Ralph S. Mouse (8 page)

“Oh, yes,” said the girls, sighing.

The boys were impolite about the suggestion. So was Ralph.

“We don't know where Ralph is,” was Miss K's comment, “and perhaps we should wait to write our letters until after the investigation. After all, there may be more mice in the school.”

The disappointed class, who had been planning the angry letters they would write to the newspaper, had to agree.

“But Miss K,” said Gloria, “isn't your name Heidi?”

Miss K laughed. “Yes, it is.”

“Then how come the reporter called you Bambi?” asked Gloria.

“She must have confused her book characters,” was Miss K's amused answer.

Ralph saw nothing to be amused about. What would the investigation mean? Cats? An exterminator with traps and poisons? Fumigation with deadly fumes seeping through the halls? That new electronic mouser that made a noise only mice could hear and sent them screaming into the night?

Ralph was sure of only one thing. He had to escape from Irwin J. Sneed Elementary School, and he had to escape soon.

R
alph was tired of skulking about, hiding in mittens and boots, scrounging glue-flavored seeds from fourth-grade mosaics, and eating sugar, which he had overheard children say rotted teeth. He was nervous about the mouse hunt that was about to begin at Sneed Elementary School, all because he had innocently wanted to leave the inn to save an old man's job. Ralph felt that he was being blamed for everything that went wrong and that trying to be good was not worthwhile.

Ralph left Melissa's boot, because he did not want Ryan to find him. He slipped behind a row of textbooks on health in a bookcase under the window and sat there, pondering large problems such as the unfairness of life and the shortage of liberty and justice for well-meaning mice.

Ralph longed to return to the inn, but he knew that even if he found a way to get there, he could never face the jeering little relatives. First they would demand to know what had happened to his motorcycle. Then they would tell him it served him right that it was broken, because he had been so selfish.

But I've got to go someplace, Ralph decided. Perhaps he could move into a restaurant in Cucaracha. Now that the snow was melting, there was no longer any danger of being buried. However, his feet might freeze, or he might drown in dirty slush. He was too angry with Ryan to ask for help. What Ralph needed was transportation other, of course, than feet.

Ralph tried to make plans. If he could somehow get hold of the pieces of his motorcycle, and if he could manage to nip off a strand of Miss K's strong hair, perhaps he could tie his motorcycle together again.

While Ralph sat brooding behind the books, he was not forgotten by Room 5, who found the problems of a mouse much more interesting than making sentences out of spelling words.

Hands were raised and questions asked. “But Miss K, don't you think we should try to find Ralph? Somebody might step on him.” “Miss K, how are they going to investigate the school for mice?” “Miss K, will they poison Ralph?”

Miss K laid down her chalk and gave up trying to teach.

“Miss K,” said Ryan. “I'm sure Ralph is the only mouse here. He could have done all those things by himself.”

Ryan's remark gave the class hope for Ralph. “I know what we could do,” said Melissa. “We could get him to walk across a stamp pad so he would leave purple footprints. That way we could see if he went to the cafeteria and the library and all those places.”

Ralph groaned. Purple feet! That Melissa and her bright ideas.

The class was quick to point out that the ink would soon wear off, that Ralph would have to keep running back to the stamp pad, which no mouse would do. Anyway, they would have to find him first.

“Well, class,” said Miss K, “I can see that we are not going to get any work done until we find out more about the superintendent's investigation. If you will promise to work quietly on your spelling sentences, I will go ask Mr. Tanner what he plans to do.”

The class promised. Of course, they would work quietly. Didn't they always work quietly when the teacher left the room? Ralph climbed to the top of a book to watch.

As soon as Miss K left, Melissa, taking the precaution of leaving the door open, posted herself as a lookout. When the teacher was safely out of sight, everyone began to whisper at once. Wads of paper flew back and forth. Ryan pulled the broken motorcycle out of his pocket and said to Brad, “See what you did?”

By standing on his hind legs on top of a book, Ralph was able to see the remains of his motorcycle. More than Miss K's hair was needed to repair that wreck. His motorcycle was broken in two pieces, the muffler dangled, the spring forks were bent, the handlebars twisted. Ralph felt sick looking at it, sick and angry.

Brad scowled. “Why don't you buy him another? You're a rich kid.”

Why should he? thought Ralph. Brad was the one who broke it.

“I'm not a rich kid.” Ryan was astonished by Brad's remark.

“Then how come you live in a hotel?” demanded Brad.

“Because my mother works there,” said Ryan. “I eat in the kitchen with the maids and waitresses.”

“Oh.” Obviously Brad had not known this. “Where's your father?”

“I don't know.” Ryan was sensitive about this subject. “Someplace, I guess.”

“Psst!” hissed Melissa, and scooted back to her seat.

Quiet as mice, thought Ralph, as heads bent over spelling words.

Miss K was smiling as she walked to the front of the room. The class looked up, waiting for her answer. “Mr. Crossman, the superintendent, telephoned Mr. Tanner this morning to ask about mice at Sneed,” she told her class. “Mr. Tanner said he didn't think there was much to worry about, that the reporter got carried away. Mr. Crossman said that was good, because since people voted for Proposition 13 and taxes had been cut, the school district couldn't afford an exterminator. Mr. Tanner told him not to worry, that he would have Mr. Costa set mousetraps overnight to see what happened. Mr. Crossman said there was enough money in the budget for five mousetraps.”

