Ralph S. Mouse (5 page)

Other boys and girls bent over their paper, writing, pausing to gnaw their pencils, writing again. Others behaved strangely, nodding their heads, tapping their pencils, and softly chanting ta-
dum
, ta-
dum
, ta-
dum
or ta-ta-
dum
, ta-ta-
dum
. The noises sounded something like an Indian war dance in an old movie on TV, thought Ralph, puzzled.

Ryan and Brad worked with glue and some old cartons on a table at the back of the room. They moved around so much and Ralph's peephole was so small he could not get a very clear idea of what they were building. Apparently they did not have a very clear idea themselves, for they argued about the way to make the partitions of the maze stand up, about the height of the partitions (“We don't want him to be able to see over them, even if he stands on his hind legs”), and the length and number of the blind alleys. Mostly they argued about the difficulty of the maze.

“Let's make it really hard,” said Brad.

Ralph decided he did not like Brad with his tousled hair, grubby T-shirt, and unfriendly ways.

“Not too hard,” said Ryan.

“Aw, come on,” said Brad. “Making tunnels and trapdoors would be fun.”

“Real mazes aren't like that, and it wouldn't be fair,” protested Ryan. “He's just a little mouse. Besides, we haven't figured out how to make the partitions stand up.”

“You're scared he can't do it,” said Brad.

“Of course, he can do it.” Ryan was at least loyal.

But what if I can't do it? Ralph worried. What if I run around bumping my nose against dead ends? Then how would Ryan feel after all his bragging? A terrible thought occurred to Ralph. If he failed and everyone laughed, Ryan might not give back the motorcycle after all.

Ralph decided there was only one thing to do—get up on that table at night and practice. He would memorize the maze so he could dash through the passages without bumping his nose even once.

Ralph had no sooner made this decision than part of the maze must have fallen down, for Ryan said, “See, I told you it wouldn't work that way.”

Brad lost patience. “All right,” he said, “since you're so smart, you can make your own dumb maze for your own dumb mouse. I'll write a poem instead.”

“You don't like to write poems,” Ryan reminded him.

“I'd rather write a poem than work on your dumb maze for your dumb mouse,” answered Brad. “His name should be Ralph D. Mouse.
D
for Dumb.”

“OK,” said Ryan. “Suit yourself, but I don't see why you have to be so touchy all the time.”

Good, thought Ralph. Ryan will make it easy.

When the last bell rang, Ryan asked permission to work on the maze at home because he still hadn't figured out how to make the partitions stand up.

“Of course, you may,” Miss K told him, thereby destroying Ralph's plan to practice. “I hoped you and Brad might become friends if you worked together.” She raised her voice above the scramble for jackets and caps. “Class, I have a surprise,” she announced. “Someone who writes stories for the
Cucaracha Voice
heard about our mouse exhibit and wants to write it up for the paper. She is going to come Friday afternoon and bring a photographer.” Cucaracha, although it had grown since gold-rush days, was still a small town. News traveled fast.

There was a buzz of excitement. Room 5 was going to have its picture in the newspaper!

When Ryan plucked Ralph from his pocket, Ralph asked in his tiniest voice, “Do I get a chance to practice running through that thing before Friday?”

“That would be cheating,” said Ryan through stiff lips. “The same as looking at test questions before a test.”

“Just one little peek?” coaxed Ralph.

“Nope.” Ryan poked Ralph into Melissa's boot and ran off to catch his bus.

Ralph crawled down around the bend to the toe of the boot, where he sat brooding in the dusty, musty dark. For the first time since he had left the inn, he began to wonder if anyone missed him in his old home.

R
alph spent the rest of the week dreading Friday. The days, in spite of all that went on in Room 5, dragged, but the nights passed more quickly. As soon as the man with the transistor radio and broom left Room 5, Ralph squeezed under the door and ran into the next classroom. The pictures made of seeds were now hanging above the blackboard, but enough split peas and lentils had fallen to the floor to make a good meal for Ralph. In the kindergarten room, he discovered a doll's house, which he enjoyed exploring. Still, even though it had a mouse-sized bed, it lacked the comfort of the ready-chewed mouse nest in the library.

One night, however, Ralph had a narrow escape. Beside the book bag on the library shelf, he discovered an interesting contraption, something like a metal snail. Of course, Ralph had to investigate and found his back stuck to something he had not known about—Scotch tape. The rest of the night was spent trying to free himself. When he had almost pulled his back free, his paws were stuck. When his front paws were unstuck, the strange sticky tape trapped his back paws and tail. Exhausted, Ralph managed to free himself as the first bus rolled up to the school.

Wednesday morning Ryan informed Ralph he could not sleep in his pocket any longer, because Ryan's mother said his shirts smelled funny. Once again Ralph's feelings were hurt. Ryan also said his mother had discovered the tiny peephole Ralph had nipped in his shirt.

