Ralph S. Mouse - Beverly Cleary [14]
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