Ralph S. Mouse Read online

  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.

  Gordon continued. “It has been said that if you see one mouse, there are twenty-five mice hiding that you don’t see.”

  Ralph thought this statement over. It might be true of the inn, but it was not true at Sneed Elementary.

  The class was silent. Mrs. Seeger looked pleased, for she had helped Gordon find information about mice. The reporter thanked Miss K for letting her visit—good story—great angle—sorry she couldn’t stay—mayor cutting ribbon for opening of new auto-parts shop—meeting of the school board. With that apology, she dashed out the door, followed by the photographer weighed down with cameras.

  Ralph tried to keep his legs flexible by running short sprints around the fishbowl. He must not let his muscles tighten before the race.

  Melissa was next. She paused to smile at Ralph before she announced, “The title of my story is ‘The Strange Disappearance of Ralph.’”

  Ralph stopped sprinting to listen.

  Melissa read, “A mouse named Ralph lived at the house of a girl named Primrose. Primrose liked Ralph. She let him run all around the house. One day Ralph was in the laundry room. Primrose’s mother told her to take the clothes out of the dryer. Primrose did not see Ralph. Some of the clothes she pulled out of the dryer fell on top of Ralph. A nylon sock with static cling stuck to Ralph. When Primrose folded all the clothes, she had one sock left over. The sock with Ralph stuck to it was gone. It had gone wherever socks with static cling go when they get lost. The sock and Ralph were never seen again. The end.”

  The class thought the story was funny. Ralph did not know what to think. He had learned about static cling from watching those boring women who talked about it on television, but could he really stick to a sock? What a terrible thought. Just to be safe, he had better stay away from socks from now on.

  Melissa was happy with the success of her story until several members of the class asked why the girl’s mother had not used Static-off in her wash.

  “She just didn’t,” answered Melissa. “I guess she didn’t watch TV.”

  “I am not so sure a sock would really cling to a mouse,” said Gordon, a thoughtful boy always interested in facts.

  Oh, shut up, thought Ralph. These delays were making him nervous. A ray of winter sunshine fell on the fishbowl, making it so warm that Ralph began to pant.

  Gordon’s remark did not bother Melissa. “The sock clung to him in my story,” she said, as if her answer ended the discussion.

  “But the sock had to be someplace,” persisted Gordon.

  The class took up valuable time defending Melissa’s story. Oh, no, socks didn’t have to be someplace. Socks disappeared at their houses all the time. They could look every place and never find them. Nobody knew where they went. Sometimes they couldn’t find matching socks to wear to school. Their mothers had drawers full of socks without mates. Gordon did not know what he was talking about. One girl said her mother took the family’s washing to the Laundromat and often came home with socks she had never seen before.

  Why didn’t they all shut up and let him run? Ralph began to worry lest Miss K think up a project to find out if a sock with static cling would adhere to a mouse. The discussion came to an end when Mrs. Seeger offered to look up information on static electricity for the class.

  Gloria was next. “My poem is called a haiku,” she announced. “It is a kind of poem the Japanese write. It never rhymes, but it always has seventeen syllables.” Gloria paused a moment until she had the complete attention of the class before she read:

  “A little brown mouse

  Smells cheese and steps in a trap.

  Snap! Now he is dead.”

  Ralph was so horrified that he curled up in a tight ball to stop his trembling. How was he supposed to run a race if he was shaking all over? The class, preferring verse that rhymed at the end of lines, was silent, not knowing what to think of Gloria’s poem.

  “I think that was mean,” volunteered Melissa.

  “Well, I think it was good.” Gloria was defiant.

  Cruel, thought Ralph. Cruel and murderous.

  “An excellent haiku, Gloria,” said tactful Miss K, “but let’s hope such a thing never happens to Ralph.”

  Mrs. Seeger said she would look up haikus for Room 5, and Miss K said she would read them aloud.

  “We haven’t much time left,” said Miss K, “and now our guest of honor will demonstrate how quickly he can learn.”