“She would,” said Ralph.

Ryan defended his mother. “Maybe she's fussy, but she's a good housekeeper. That's why the hotel hired her, which was lucky for us. She really needed the job.”

Probably all mothers found something to fuss about, Ralph decided, even though his own mother was a poor housekeeper. He wished Melissa were fussier as he retired to the dark and dirty tunnel of her left boot. He missed the lulling
lub-dub
but found staying awake in class and paying attention to Miss K much easier. The next day someone dropped a woolly mitten, and it made a restful change from the boot.

Thursday afternoon Miss K said, “Ryan, don't forget to bring our guest of honor tomorrow.”

“I won't forget,” promised Ryan, as if he did not know Ralph was lurking at the back of the room.

The next morning, after his usual night of enjoying all that the school had to offer a lonely mouse, Ralph stayed awake to groom himself because he wanted to look his best when he was the honored guest. The members of Room 5 also wanted to look their best for their picture in the newspaper, and they came to school looking neater than usual. Even Brad was wearing a clean T-shirt. Ryan brought the finished maze to school and placed it on the table at the back of the room far above Ralph's head.

Drat, thought Ralph, and he ran up Ryan's leg in hopes of a glimpse of the test that lay ahead. Ryan quickly popped Ralph into his pocket before he had a chance to look.

Just before the last period, when the Great Mouse Exhibit was about to take place, Ryan pulled Ralph out and took him to Miss K. “Welcome, Ralph,” she said. To Ryan, she said, “Put our little guest of honor in the fishbowl on my desk. Then everyone can see him.”

To Ralph's horror, he found himself placed in a slippery glass bowl. Frantically he scrabbled about, trying to find a way out. When he found there was no way to escape and no place to hide, he sat quaking with indignation, a wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, just as the poem said.

As the bell for the last period rang, the guests arrived. They were Mr. Tanner, the principal; Mrs. Seeger, the librarian; Mr. Costa, the custodian; and Room 5's room mother, who brought twenty-six little bags of popcorn for a treat. The Great Mouse Exhibit was about to begin.

“Where're the reporter and photographer?” someone asked.

“I'm sure they'll be along soon,” answered Miss K, and she welcomed the visitors. Then she introduced the guest of honor, who turned his back and tried to become invisible. She pointed out all the pictures of Ralph above the blackboard. As if I looked like
those
, thought Ralph with a sneer.

Then Miss K said some members of the class had stories and poems about mice they wanted to share with their guests. She called on Brad, who slouched to the front of the room, announced that he wasn't much good at poems, and that his poem was sort of dumb. He read:

“Ralph is a mouse.

He's stupid, he's dumb.

He's as bad as a louse.

He belongs in a slum.”

With a triumphant look at Ryan, Brad slouched back to his seat.

“Thank you, Brad,” said Miss K, who seemed uncertain as to an appropriate comment. “That was—very amusing.”

Ralph thought of several impolite things she could have said as he walked nervously around his prison, wondering how much longer before he would have to run that maze. He sniffed to test his sense of smell. Enclosed in glass, all he could smell was himself.

A girl named Janet was next. “My poem is a limerick,” she told the audience and read:

“A mouse once came to our school

And quickly broke every rule.

He got stuck in our paste

For he liked its good taste,

So he said, ‘I'll just sit here and drool.'”

The audience laughed, and Janet, flushed with pleasure at her success, returned to her seat.

That's a lie. I didn't go near Room 5's paste, thought Ralph, as he trotted nervously around the fishbowl to make sure his legs worked.

Gordon, the boy who did not like to write stories and poems, was next, but before he could begin his essay, the door opened and a young woman entered, followed by a man hung with cameras. “Sorry to be so late. We had to cover a big story about a truckload of chickens loose on the highway.” The reporter from the
Cucaracha Voice
was out of breath. “Now go ahead with your program, and pretend we aren't here.”

Flustered by the photographer prowling around adjusting his lens, Gordon began to read, “Mice are rodents. They gnaw things and they multiply rapidly.”

They do not, thought Ralph. He had watched Miss K multiply by writing squiggles with chalk on the blackboard. He had never seen a mouse do any such thing. The photographer was now circling the fishbowl with the black eye of the camera aimed at Ralph.
Click. Click. Click
. I hope he isn't around when I have to run that maze, thought Ralph, darting around the fishbowl, trying to avoid that evil eye.

Gordon read on, the reporter scribbled, the photographer turned toward the audience, the class sat up straight and smiled. “Mice are harmful,” Gordon read. “They destroy crops and food supplies. They kill trees by gnawing around the bark. Mice can be destroyed by traps, poison, and cats.”

That's
mean
, thought indignant Ralph. We aren't harmful on purpose. We're just trying to get along in a harsh world.