Word of Mouse Page 4

  “Come on,” says Gwindell. “Hop down. We need your help shoving open this cabinet door. Mr. Brophy always leaves a heap of dirty work clothes lying on the other side. Stops it from swinging open.”

  I jump down, scoot around a bottle of something labeled “All Purpose Cleaner” that looks like it’s never been used, and join Gwindell and Gabriel behind the kitchen cabinet door.

  “Brace your feet,” instructs Gabe. “Lean against the wood. One, two, three, push!”

  We all shove. The door budges open just a crack.

  “Dirty work clothes,” says Gwindell, sniffing the air. “Again.”

  I sniff, too. The scent is vaguely familiar and reminds me—just for a second—of home.

  Then the scent of hot food wafts in through the open cabinet door. We could push again. But, like I said, that first shove opened the cabinet just a crack.

  And, as you might recall, a crack is all we mice ever need.

  CHAPTER 15

  “The apples on the other side of the wall always taste the sweetest. The Oreos, too.”

  —Isaiah

  To call the Brophy home a pigsty would be an insult to pigs everywhere.

  Crumpled food bags and rotting fruit are tossed higgledy-piggledy on the kitchen floor. There is also a large mountain of laundry piled in front of the kitchen sink. Crusty socks. Dirty underpants. And slimy green work clothes that look (and smell) strangely familiar.

  I’m giving them a good sniff when Gabriel taps me on the shoulder.

  “We came here to gather food, Isaiah, not to smell dirty laundry.”

  “Right. It’s just that I think I’ve smelled something on these green pants and this green shirt before.”

  “Well, they’ve been heaped here for at least a week.”

  “But I didn’t smell it here…”

  “You guys?” cries Gwindell from up on the counter. “We’ve got cookies! Chocolate with chocolate chips!”

  “Woohoo!” shouts Gabriel with a mighty tail pump. “Score.”

  He scoots up the side of the cabinetry. I scoot up after him.

  “Food test!” declares Gwindell.

  “Definitely,” says Gabriel. “You see, Isaiah, before we drag a new, untested food item home to the burrow, we must make absolutely certain that it is safe for mousely consumption. Dig in!”

  We do. And yummy mummy, they’re delish!

  “We should definitely drag a few of these back to the gang,” says Gabriel.

  Gwindell twitches her snout. “Mmmm. This box smells delicious, too!”

  “No!” I shout. “Don’t go in there.”

  “Why not? It smells so peanut buttery.” She lunges for the brown box, and I dive to block her.

  “It’s a mousetrap!” I holler, reading what is written on the side of the cardboard mouse coffin. “The floor is covered with glue, and they’ve baited it with peanut butter. If you go in, you’ll never come out!” Gwindell and her brother examine the box carefully.

  “Why, those sneaky Brophys,” says Gabriel. “How’d you figure out that it was a trap, Isaiah?”

  “I, um, read the box.”

  “Huh?”

  “Those are words,” I say, pointing to the label. “Words tell you things.”

  Both Gabriel and Gwindell sort of stare at me.

  “You’re kind of different, aren’t you?” says Gabriel.

  “I suppose. Reading is just something I learned when I was young. It comes in quite handy. For instance, from reading, I know this box over here contains Fruity Pebbles.”

  “The Brophys eat rocks?” says Gwindell. “No wonder they all look so lumpy.”

  “And these are Double Stuf Oreos.”

  “Wow,” says Gabriel. “They look doubly yummy.”

  “And,” I say, “they’re shaped like wheels so we can easily roll them back to the den!”

  “Excellent idea!”

  But just as we’re about to trundle the first cookie wheel out of its crinkly plastic package, we hear footsteps. The heavy clomp-flick-clomp of a lazy walker wearing shoes with the laces untied.

  “Hide!” whispers Gwindell.

  The three of us scurry behind the cereal box. When we peer around the edge, I see a slovenly boy with a jiggly belly wearing a Chicago Bears football jersey, plaid shorts, and—yep—untied sneakers.