  Ralph had waited so long to run that excitement had drained out of him, leaving him heavy with dread. Ready or not, he must begin his trial. His motorcycle depended on it, even though his legs were stiff and his entire body trembled.

  6

  The Maze

  “Come on, Ralph, old buddy.” Ryan scooped Ralph out of the fishbowl. “Show them how smart you are.” No one thought there was anything unusual about Ryan speaking to Ralph when Ralph was in plain sight. Children often talked to their pets.

  Ralph struggled in Ryan’s hand, which smelled of the egg sandwich he had eaten for lunch.

  “Take it easy, Ralph,” said Ryan. “You can do it.”

  “I need to warm up first,” squeaked Ralph.

  Ryan paid no attention. Possibly he did not hear because of the murmurs of excitement as pupils gathered around for a better view of the maze. He set Ralph down in front of an opening in a cardboard wall and said, “When Brad fires his cap pistol, go for the peanut butter.”

  Ralph shook his paws in a last desperate attempt to limber them. At the same time he sniffed, trying to get wind of the peanut butter at the end of the maze. Unfortunately, the room was full of confusing odors—popcorn, tomato sauce of tacos eaten by those who bought school lunches, peanut butter, bologna, egg, orange, banana eaten by those who brought lunches from home. Ralph caught a whiff of grape bubble gum, the reek of sweaty socks, and the scented-soap fragrance of Miss K.

  By the time the teacher said, “On your mark,” Ralph was completely muddled. He crouched, waiting for the starting gun, which did not go off.

  “My caps are stuck,” said Brad.

  After the heat of the fishbowl, the cooler air made Ralph’s muscles feel rigid. He felt as if he had been waiting forever.

  At last Brad fired his cap gun. Bang!

  “Go, Ralph, go!” shouted the class.

  The noise was enough to unnerve the bravest mouse. However, since Ralph was pointed toward the opening of the maze, he knew where to start. He ran through the opening and bumped his nose against a cardboard wall. Then he turned the other way.

  “No!” shrieked the children. “Not that way! The other way!”

  Ralph followed their direction and bumped his nose again. My motorcycle, he thought in despair, I’ll never get my motorcycle back if I don’t do it right.

  “Ralph! Don’t let me down.” Ryan’s voice rose above the shouting.

  Down among the partitions of the maze, with so many lunch-smelling rooters breathing on him, Ralph had no idea of the direction of the peanut butter.

  “Ralph D. Mouse!” Brad yelled.

  “Everybody shut up and give him a chance!” screamed Melissa.

  Suddenly Ralph was angry. He knew he was really a smart mouse. Why should he have to run around banging
his nose in front of all these tacos and sandwich gobblers? Nimbly he leaped to the top of the partitions, caught a whiff of pure peanut butter, and took off across the top edges of the maze. He would show them who was smart.

  Ralph was halfway to the peanut butter when he felt Ryan’s egg-sandwich smelling hand close around his body. “Hey,” said Ryan, “you aren’t supposed to do it that way.”

  Ralph, feeling that the world was unfair, found himself back at the beginning of the maze. He was furious. No one had said he had to bump his nose on every single dead end in the maze. Why should he? The object was to reach the peanut butter as fast as possible.

  “On your mark,” said Miss K a second time.

  Bang went the cap gun.

  Ralph leaped to the top of the partition, nimbly raced across the top of the maze, and filled his mouth with peanut butter just as the last bell rang and the room mother began to pass out bags of popcorn.

  Ryan picked up Ralph and poked him into his shirt pocket. “I told you that wasn’t the way you were supposed to do it.” He sounded disgusted.

  Ralph, who was unable to defend himself when his jaws were stuck with peanut butter, felt Ryan was most unjust.

  “Class, I wish we had more time,” said Miss K, as her pupils crunched popcorn and scrambled for their wraps. Time and school buses waited for no one.

  “Hey, Melissa,” said Ryan, “how come you’re taking your boots home?”

  “Because my mother says I can’t watch TV all weekend if I don’t,” answered Melissa.

