Ralph S. Mouse (9 page)

“Traps,” snapped Ralph. “Do you think I'm stupid?” Only Ryan and Brad understood him.

“Let's put him in the fishbowl for the time being,” said Miss K.

“Oh, no,” groaned Ralph. “Not again.”

“I think Ralph likes more privacy,” said Ryan.

“There's that old mitten that's been lying around,” said Melissa. “He could have it to sleep in.”

In spite of Ralph's struggles, he found himself once again in the fishbowl, this time with the old mitten. Furious with Ryan for not managing to save him from this indignity, he crawled into the thumb, where he thought mean thoughts about everyone in Room 5.

Just before the last bell rang, Ryan set a bottle cap full of water in the fishbowl along with the corner of a Granola bar Miss K had given him. “Now take it easy,” he whispered. “You stay where you're safe tonight, and tomorrow we'll get you out of here. I promise.”

Ralph refused to come out of the mitten thumb to answer. Later, when Mr. Costa came in to sweep, he listened to the radio sing a mournful song about a lonely truck driver in jail who longed for his eighteen-wheel rig and the open highway. And all I want is two wheels, thought sad and lonely Ralph.

T
he next morning Mr. Tanner reported to Miss K and Miss K reported to her class that no mice had been caught in Mr. Costa's traps.

“Yeay!” cheered Room 5.

I told you so, said Ralph from the mitten thumb, but no one heard him.

Miss K wrote the proper form of a business letter instead of a friendly letter on the blackboard, because the class was not planning to write friendly letters to the
Cucaracha Voice
. The class set to work, writing to the editor, explaining that the story he published about the mouse exhibit was not true. If someone had trouble spelling a word, that person asked Miss K about it. She then wrote the word on the blackboard in case someone else wanted to use it.
Outrageous
and
ridiculous
were the first words she wrote. She told Brad, “Yes,
blockhead
is one word, but can't you find a better way of expressing yourself?” Miss K promised personally to deliver the letters to the paper during lunch period.

No matter how many people spoke to him that day, Ralph refused to come out of the mitten thumb, which fortunately already had an excellent peephole. He noticed Brad, who still had his arm in a sling, hand a note to Miss K, who handed it back to him with a nod and a big smile. He saw Ryan pass a note to Brad and Brad pass a note back. Quite a busy bunch, thought Ralph. He was bored and much too warm, but he refused to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him in his glass prison.

When the long, miserable day ended, Ralph found himself being pulled out of the mitten by Ryan. “Come on, fellow, you're going back to the inn,” he said.

“And face all my relatives without my motorcycle,” squeaked Ralph. “No, thank you.”

“Relax. You can't live at school forever,” said Ryan through his teeth, as he tried not to move his lips. “Trust me. Everything is going to be all right. You'll see.”

Because Ryan kept his hand closed around him, Ralph had no choice. He had to trust Ryan unless he bit him instead. He decided against doing so, because Miss K said hurting people did not solve anything.

Ryan shoved Ralph into his parka pocket and closed the zipper all the way. Even so, Ralph was aware that something unusual was happening. Brad got on the school bus with Ryan after saying to the driver, “Here's my note from home.” The two boys sat together.

“Have you got it?” asked Ryan.

“Yep,” answered Brad. “Right here in my pocket.”

Got what? Ralph wondered. The remains of my motorcycle?

“I've always wanted to ride on a school bus,” said Brad.

“And I've always wanted to ride on a tow truck,” said Ryan.

“That's easy,” said Brad. “My dad will give you a ride. He gets lots of calls up your way when the roads are icy, and he pulls a lot of cars out of snowbanks. Business is good this time of year.”

“I'll ask the cook if you can stay to dinner,” said Ryan.

“Wow! Dinner in a hotel.” Brad was impressed.

“We'll have to eat in the kitchen,” Ryan explained, “and since the hotel's got a microwave oven, sometimes the plates are hot and the food isn't.”

“That's OK,” said Brad. “My dad cooks mostly hamburgers and opens cans of beans.” Then, lest Ryan think him disloyal to his father, he added, “My dad makes good hamburgers, and on Sunday he cooks a steak. Sometimes if he's really busy, I get my own supper. Then I have hot dogs.”

“You mean you stay alone?” asked Ryan.

“I have Arfy with me,” said Brad.

“I wish I could get to stay alone with a dog,” said Ryan. “I get tired of hearing the waitresses tell the cook that the guests are complaining because the food isn't hot enough.”

Ralph resented being imprisoned by a zipper, and the conversation was boring because it was not about him. He thought about biting his way out, but he did not like the taste of nylon. Besides, a school bus was not a good place to hide.

When the two boys got off the bus, Ralph heard their feet crunch through the snow. The inn was at a higher altitude than the town of Cucaracha, and the snow lasted longer. Then he heard their feet stamp up the steps, scratch on the doormat, and enter the lobby. The old clock was still managing its familiar slow
tick…tock
. To Ralph, it sounded like an old friend.

“Hello there, boys,” said Ralph's protector, Matt. “Ryan, I'm glad to see you have a friend.” So Matt had not lost his job after all. Then, as Ralph had hoped, the little mice must have moved upstairs, where they would be unable to taunt him about losing his motorcycle.