Traps, thought Ralph. What a joke.

“Was
that
the investigation?” someone asked. “One phone call?”

Miss K laughed. “That was the investigation.”

Even though the class was concerned for Ralph's safety, everyone felt let down. They had expected some excitement. A team of men in white uniforms perhaps, and the school closed for several days.

“If Mr. Costa doesn't catch any mice, do we get to write our letters to the
Cucaracha Voice
?” asked Gloria.

“That's right,” agreed Miss K.

“But what if Mr. Costa catches Ralph?” someone asked. Others voiced the same worry.

Ralph was insulted. Hadn't he proved his intelligence by finding a new way to run a maze? He knew all about traps. As soon as he was old enough to leave the nest, his mother had taken him to see a baited trap in the hotel kitchen and had explained its evils one by one.

“We'll just have to take that chance,” said Miss K. “Now please settle down and finish those spelling sentences.”

Spelling sentences were all Room 5 did manage that morning. At lunchtime, some of the girls began to call, “Ralphie, where are you, Ralphie?” as they gathered up their lunch boxes.

Ralphie! Ralph would never answer to such a silly name. He noticed Brad was the last to leave, as if he were not eager to join the others for lunch.

Suddenly Ralph's anger boiled over. He did not care if Brad looked lonely. He did not care if Brad found out he could talk. He was going to take matters into his own paws and tell that boy a thing or two.

Ralph leaped lightly from the top of the book, dashed across the floor, and sprang up on Brad's jeans. Desperately he clung by his toenails as Brad walked out of the room and slowly down the hall.

Miss K locked the door of her room and caught up with Brad, put her arm around his shoulders, and said, “Is there something I can do to help?”

“I'm OK,” was all Brad said.

“If I can do anything, please let me know.” Miss K released Brad and went on down the hall.

Neither had noticed the mouse clinging to Brad's jeans. Ralph ran up Brad's leg onto the front of his T-shirt.

Finally Brad must have felt Ralph's toenails, for he looked down.

“You—you thug!” said Ralph. “You broke my motorcycle, my only way of getting out of this place. I'm too little to wade through slush, and anyway walking isn't as much fun as riding my motorcycle, especially through puddles.”

Brad stared at Ralph. “You can talk,” he said, as if he didn't believe it.

“Of course, I can talk,” said Ralph. “Not many people can understand me, but I can talk.”

“How come I understand you?” asked Brad.

“You're the type. You're lonesome, and you're interested in cars and motorcycles. That's the sort of person who understands me.” Brad seemed to be thinking this answer over as Ralph continued, “How come you're lonesome? You're not a new boy in school like Ryan.”

“None of your business,” said Brad. Then, realizing he had admitted more than he intended, he contradicted himself. “I'm not lonesome.”

“Aw, come on,” coaxed Ralph, who by now was genuinely curious. “You can tell me.”

Brad was stubbornly silent.

“I'm just a little mouse, you know,” Ralph reminded him.

“Well, I live with my father and Arfy, my dog. My folks got divorced, and my mom doesn't live with us anymore. It's lonesome without her,” confessed Brad.

“Oh, too bad.” Ralph was sympathetic. His own mother nagged him, but he missed her right now. “Ryan's lonesome too, because he's new here,” Ralph told Brad. “You two should get together.”

Suddenly Brad laughed, the first time Ralph had ever heard him laugh. “I don't believe this,” he said. “A
mouse
telling me what to do.”

Ralph's feelings were hurt. “Don't believe it then,” he said, remembering his motorcycle.

“Aw, don't be mad.” Brad was sorry he had hurt Ralph's feelings. “Let's be friends.”

“Why should we?” asked Ralph in his coldest squeak. “You wanted to make the maze too hard; you pushed my friend and broke my motorcycle. Why should we be friends?”

“Because—” began Brad, and then he stopped. “Look. I didn't know Ryan had a motorcycle in his pocket or you either. I thought he was a rich—Oh, never mind what I thought. Was that really your motorcycle?”

“Yes, it was.” Ralph spoke in his crossest voice. “A boy gave it to me.”

“Wow!” breathed Brad. “A mouse with a motorcycle! Can you ride it?”

“Not when it's broken,” said Ralph. “Now put me down and go eat your lunch. I need a little rest. Mice are supposed to be nocturnal, you know, and I need my sleep in the daytime.”

“Miss K locked the door,” Brad reminded him, “and you shouldn't be running around the halls where you can get stepped on.”

“No problem. I can go under the door,” said Ralph.

“Will you talk to me again?” asked Brad, as he used the hand not in the sling to set Ralph on the floor.

“Maybe, maybe not,” answered Ralph. “It all depends.” With that noncommittal reply, he flattened himself and slipped under the door into the empty classroom. Inside, he entered what had become his home away from home, Melissa's boot. He felt that he had only dozed off when Ryan's hand closed around him.

“Gotcha!” said Ryan.

“Put me down,” snarled Ralph, needing his rest.

“Brad was right,” said Ryan. “I didn't think you would come back, but he said he found you and you talked to him.”

The class began to return and to crowd around Ryan. “You found him!” they said. “Miss K, Ralph's safe!” “Where will we keep him?” “We can't let him get caught in a trap.”