“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is,” Ragweed said.
Clutch gazed at him in wonderment. “It’s a guitar, dude. Hey, like, you really must be some kind of Zeke.”
“A what?”
“Never mind,” Clutch said with a grin. “Like, there’s two things I’m into. Music. You know, rock and roll. And the skateboard scene. I’ve got wheels and a way-down-funky band. We call ourselves the Be-Flat Tires. Pretty cool, don’t you think? Actually, we’re one short. I mean, Ragweed, I’m puffing serious about Silversides. Like, she chewed Muffler last week. Know what I’m saying? Said she didn’t like his singing. Said only cats should do that. Makes me want to uncork my guts.”
“Who was . . . Muffler?” Ragweed asked.
“Our lead singer. Hey, dude, can you sing?”
“I . . . I don’t think so.”
“Bummer. We could use another throat. Anyway, dude, you can crash here as long as you want to. Make yourself at home. Just be cool and keep one eye peeled for Silversides and other cats. Know what I’m saying?”
“I’m really not sure,” Ragweed admitted.
“Well, anyway, you’re in, dude. Like, give me four.”
“Four what?”
“Four to the paw, mouse.” Clutch held up her paw.
Ragweed reached out to shake it. Instead, Clutch slapped down on his paw, laughing. “Hey, mouse, I feel like I’m greeting Christopher Columbus. You know, welcome to the rest of the world, dude. Like, we’re here. What took you so long?”
“I think I better get some sleep,” Ragweed said. His head was swirling.
“Right, mellow out, kick back, chill and sleep in. Like, I do it all the time. But for now, I’ve got some things to do. Whatever. Just make sure you don’t let Silversides in.”
Ragweed looked around anxiously. “Will she try?”
“Hey, dude,” Clutch went on, “that cat’s serious bad news. That’s why I have a bolt hole out back. But, like, if Silversides wants you out, dude, she’s not going to rest till you’re heading for heaven in an Indy Five Hundred. Know what I’m saying? Can you handle it? Take the heat with the chill?”
“I think so,” Ragweed said, though he could not help wondering if it might not be wise—to save time and his life—to catch the next train right out of Amperville.
CHAPTER 6
F.E.A.R.
HAVING FAILED TO CATCH RAGWEED, an angry, frustrated Silversides slunk home. There she hoped she would find some comfort, perhaps a chin stroke from a human, a fondle behind the ears.
Using her head to butt open the cat flap that had been installed at the back of the house, she went to the girl’s room. The girl, however, would have nothing to do with her. Once again, a mouse—Blinker, this time—stood in Silversides’s way.
There were times Silversides was convinced that if she could just get her claws into that horrid white rodent, much that was wrong in the world and her life would be made right. Unfortunately, the girl was too protective.
Telling herself she preferred to be left alone, Silversides took a few chews of the dry, gritty food bits in her bowl, lapped up two licks of stale water, then retreated to her bed by the furnace.
Though Silversides tried to settle down, she remained agitated. In her mind she kept seeing Ragweed pinned against the hole in the car. She knew she would have caught him, too, if some mouse had not interfered. All she saw of that mouse was the green fur on its head.
For the rest of the afternoon Silversides lay fuming on her rug. By early evening she was intensely restless, feeling a need to do something to calm her anger. Then she thought of Blinker, the white mouse upstairs. Maybe tonight she would be lucky enough to catch the vermin—or at least to torment him.
Rousing herself, the white cat crept to the top floor of the house by way of the back stairs. Stealthily she moved toward the girl’s room. To her great joy the door had been left ajar.
A small shove, and Silversides slipped into the room. There she paused. Though the light was dim, her vision was good. Her sense of smell was better. The scent of mouse was overwhelming. Blinker was close. What a pleasure, thought Silversides, to nab him and drag him from the girl’s room. It just had to be done quietly so no one would know what happened.
Treading lightly, Silversides let her nose guide her forward. Within moments she knew exactly where the white mouse was—on the girl’s bed.