  The boy is also wearing headphones that are blasting loud, ugly music. He finds a half-gallon jug of soda pop in the refrigerator and guzzles it straight out of the bottle. After he belches like a bullfrog, he starts making a sandwich, slapping ham, cheese, bologna, salami, more cheese, turkey, mayonnaise, ketchup, and corn chips on a bun.

  “That’s Dwayne,” Gabriel whispers in my ear. “He’s the Brophys’ son. Their only child.”

  “That might be a good thing,” I whisper back. “If he had any brothers or sisters, they’d probably starve.”

  “He’s a first-class food fumbler,” whispers Gwindell.

  As if on cue, Dwayne grabs something out of the refrigerator, examines it for half a second, then tosses it uneaten over his shoulder.

  “Oh, my,” gasps Gwindell, smacking her lips. “That’s a cream horn.”

  “What’s a cream horn?” I ask. “An edible musical instrument?”

  “No, my blue friend.” Gabriel is practically drooling. “It’s a tube of flaky pastry stuffed with fluffy white frosting. It’s my favorite dessert in the world.”

  “Mine, too,” adds Gwindell.

  “Heck, everybody loves cream horns,” says Gabriel. “Even artsy-fartsy Mikayla.”

  Well, that certainly ups my interest in Dwayne’s discarded dessert. “Why did the Brophy boy toss it on the floor?” I ask.

  “He has so much food to choose from,” says Gabriel, “he doesn’t recognize the scrumptiousness he already holds in his hand. Whatever food he doesn’t want, he just dumps on the floor for the cat to lick up.”

  I gulp. “Cat?”

  “Oh, yes. The Brophys have a cat. A monster with evil yellow eyes.”

  “It’s bald and has wrinkled, saggy skin,” says Gwindell. “It’s also a real killer.”

  I gulp again. “Is its name, by any chance, Lucifer?”

  “Yes,” says Gabriel. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “We’ve met before.” I tug nervously at my neck fur. “And I really hope it never happens again.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Fear and courage are brothers—the kind that drive each other crazy.”

  —Isaiah

  After building a sandwich thicker than a size-twelve work boot, Dwayne Brophy waddles out of the kitchen.

  “He’ll eat it on the sofa in the TV room,” says Gabriel.

  “It’s what he does every day,” adds Gwindell.

  “But we need to hustle,” says Gabriel. “Lucifer will soon be here to lick that cream horn clean. Cats love cream almost as much as they love munching mice.”

  I help Gabriel and Gwindell roll the cookies to the edge of the countertop.

  “But how do we drop them down without cracking them into a thousand crumbs?” asks Gwindell, peering over the ledge.

  I look around the countertop. “Easy,” I say. “We give the cookies a cushion to land on.”

  I dash over to the stove and find a puffy, padded oven mitt. I clamp its hanger loop in my teeth and drag it back to the ledge.

  “We’ll shove this over first. It’s spongy and fluffy. It’ll be our target when we push the cookies over the precipice.”

  Gabriel and Gwindell look confused. “Huh?”

  “Precipice is another word for the cliff created by the lip of the counter.”

  “Oh.”

  We slide the padded glove over the edge. It lands with a gentle flop. Next, we roll the cookies. They make a soft landing. No crumbling. No shattering. No squished double stuf in the Oreos.

  “You are one clever mouse, Isaiah!” exclaims Gabriel. “But we’d better hurry. Lucifer is always on the prowl.”

  W
e zip down the sides of the cabinetry and roll the cookies under the sink. Next, hugging the baseboards, we head over to the front of the refrigerator, where Dwayne dropped all sorts of cheese and meat on the floor while making his sandwich.

  “An excellent haul,” says Gabriel when all the food is safely stashed behind the cabinet door. “Let’s head for home and celebrate with a family feast!”

  I hesitate.

  I’m thinking about that cream horn sitting in the middle of the floor. And how, according to Gwindell, it is Mikayla’s favorite dessert. Perhaps, if I present her with such a yummy-mummy treat, she’ll sing for me again.

  But Lucifer could appear at any moment. And, as you know, I’m not the bravest mouse in the burrow.

  “Wait here, you two,” I say, then take a deep breath.

  For the first time in my life, I realize that courage is a strange mix of nerves and nuttiness. You have to be kind of crazy to go for a cream horn when you know an evil cat could attack you at any second.

