Constructing the experiment for the science fair presented the tousle-haired boy and me with a number of problems, the first of which was its classification. We had been given three categories to choose from: physical sciences, biological sciences, and Earth/space.
I thought our project should be listed as biological, since it featured a living rabbit, but the tousle-haired boy said he thought it should be physical, since the actual experiment we intended to conduct would be performed with inanimate Scrabble tiles.
Then I changed my mind and said maybe it ought to be Earth/space, since we were dealing with possibly unexplained phenomena, like UFOs, the ultimate Earth/space connection.
My partner said that was possibly so, but what we really had was a fourth category, a super category, one that governed all the other categories. He suggested that we solve this problem by checking all three boxes on the District Science Fair and Festival official entry form.
"A single classification is too limiting for something this big," he said.
The next problem we had to confront was the problem itself, that is, the statement of the problem, posed as a question, that would permit us to construct a scientific experiment that would yield a clear and persuasive answer.
I suggested, "Can a rabbit change your luck?"
The tousle-haired boy said that wasn't specific enough. He suggested, "Does the presence of a lucky rabbit change the outcome of a game of chance?"
"That's what I just said!" I responded.
"No," he explained, "what I said was more scientific than what you said."
"Do it your way," I grumbled. "It makes no difference to me."
We decided to skip over the recommended step of reviewing all the published scientific literature in the field, because, as my partner pointed out, "What literature? How many rabbits like this can there be?"
The next step was to express a hypothesis. Since I'd been living with the experiment's one and only variable for some time, I came up with this one. It was, "It is hypothesized that when a lucky rabbit enters the room, the laws of probability go out the window."
"Very creative," my partner said to my great satisfaction, offering no changes or objections.
We decided to conduct the actual experiments over a number of days. We wanted to be sure that we didn't wear out Orwell with too much work at once, and we hoped to eliminate the possibility of the outcome being affected by a lucky day, which everybody has now and then.
Since smile faces on horoscopes never run more than four days in a row, I figured five days of experiments ought to be enough to eliminate the lucky day variable.
My partner said he thought it was possible to be lucky forever, but, even so, five days of doing the same experiment over and over seemed like plenty. He also mentioned that he'd like to fix himself a sandwich.
We abandoned planning for the day and prepared PB&J on wheat bread with potato chips and fat-free devil's food cookies. We washed it all down with tall glasses of cold milk.
"Next time," he suggested, wiping his lips with a paper towel, "we should fix the food before we start."