The cat rose up on her hind legs. Sure enough, there lay Blinker asleep on the pillow, a few inches from the girl’s golden hair, the spot where Silversides used to sleep. The cat’s wrath boiled.
Silently she sprang upon the bed, then slithered forward on her belly. A yard from the mouse, she tensed her rear legs and waggled her rump. After a count of three, she jumped. As she did, her rear foot scraped the girl’s blanket.
That was enough sound for Blinker. His eyes popped open. He saw the cat midair. Squeaking with terror, he dived for the protection of the girl’s hair. The girl, disturbed, shifted her head.
Though Silversides knew she was going to miss the mouse, it was too late to hold back. When she came down, she landed right on the girl’s face.
The girl screamed, sat up, grabbed the cat, and flung her away. Silversides, managing to twist about, landed on her feet and galloped from the room. As she raced down the hall, she heard the girl scream, “Keep out, you awful cat!”
In a rage even greater than usual Silversides tore out of the house. At first she had no thought where she was going. Very soon, however, she veered toward Graybar’s home. The vice president of F.E.A.R. lived a few city blocks away in a reeking old sewer. It took but moments to reach.
Graybar was eating from a pile of discarded chicken innards and bones. “Hey, pal,” Graybar said when Silversides appeared. “Good timing. Eats.”
“I’m not hungry,” the white cat said. Food stolen from garbage was but one of Graybar’s habits Silversides endured. “I’m mad.”
“No big deal,” Graybar sneered as he twitched a ragged ear. “You’re always mad. What got you this time?”
Silversides recounted not only how she had failed to catch Ragweed but what happened regarding Blinker.
Graybar nodded with sympathy. “Ever notice that when these mice get away it’s never on their own? Always depending on someone else. They gang up on us.”
“They are vicious,” Silversides agreed.
“Tell you what, though,” Graybar said, crunching an old chicken legbone in two with his rear teeth. “I’ve got some good news.”
“I need some.”
“I found one of their clubs. They call it the Cheese Squeeze Club.”
Silversides’s gloom dropped away. Her claws tingled. “Where is it?”
“Down on Durham Street. Used to be a shoe-shine shop. How about you and me going over and brightening things up?”
“I’d love to,” Silversides said.
“You’re on, babe. Soon as I eat this chicken heart, we’ll go get us some mice for dessert.”
CHAPTER 7
Blinker
BLINKER, THE WHITE MOUSE who was the object of Silversides’s rage, had been bred for laboratory research. His fur was pure white, his tail naked, his toes and nose pink. The slightest noise made him jump. The merest hint of danger brought fits of trembling. His eyes—so pink they looked bloodshot—could not bear bright light, a fact that caused him to blink a great deal.
Though he was a frail creature, life had treated Blinker relatively kindly. Instead of becoming part of an experiment, he had gone into a pet store. When still an infant he had been purchased by the girl who lived in Silversides’s house. It was she who gave him his name.
The girl cared for Blinker a great deal. A cage complete with an exercise wheel was bought, along with a sack of the best mouse chow and a bottle of spring water. Sweet-smelling cedar chips lined his cage floor. The girl fed Blinker on schedule, never failing to provide fresh water or to change his cage chips regularly. When home from school she lavished affecti
on on him, kissing and talking to him, carrying him about in her hands, on her shoulder, even in her pocket. She often brought him table scraps, candy, carrot bits, sugar cubes.
Though Blinker was supposed to live in the cage, the girl kept its door open. The only thing that the mouse was not allowed to do was leave the room.
“You are my blinky-winky mousey-wousey, and I don’t want you gobbled up by that nasty-wasty cat,” the girl crooned to the mouse. “So you must stay in our own room.”
Blinker quickly learned the wisdom of this policy. Each encounter with Silversides proved dangerous. Not that Blinker ever learned why he was the object of so much hatred. It was simply a fact of life.