Feeling more cheerful, Ralph began to jump around in the slippery pocket. “Let me out!” he demanded. Ryan unzipped his pocket and lifted Ralph out but held on to him. How good the lobby looked. A fire still burned in the old stone fireplace, and the grandfather clock and television set were right where they had always been. One thing was different. The lobby was neater than Ralph remembered it. Ashtrays were clean, and old magazines arranged neatly on tables.

The desk clerk ignored the boys, who did not stop to remove their jackets before they knelt in front of the clock. “Do you think it will fit?” Ryan asked Brad.

“We'll see in a second.” Brad pulled something out of his pocket.

“Wow! A Laser XL7, just like you said,” breathed Ryan, as Brad set a miniature sports car on the floor and pushed it carefully through the highest part of the arch at the bottom of the clock. The car was low enough, if maneuvered by a skillful driver, to slip through. “See that, Ralph?”

Ralph had seen, all right. The sleek, mouse-sized car with wire-spoked wheels and knock-off hubcaps was painted silvery gray, the right color for whizzing unnoticed through shadows. The broad thick tires would stand up to the rough surface of carpets and make a wide splash through puddles. The doors did not open, but the windows were big enough for a nimble mouse to climb through, and, after all, racing-car drivers did not open their doors. Ralph was squeakless at the sight of such a beautiful sports car. Why, with a car like that, he would no longer have to hang onto his tail to keep it from tangling in the spokes. He could just hop in and take off.

“Come on. Let's see you drive it.” Ryan set Ralph down beside the little Laser XL7.

Could he drive it! He'd show them. Ralph slipped through the window into a bucket seat, made sure his tail was safely inside, grasped the wheel, took a deep breath, and went
pb-pb-b-b
. The car did not move.

Some noisy skiers came in from outdoors but paid no attention to the kneeling boys as they crossed the lobby. The boys crouched behind the couch until they had gone.

“Silly,” said Ryan. “That's your old motorcycle noise. You've got to make a sports car noise to make a sports car move.”

“Stupid of me,” admitted Ralph, who had been too excited to think straight. He took another deep breath, made his voice as low as a squeaky voice could go, and went
vroom-vroom
. The Laser began to roll across the floor. Ralph was driving! He was actually driving this beautiful sports car. He drove it straight into the leg of a couch, where it stopped. Ralph vroomed again. The car did not budge.

Matt, who had joined the boys to watch, asked, “How's the little fellow going to back up?” Silence. No one had thought of this problem.

Ryan's mother stepped out of the elevator. “Hello, Ryan,” she said with a smile. “Is this your new friend?”

“Yes, this is Brad,” answered Ryan, with his hand on the Laser XL7 so his mother would not see Ralph.

“Hi.” Brad was unexpectedly shy.

“I'm glad you could come home with Ryan,” said Mrs. Bramble. “What are you boys doing?”

“Playing with a little car,” said Ryan.

“Play quietly,” said Mrs. Bramble, “and if the manager appears, you'd better go out to our cottage. Or perhaps you could show Brad around. He might like to see the kitchen.” With that advice, she went off to make sure the maids had cleaned the ground-floor bedrooms properly.

Brad sat back on his heels. “Your mom sure is nice,” he said.

“Yes,” agreed Ryan, his thoughts on Ralph's problems.

Vroom-vroom-vroom
. Ralph made a noise like a racing motor. The car did not move.

“What we need is your dad's tow truck,” remarked Ryan. Ralph found the boys' laughter most annoying.

“I know,” said Brad. “If going
vroom
makes the car go forward, maybe saying
vroom
backwards would make it back up.
Moorv
.”

“Moorv.”
Ryan tried out the sound. “It's hard to say, but if it works, that's OK. Backing a car is slower than going forward. Try it, Ralph.”

“Moorv.”
The car inched away from the leg of the couch.
“Moorv.”
The car was free.
“Vroom.”
Ralph drove off in a wide circle and returned to his friends. “Do I get to keep it?” he asked.

“It's all yours,” said Brad. “To make up for your broken motorcycle.”

“Don't you need it?” asked Ralph, unable to believe that anyone would give away such a car.

“Not anymore,” Brad told him. “Not since I have a BMX.”

Ralph was speechless with joy. He ran his paw lovingly over the dashboard of his very own car.

“Wait till your relatives see you riding around in a Laser XL7,” remarked Matt.

Ralph leaned out the driver's window. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I thought they all moved back upstairs.”

“Most of them did,” said Matt, “but a few of your outdoor relatives still hang around, hoping you'll bring the motorcycle back.”

Just my luck, thought Ralph. That rowdy bunch.

There was the sound of someone stamping snow off boots at the entrance of the inn. Matt hastily returned to his chair by the front door while Ralph quickly and skillfully drove his car under the clock. The boots turned out to belong, not to a guest, but to a man delivering the
Cucaracha Voice
. He shoved the papers into a rack and hurried out.

Matt removed a copy of the newspaper, put on his spectacles, and read the headlines. Then something at the bottom of the front page caught his eye. “Say, do you boys know a Miss Heidi Kuckenbacker down at Sneed?” he asked.

“Yes, she's our teacher.” The two boys rushed over to Matt to see what the paper said about Miss K. Ralph climbed out of his car. He found that bits of his old nest still remained under the clock. With a shred of Kleenex, he began with loving care to polish away the boys' fingerprints. As he polished, he listened while Matt read aloud from the
Voice
.