  Ralph struggled to free his jaws. Would he get his motorcycle back, or wouldn’t he? He had to know.

  “Ralph Dumb Mouse,” said Brad.

  “Just because you don’t have a mouse.” Ryan sounded angry as he slid his arms into his parka. “You’re jealous. That’s what you are.”

  “Who wants a smelly old mouse?” scoffed Brad. “You stink, and so does Ralph D. Mouse.”

  “You shut up,” said Ryan.

  “Make me,” said Brad.

  Ralph was terrified by the sound of scuffling. With great effort, he freed his jaws and managed a muffled squeak. “Me! I’m here in your pocket! Don’t let him hit me!” His voice was so smothered by the parka that no one could hear him, but Ryan must have remembered. He cupped one hand over his pocket, which left only the other hand for protecting himself. He was pushed, bumped against someone, and fell to the floor.

  The class began to shout, “Fight! Fight!” and crowd around as popcorn scattered.

  “Boys!” Miss K’s usually gentle voice cut through the commotion. “Hurting people does not solve anything. It only makes things worse.”

  Ryan got to his feet. Ralph, shaken but relieved to find himself uninjured, peeped out of the shirt pocket. To his horror, he saw Ryan reach into the pocket of his parka and pull out a crushed crash helmet and a little red motorcycle broken in two.

  His precious motorcycle, his only means of transportation—four feet didn’t count—was destroyed. Ralph experienced the darkest moment of his life.

  “I’ll get you for this, Brad,” said Ryan, as Ralph slid back to the depths of the pocket. “You broke Ralph’s motorcycle.”

  Brad laughed. He could. He had not been knocked down. “Are you crazy or something?” he asked. “What do you mean, Ralph’s motorcycle?”

  “Boys, that’s enough,” said Miss K. “Hurry along, Ryan, or you’ll miss your bus.”

  In the hall, Ralph emerged from the pocket to confront Ryan. “Now see what you’ve done because you wouldn’t give me back my motorcycle. You’ve gone and wrecked it.”

  Ryan, flushed and humiliated, turned on his friend. “I don’t care if your motorcycle is broken,” he informed Ralph. “It serves you right for not doing what you were supposed to. I never should have brought you to school in the first place. See what happened because I tried to be Mr. Nice Guy.”

  “Some nice guy,” said Ralph with a tiny snarl. “Wouldn’t even let me have my own motorcycle, and now look at it. Busted. Well, I’ve had enough, I’m getting out of here.” With that declaration, Ralph climbed out of Ryan’s pocket, ran down his jeans, and jumped to the floor, dodging waffle stompers and boots as he fled.

  “Hey, watch it,” called Ryan. “Don’t get stepped on.” He turned and ran for his bus.

  Ralph dodged feet until he was safe against the wall, where no one would step on him or even notice him in the crowd. As soon as all the children had left, he made his way to the library without bothering to nibble any of the popcorn squashed on the floor. The torn book bag in which he had enjoyed such comfortable naps was gone, but he found a fresh bag, gnawed a hole in the brown paper, and crawled into the soft, ready-chewed stuffing. How good it felt—warm, cozy, and comforting—after all he had been through this terrible afternoon.

  In the hall, Mr. Costa was sweeping up popcorn with his broad broom while his transistor radio sang a sorrowful song about a broken-hearted man trying to hitch a ride on a lonely stretch of highway while the coyotes howled in the night.

  After Mr. Costa left, the school was a silent, deserted place. The next morning the children did not return. Ralph, who did not understand that there was no school on Saturday and Sunday, had never been so alone in his life. He stood in the cold and empty hall and squeaked as loud as he could, but his tiny voice could not even raise an echo. All weekend he roamed the desolate halls and classroom, halfheartedly nibbling whatever he could find to eat, going pb-b-b because he missed his motorcycle so much, and wondering if he was doomed to roam forever the lonely corridors of the Irwin J. Sneed Elementary School. Why didn’t the children return?