Since the girl went to school and was active in sports, Blinker spent most of his time alone. With the door to the room closed, he spent hours sitting by the window, gazing at the world beyond. To the young mouse, who had no experience other than the girl’s room and his brief sojourn in the pet shop, the outside world was mysterious and appealing. Yet all he saw was a street, a park, other houses, humans, and many cars. Not once did he see another mouse.
Hardly a wonder, then, that Blinker came to believe that all mice—if there were any other mice—were like him: the same color, the same life, the same long, lonely hours staring out of windows from inside houses.
As time went by, Blinker wished the girl would allow him a taste of this outside world. She never did, not once.
There were moments Blinker felt a little peculiar about his desire to go beyond the room and the house. Perhaps, he told himself, this longing to explore was unnatural. Did he not have a life that included the freedom of the room and all the food he could eat, as well as a clean cage with an exercise wheel?
After all, he never saw other mice. Why should he want to go out? Full of guilt, he made himself do extra laps on the cage wheel by way of punishment. Between his desire and his guilt he kept slim, trim, and fit.
Then one day the girl made an announcement: “Blinker, I have to write a report for school, and I’ve decided to write about you. I need to explain all about mice and how you are the most special creature in the world.”
Shortly afterward the girl brought home an armful of books. There was the Oxford Illustrated History of Mice, Martha Stewart’s Your House and Your Mouse, and the Book of World Mice. There was fiction about mice, too, such as The Story of a Bad Mouse, Runaway Ralph, Stuart Little, Abel’s Island, Red Wall, and others.
Blinker had never been much of a reader. The girl’s books usually held little interest for him. He avoided them except when he now and again would chew their bindings. In the current matter he had little choice. The girl not only read to him out loud, but she insisted he read by her side.
At first a reluctant reader, Blinker quickly became deeply absorbed in the books about mice. Long after the girl went to sleep he pored over them. When the girl was at school, he read even more.
These books altered Blinker’s view of the world forever. He discovered that there were many kinds of mice, that most mice lived not in rooms but out in the world, that mice had families, that most of them lived free and independent lives. In short, to Blinker’s utter astonishment, he discovered that the way he lived was the exception.
He went on to read everything in the girl’s room he could get his paws on. In so doing he became highly educated.
This new knowledge made Blinker almost breathless with excitement. Now when he looked out the window, he saw things differently than before. The world, he realized, was something in which he might take part. He began to think he had a right to explore it, to make his own decision as to where he lived. His freedom to go anywhere in the room was nothing more than the freedom to wander about a larger cage. Now he yearned to wander beyond the door, to be truly free.
Blinker was perfectly aware that there were moments when the door was left open. It was only a matter of time when that would occur again. When it did, he kept asking himself, should he or should he not escape? After all, there was the problem of Silversides. What was the point of freedom if it only led to death?
Everything changed for Blinker the night Silversides crept into the room, leaped onto the girl’s bed, and almost caught him. When the girl chased Silversides from her room, she meant to slam the door shut. Being half asleep, she did not check to see if the door was truly closed.
After the attack, Blinker was too wide-eyed with fright to sleep. Instead, he prowled restlessly about the room. It took only a short time before he saw the door was open a crack. But anxious about Silversides’s whereabouts, the mouse crept to the window and stared out into the world.
Moonlight illuminated the deserted street below. Trees appeared tall and majestic. The early spring flowers—daffodils and crocuses—seemed to glow.
Suddenly a white cat darted across the street. Blinker blinked. It was Silversides!
As Blinker watched the cat streak off, he suddenly realized he was free to leave the room. Just the thought of freedom made the white mouse tremble.
He glanced over his shoulder. The girl had gone back to sleep. Hardly thinking of what he was doing, Blinker leaped to the ground and scampered to the open door. In moments he was over the threshold.
Down the stairs he ran. At the bottom he began an almost desperate search for a way to get outside. Unfortunately, every door was closed. So too were the windows. But what Blinker did find was the cat’s entryway at the rear of the house.
