Ralph S. Mouse - Beverly Cleary [4]
Ralph sat back on his haunches and began his morning grooming. As he wiped his paws over his whiskers, he suddenly had a most unhappy thought. He was to blame for Matt’s trouble. If he had been an ordinary mouse without a motorcycle, all his little relatives would not have come flocking into the lobby. They would still live upstairs, snug in their nests behind the baseboards, growing fat on crumbs from all the food skiers smuggled into their rooms to avoid the dining-room prices.
Ralph paused in his washing to think. If he moved back upstairs, his relatives would follow. But what about his motorcycle? He couldn’t leap up a flight of stairs with it; neither could he leave it behind. Never! If he left it behind, some of his older cousins would grab it and stay in the lobby—at least until they wore it out or wrecked it—and the younger relatives would stay too.
What was Ralph to do? He was still turning over this problem in his mind when the clock above him ground and groaned and managed to bring out eight bongs. Right on schedule, Ryan came running into the lobby, warmly dressed to go to that mysterious place known as school. He was carrying his books and lunch in a backpack. Ralph admired his waffle stompers.
The muddy floor caught Ryan’s attention. He studied the mud, and when Matt left to fetch a mop, he got down on the floor in front of the clock and pressed his cheek against the floor so that he could speak to Ralph. “I saw your tire tracks,” he whispered. “I bet you had a great time last night.”
“Yeah, except for a bunch of little mice,” said Ralph.
“What’s the matter?” Ryan asked him. “You sound unhappy.”
Suddenly Ralph knew what he had to do. He thought fast, which was easy for him. Mice often have to think fast to survive. “Look, Ryan,” he said. “I’m in trouble, and I don’t have time to tell you about it. Just take me and my motorcycle with you, and don’t ask questions.”
“To school?” Ryan was surprised.
“Come on,” begged Ralph. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Sure we’re friends,” agreed Ryan, “but—”
“There’s no time for buts,” said Ralph, who knew Ryan would soon have to leave to catch the school bus.
“Well, OK, if you say so,” said Ryan.
By the time “OK” had passed Ryan’s lips, Ralph was wheeling out his motorcycle with his crash helmet dangling from the handlebars. “I’ll stay out of sight,” he assured his friend. “There must be someplace I can live at school.”
Ryan stuffed the motorcycle into one pocket of his parka and picked Ralph up carefully so he wouldn’t smash his tiny ribs. “You mean you want to stay at school?”
“Yes,” said Ralph, suddenly frightened by his decision. “There must be someplace I can hide.”
Ryan thought a moment. “Well, there’s one of Melissa Hopper’s boots. You could hide there.”
“Doesn’t she wear her boots?” asked Ralph, picturing himself squashed in the toe of a boot by the foot of Melissa, whoever she was.
“Not if she can help it,” said Ryan. “Melissa hates boots, so she leaves them at school. That way her mother can’t make her wear them.”
A sensible girl, thought Ralph.
Mrs. Bramble came bustling back into the lobby. “Ryan, what on earth are you doing on your knees? You should be on your way out to the highway, or you’ll miss your bus.”
“Just checking the floor for dust,” fibbed Ryan, as he quickly slid Ralph into his parka pocket. “Bye, Mom.” And he ran out the door and went crunching through the snow to the highway.
Ryan must have had second thoughts about taking Ralph to school. He said, “I guess Miss K won’t mind.”
“Who’s Miss K?” asked Ralph.
“My teacher,” explained Ryan. “Her real name is Miss Kuckenbacker, but she told us to call her Miss K, because calling her Miss Kuckenbacker would take up too much classroom time.”
“Oh,” said Ralph, mystified.
To Ralph, school was a strange