Ralph S. Mouse - Beverly Cleary [15]
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