  Ralph thought of the old hotel with its shabby lobby warmed by a crackling fire. He missed the reassuring tick of the rasping old clock. He missed watching television and the activity in the lobby—the arrival and departure of guests and the arguments among the staff. He missed old Matt, his protector, and supplies of peanuts and popcorn from the Jumping Frog Lounge. He wondered if his plan to make the little mice leave the lobby had worked and if Matt still had his job.

  Ralph discovered he even missed—sort of—his little brothers and sisters and cousins. He wondered if the littlest one still fell over his own feet and became tangled in the fringe of the carpet. He wondered what they would say if they could see him now, cold and lonely, in the vast empty school. He also wondered what they would say if he went home with Ryan without his motorcycle. Something like, “Yah, yah! Serves you right for not wanting to give us rides.”

  The scoffing of his relatives was something Ralph could not face. Never. As he walked slowly back to the book bag in the library, he heard a dog bark in the distance and was reminded of the coyotes that howled in the night in the song about the lonely man trying to hitch a ride on the highway. What a sad world he lived in.

  7

  The Cucaracha Voice

  Sometime late Sunday night the weather changed. Snow began to melt. By Monday morning, the fleet of school buses came sloshing through slush. Boots and waffle stompers tracked mud and icy water into the halls of Irwin J. Sneed Elementary School, where the wearers were met by Mr. Costa holding a large mop.

  Ralph, whose weekend had been so long and so lonely, felt such a surge of joy and relief at the sound of school buses that he skittered back to Room 5 in a forgiving mood. There he hid in the old mitten. Anything, anything was better than that long, cold, miserable weekend, and perhaps Ryan had found a way of repairing the motorcycle.

  Miss K’s class arrived in a grouchy mood. Snow was fun; slush was not. There was more confusion than usual as the children peeled off their wraps and kicked off their boots. Many were carrying clippings from the Cucaracha Voice. Miss K was not in the room to welcome them, which did not help.

  Gordon told Melissa, who was wearing wet shoes and carrying her boots, that he was sure static electricity would not hold a mouse to a sock. Melissa told Gordon he had no imagination.

  Brad arrived with his arm in a sling. Instantly a rumor started th
at Brad had hit Ryan so hard he had injured his hand. Sides were taken; arguments began.

  Ryan glared at Brad. “You owe me a motorcycle for the one you broke. Serves you right if you hurt your hand.”

  “That motorcycle you said was Ralph’s,” scoffed Brad. “What would that stupid mouse do with a motorcycle?”

  Someone dropped a clipping, and before it was picked up, Ralph was able to glimpse a picture of himself looking small and frightened in the goldfish bowl. The picture was not bad; in fact, it was quite good. His eyes were bright, and each hair was distinct. Ralph congratulated himself on being such a handsome mouse and wondered if Matt back at the inn—if he still worked there—would see the picture, recognize, and perhaps miss him.

  As the last bell rang, Miss K hurried into the room with a worried look on her face. Instantly she was surrounded by excited children, waving clippings from the Cucaracha Voice and trying to talk at once. “It wasn’t like that at all!” they said. “That reporter got it all wrong!” “It’s a bunch of lies!” “They didn’t even put our picture in the paper.” Most puzzling was, “Ralph isn’t that kind of mouse. He’s nice!”

  They’re behaving like a bunch of little mice, thought Ralph. At the same time, he wondered uneasily what the paper had said about him. That he wasn’t nice? Impossible.

  Miss K stood without speaking at the front of the room. Gradually the class grew quiet. “That’s better,” said Miss K.

  Amazing, thought Ralph. The teacher had silenced the class without using a single bad word. He was even more ashamed of the way he had treated his little relatives.

  After the class recited liberty-and-justice-for-all (But not for me, thought Ralph), Miss K said, “Class, we have a lot to talk about this morning, and we can’t talk if we all speak at once. Brad, suppose you begin by telling us what happened to your arm.”

  Brad looked embarrassed. “Aw, I just sprained it when I tried to ride my bike in the mud. I was trying to get ready for the first motocross race this spring.”