Blinker was neither strong enough nor big enough to push this door open. But he was smart. Once he figured out how the cat door worked, he pushed it as if it were a swing, over and over again. Watching the door swing higher and higher, he set his movement for when the door was at its highest. Then he shot through, pulling his tail behind him with room to spare.
Blinker was outside . . . and free.
CHAPTER 8
The Cheese Squeeze Club
AN EXHAUSTED RAGWEED slept all day. Once, twice he woke, found a few stale crumbs to nibble, then dropped back to sleep. He did not really open his eyes until Clutch woke him.
“Hey, dude, don’t you think you’ve shaked enough?” she demanded.
“Is it morning?” Ragweed asked with a yawn.
“Mouse, you country dudes get here, the first thing you do is sleep for a week.”
Ragweed sat up. “Did I sleep that much?”
“Hey, how about, like, all day? It’s night already. You have anything in gear?”
“In gear?” Ragweed said as he got up slowly and stretched.
“Like, doing.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not come over to my club with me?” Clutch suggested. “Catch my band. Meet some cool mice.”
Ragweed sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know what a band or a club is,” he admitted.
Clutch laughed. “You know what I like about you, dude?”
“No.”
“Most dudes, when they don’t know something, they’re too frail to ask questions. Not you. You’re a diesel, mouse. I mean, truly excellent. Okay. A band is a bunch of dudes playing music. And, like, a club is a place where friends meet. You know, some band music, and you can Mac out on crumbs and cheese. There’s dancing, too. One sweet scene. We call it the Cheese Squeeze Club, and—”
“Clutch,” Ragweed interrupted.
“What?”
“I . . . I don’t know what diesel, Mac out, or cheese mean.”
Openmouthed, Clutch stared at Ragweed for a long time. “You tugging me, dude?”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Awesome,” the green-headed mouse murmured. “You are the whole thing plus chips. Okay. Like, a diesel is a motor, so, you know, powerful. Mac out means to eat. And cheese is . . . well . . . killer food. Trust me. It’s made from milk. The point is, you hot to trot?”
“I guess.”
“Only, remember what I told you before. Keep your eyes peeled for Silversides. We don’t want to mess with her or her pal, Graybar. See, we keep
the club like, secret. Don’t want to have the cats find it. Know what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
Clutch removed her guitar from its place on the wall, then picked up a wafer of pale wood to which tiny wheels were attached front and back.
“What’s that?” Ragweed asked.
“Like, basically, Ragweed,” Clutch replied with a grin, “you are one played-out nerd. Know what I’m saying? It’s my skateboard, dude. My wheels. Where you been?”
“In the country.”
“Well, like, welcome to cementville.” With care Clutch pulled aside the wood block that covered the entry to her car and peered out at the street. After carefully checking in all directions she said, “Cool. No cats.”
As soon as the two mice stepped onto the sidewalk Clutch slid the wood piece over the hole behind her.
“In case you need to get in on your own,” she said, “like, just give the wood a smack up here, dude.” She banged along the top right corner. It popped open. “Otherwise it gets stuck,” she added, closing the hole again.
Ragweed nodded.
“Let’s hit it,” Clutch said and dropped her skateboard to the ground. With one foot on the board and another on the ground—she was still holding her guitar—she pushed off. She had barely gone a few feet when she popped the board up—getting a lot of air, then coming down smoothly, if loudly, on the pavement, feet firmly planted on the deck. This was followed by a second jump, in which, midair, Clutch spun around so that when she landed she was facing Ragweed.
“Wow,” he said, “that’s . . . nice.” He wanted to say “cool,” but could not get it out.
“Called a one-eighty,” Clutch explained with a grin as she did another half turn and sped off, but not before grinding loudly along the edge of a curb. Next moment she dropped off, did a maneuver high in the air—“An ollie, dude!”—then tore off again, using first one foot to ride, the other to shove, then reversing herself. Ragweed had to run to keep up.