Mikayla.
As much as I was hurt when she told me how different I am, I can’t help admiring her. She is looking fetchingly fierce carrying a green plastic sword. I saw some just like it when the Long Coats had their holiday party last winter at the Horrible Place. Those colorful plastic swords had triumphantly skewered orange cheese cubes.
I pick my own scavenging tool, a cardboard stick with cotton swabs at each end (I guess to clean any food that’s been on the floor beyond the five-second rule).
“I’m surprised and delighted to see you with the hunting party,” I say to Mikayla as we make our way to the under-the-sink cabinet.
“In this family,” she says, “we rotate tasks. We all take turns doing all the jobs. Tonight’s your turn to do the dishes.”
“Aha,” I say, wiggling my whiskers the way my brother Rudolpho would. “I thought you told me only girls wash dishes, not that I’d mind. Next thing you know, you’ll be saying that you’re going to sing me a song. Just tell me when!”
“Probably never. Would never work for you?”
“Actually, I’d much prefer—”
Gabriel puts a paw to his lips to shush me. “Quiet, Isaiah. We don’t want Lucifer to hear us coming.”
“Right you are,” I whisper. “Kindly forgive my unwise attempt at—”
“SHHHHH!”
The six of us press our shoulders against the cabinet door. Once again, it is rather hard to budge on account of all the clothes heaped on the other side. We slide, one by one, out of the gap and hide in the shadows under the cabinets.
Suddenly, we hear a jingle. But it isn’t bells or Lucifer’s tags. It’s something metallic, clinking and tinkling in the distance.
I have heard this sound before.
“Human!” whispers Gwindell. We all dive for hiding places in the mound of rumpled green work clothes. Once again, I wonder about the familiar scent, but not for long. The jingling draws near. I peek out of the shirt pocket I wiggled into and see the source of the sound. It’s a key ring attached to the belt straining its way around Mr. Brophy’s waist.
Of course! I should’ve figured this out sooner. This is why the pile of green work clothes smells so familiar. I’ve seen that ring of keys before.
Those are the keys that lock all the doors that keep my family imprisoned.
I look higher and take a good look at Mr. Brophy’s face. He’s the Mop Man at the Horrible Place!
CHAPTER 31
“When you’re riding a tiger, it’s hard to dismount.”
—Isaiah
“Luanne?” Mr. Brophy hollers. “Where are my ding-dang Doritos?”
“In the cabinet over the microwave.”
“These are nacho cheese.”
“Hands off!” shouts Dwayne from the dining room. “Those are mine.”
“I know,” says Mr. Brophy. “Where are my jalapeños?”
“They’re already on the table,” says Mrs. Brophy. “Behind the chicken bucket.”
Mr. Brophy trudges out of the room. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Now I’ve wasted all that energy walking to the kitchen…”
The second he’s gone, I turn to Gabriel. “We need to leave this place. Immediately!”
Gabriel sniffs the air. “But I smell grease. Fast food.”
“Fast food is the best!” says Gilligan eagerly. “Fried chicken, fried onion rings, fried nuggets, French fries…”
“You don’t understand. Mr. Brophy is a bad, bad man…”
Gabriel twitches his whiskers and smiles. “Maybe. But he brings home good, good food.”
“Come on,” says Mikayla. “Let’s go see if they have fried apple pie!”
She leads the way up the cabinet pulls to the white paper bags blotted with oil splotches on their bottoms.
“There’s another bag over there!” cries Gwindell. “Down on the floor by the cold box!”
She means the refrigerator.
Gwindell scampers off to examine the toppled white goody bag.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Mikayla says to me.
And since she’s actually talking to me, I pretend I’m having the time of my life. I act as if I don’t know that Mr. Brophy is the evil Mop Man.
“Very exciting,” I say. “A real thrill. However, I’ve never eaten fast food before.”
“Oh, it’s yummy,” says Mikayla. “Especially the fried apple pies.”
She offers me a steamy chunk. “Try it.”
