We learned all about how to guesstimate weight today." "Estimate," Dad said. "Cool. How much do you figure I weigh?" I thought for a minute. "Greater than a mouse. But less than a monster truck." "Not bad," Dad said. "I could get a chance for extra practice if you took me back to the bookstore," I said. Dad raised his eyebrow. "Not the giant pumpkin again?" "I didn't get to guess last time," I said. "Cause of the bad-luck kitty."

Dad checked his watch. "Hazel and your mom are at Mommy and Me Music, so you and I have to pick up Max after his softball practice. I suppose we could stop at the bookstore on the way." "You're the best dad in the whole entire metropolitan area," I said. They say that on TV a lot. "Why, thank you," said Dad. "Dad, do you believe in superstitions?" I asked. "Well, I've been known to knock on wood when I'm wishing for good luck. But I know it doesn't really bring me luck." "Do you have lucky underwear?" "No. That's your Uncle Ed's department."

"Do you think black cats make you eat green beetles?" Dad scratched his head. "I'm not sure I'm following you, Roscoe." "It's like this, Dad," I said. "Would you mind writing down my pumpkin guess while I wait outside the bookstore?" Dad got an oh-I-get-it face. "Roscoe, your mom told me all about the black cat. If you want to go back to the store, you're going to have to go inside, kitty or no kitty. Black cats do not cause bad luck." "Not unless they cross your path," I said. "Roscoe," said Dad firmly, "that's just not true. And the only way you're going to believe it is if you go into that bookstore and see for yourself." I hate it when parents give you hard choices. I like my choices nice and easy. "Okay," I finally said. "I guess I can do that. Probably she won't even be there." Just to be on the safe side, though, I knocked on a wooden chair extra hard.