  But even though it is an incredibly dangerous (and, dare I say, stupid?) thing to do, I dash to the middle of the kitchen floor. Heart pounding, I curl the flaky pastry in my arms and scamper back to rejoin my two friends under the sink.

  “You certainly are a brave little mouse,” says Gabriel.

  “Not really,” I say. “I did it for a friend.”

  That night, we have a huge family dinner—over two hundred mice feasting on the meat and treats Gabriel, Gwindell, and I hauled home from the Brophys’ kitchen. It feels like the holiday humans call Thanksgiving, especially when James the Wise rises from his thimble chair to give the blessing.

  “For this bounty, dear Mouse God, we are indeed grateful. Thank you for leading us into the Land of the Brophys, where every mouse can eat his fill and still find plenty to share with his family. For that is the greatest blessing of them all: family.”

  Everyone at the table nods and repeats the refrain: “Family!”

  I don’t think there has ever been a finer feast. The meat, cheese, and cookies are delish, especially when sprinkled with bacon bits.

  But the cream horn, sliced into thin pieces with a saw made out of dental floss, tastes as heavenly as Mikayla’s voice.

  She’s sitting at the far end of the table, looking extremely happy as she licks the white frosting off her whiskers. In fact, she seems like she might burst into song at any moment.

  She doesn’t, of course. Girl mice aren’t supposed to be able to sing.

  When the table is cleared and the dishes put away, it’s time to curl up with my new family for the night.

  Family.

  James the Wise was correct. It is such a warm and wonderful word. The coziest word of them all. If you ask me, family is the true cream horn of life, filled with sweetness. Worth risking your life for.

  So I whisper another prayer of mouse gratitude.

  I am thankful to be with Mikayla’s family.

  And I hope that I’ll once again find my own.

  CHAPTER 17

  “It’s very important to have something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.”

  —Isaiah

  The next morning, I’m up before everyone else because, as you recall, most mice are nocturnal and crepuscular, which means they don’t see much of the morning past dawn’s first light.

  I, however, was put on the human’s schedule ever since I was born. So, while they all snooze, I’m alone with my thoughts.

  My mind races with memories of my family. My secret wish? That they all might escape the Horrible Place and come live with me and my new friends under the Brophy house. There’s plenty of room, and the Brophys leave enough food lying around for half a dozen mice families. We could easily feed six hundred with just one of Dwayne’s belly-bomber sandwiches.

  Hours later, at dusk, my adoptive brothers and sisters begin to stir.

  I see Mikayla in the kitchen, cleaning up from last night’s fantastic feast.

  Her brown fur is so shiny and beautiful. I can tell she just brushed it—it glistens in the soft light leaking through the burrow’s ceiling.

  She, of course, doesn’t notice me noticing her. That’s okay. But I’d give anything for another burst of bravery—just enough courage to ask her to sing again. Not for me, just near me so I can hear it.

  But ever since she brought me here and introduced me to her extended family, the loveliest mouse I have ever met has mostly ignored me. She’s not being nasty or rude. Just indifferent.

  I wonder if she even knows that I’m the one who brought home the cream horn last night. Or that I risked my life snatching it for her.

  Probably not. And if she did, I’m afraid she wouldn’t be impressed or even care.

  And so I sigh.

  I’ve been doing a lot of sighing ever since I first set eyes on my beautiful brown songstress.

  While I’m standing there, sighing repeatedly and feeling sort of sad and sorry for myself, Gabriel and Gwindell come whipping around a corner with four other mice.

  “Come on, Isaiah,” says Gabriel. “Time for another food run!”

  “It’s dinnertime up at the Brophys’,” explains Gwindell. “That means it’ll soon be raining food underneath their dining room table!”

  “We have to be fast about it,” adds Gabriel. “Dawdling at night is dangerous because Lucifer will be wide awake.”

  Yes, cats are nocturnal creatures, too. Mouse life would be so much easier if mice weren’t on the same schedule as their primary predator.

  So the seven of us scamper through the wall tunnels, up the sink pipe, and across the kitchen floor and into the Brophys’ dining room.

  It’s not a pretty sight.

  Mostly, what we see are butts. Big, chubby butts. They droop like saddlebags over the sides of creaky wooden chairs straining to hold that much weight.

  “Pass the ketchup,” says Mr. Brophy.

  “You’re putting ketchup on your mashed potatoes?” says a largish woman who I assume to be Mrs. Brophy.

  “Yes,” says Mr. Brophy. “We’re all out of ding-dang mayonnaise. And I drank all the gravy.”

  “I like to jab a whole stick of butter into my mashed potatoes,” says Dwayne as he scoops up a big mound of lumpy yellow goop. “Butter makes everything better!” He moans with delight as he shoves the enormous ball of buttery mush into his mouth.

  In fact, all the Brophys nom-nom-nom very loudly while they eat. Fireworks could explode in the kitchen and they probably wouldn’t hear a pop.

  Dwayne shovels another helping of buttery potatoes toward his mouth. Half of it tumbles like a doughy boulder from his lips to his chest to the floor.

  “Go!” whispers Gabriel.

  Gwindell tears across the floor lightning fast, picks up the ball of glop, and, without breaking stride, carries it off to the kitchen cabinet.

  The next food to fall is a whole slice of meatloaf that Mrs. Brody fumbles when her husband asks for thirds.

  Two mice dash out and catch the slab of meat before it even hits the rug.

  Then Dwayne swipes his buttery face with a cloth napkin, which he tosses to the floor.

  And that gives me a brilliant idea!

  CHAPTER 18

  “No team works without teamwork.”

  —Isaiah

  I feel just like my big brother Benji, hatching a plan. I ask Gabriel and two other mice named Gilbert and George to help me turn Dwayne’s napkin into a food net.

  “We’ll each grab a corner and stretch it out,” I explain. “When the food falls, all we have to do is catch it in the napkin. We can carry a much heavier load that way than we ever could in our paws!”

  “And when it’s full,” says Gabriel, picking up on my idea, “we can tie the four corners in a knot to make a sack.”

  The four of us hightail it under the table. The Brophys are so busy stuffing their faces, they don’t notice as we dart under their chairs and dash between their feet.

  In no time at all, we cat
ch a couple dinner rolls, another mound of mashed potatoes, an ear of corn, more mashed potatoes, a second slab of meat-loaf, and a whole helping of yummy-mummy broccoli that Dwayne scraped off his plate when his mother wasn’t looking.

  We drag our bulging feedbag across the floor while the Brophys move on to dessert, scarfing down dozens of jelly-filled doughnut holes. As a few tumble off the Brophys’ bellies and drop to the floor, two mice named Geoffrey and Gilligan race to catch them.

  Meanwhile, the other mice and I drag our hefty bag of food back to the kitchen. We’re so happy, we sing a little as we go (mouse voices are ultrasonic, so the Brophys can’t hear us). We don’t sound nearly as good as Mikayla, of course, but music makes any chore much more enjoyable.

  Our food sack is so huge, we have to unload it under the sink and carry the delicious goodies, one by one, down the drainpipe hole.

  Now our singing echoes off the wooden walls of the crawl space. It sounds magnificent, like we’re in a concert hall.

  “I wish I could hear Mikayla sing in this echo chamber,” I say to Gabriel. “I suspect it might give my goosebumps goosebumps!”

  “Mikayla can’t sing,” says Gabriel with a chuckle. “We told you. She’s a girl.”

  “Mikayla has an amazing singing voice. I’ve heard it. And, paws crossed, I hope to hear her sing again.”

  Gabriel shakes his head. “Girl mice don’t sing. Singing’s only for boys.”

  I just grin because I sense that I am the only mouse in the burrow who knows the truth about Mikayla and her hidden talent. Somehow, that makes me feel closer to her—no matter how distant she’s been acting toward me.

  “Where are those doughnuts?” asks Gabriel, once all the other foodstuffs are secure in the tunnel beneath the sink drain.

  “Um, we dropped them,” admit Geoffrey and Gilligan, both of whom appear to be even younger than me. “The jelly made them too slippery for us to carry all the way across the kitchen.”