My weakness for apple pie takes over. “Maybe a quick nibble…”
I’m about to sink my teeth into the heavenly scented glop when I hear the most horrible sound in the mouse universe.
SNAP!
We freeze. All of our faces turn into masks of horror.
That sound is a mouse’s worst nightmare.
CHAPTER 32
“Don’t go looking for danger. It knows how to find you.”
—Isaiah
We race down from the cabinets and over to where Gwindell is lying on her side, writhing in pain.
“It’s the jaws of death,” gasps Mikayla.
“It was behind me,” Gwindell moans. “I didn’t see it.”
“Take it easy,” says Gabriel. “Try to calm down.”
“Take it easy? Calm down? I’m trapped, Gabriel!”
It’s true. Gwindell’s tail and right rear leg are locked beneath the wicked hammer bar of a Victor Metal Pedal Mouse Trap.
There’s a reason no mouse in history has ever named their child Victor.
“I’m too young to die!” whimpers Gwindell.
“You’re not going to die,” says Gabriel, his voice nearly as shaky as his sister’s.
For centuries, we mice have known the danger lurking in mousetraps. We’re taught about these evil contraptions from the day we’re born. Nursery rhymes, such as “Mouse be nimble, mouse don’t nap, mouse stay away from the mean mousetrap,” are meant to teach us how to avoid these deviously simple killing devices.
But then a mouse will see a chunk of cheese sitting right there in the open. Overcome with cravings, she will believe with all her heart that she can sweep in and snatch the bait before the trap snaps shut.
Such wasn’t the case for Gwindell. I suspect she attempted to tail-whip the cheese off the catch, but the trap was too fast. Now she has a broken leg and a severely pinched tail.
“We need to pry up the bar,” I say.
“We can’t,” mutters Gabriel. “It’s impossible.”
“I am going to die!” shudders Gwindell.
“Come on,” I say. “Lend a paw, everybody.”
“It’s hopeless,” says Mikayla.
“Nothing’s hopeless if we don’t give up hope!” I grab hold of the bar. Try to raise it.
It won’t budge.
Finally, the others join me. The five of us strain against the trap and try with all our might to lift it just high enough for Gwindell to roll free.
When my muscles feel like they might explode, Gabriel lets go.
“It’s no use,” he says.
The other mice follow his lead. I’m the last to loosen my grip.
“My tail is going numb,” sobs Gwindell.
I’m about to make a suggestion, when Mr. Brophy comes stomping back into the kitchen.
“This way,” I whisper.
We quickly slide Gwindell and her trap behind the refrigerator so we’re all out of sight.
Mr. Brophy yanks open the refrigerator door. “They’re still giving me grief about the one that got away,” he hollers to his family in the dining room. “The blue one.”
“Why do they need the blue one so bad?” screams his wife.
“Because he’s the only one who got away.” I hear glass jars jingling. “Where’s the ding-dang root beer?”
“Behind the pickle tub,” shouts Dwayne.
The kitchen floor creaks as Mr. Brophy marches back to the dining room.
Typically, this is when I would freak out. Panic.
Mr. Bro
phy just announced that the Long Coats at the Horrible Place are still searching for me. I wouldn’t be surprised if my bright blue face was on some sort of wanted poster.
But even though Mr. Brophy could spot me at any moment and take me back to the Horrible Place, I refuse to abandon Gwindell. As they say in her family, “We leave no mouse behind!”
“We need to take Gwindell’s body home,” whispers Gabriel. “For her funeral.”
Gwindell whimpers. “I can hear you.”
“There’s not going to be a funeral,” I tell her. “There’s going to be a homecoming party! We’re going to save you, Gwindell. I give you my word.”
She nods tearfully and manages a smile. She knows, as everyone does, that the word of a mouse is as solid as stone, and that I’ll do anything I can to keep it.
Or die trying.
CHAPTER 33
“A mouse of words and not of deeds is like a garden full of weeds.”
—Isaiah
“It’s impossible, Isaiah,” says Gilligan.
“No mouse has ever outfoxed a trap like that,” adds Gordon.
“We have to try,” I say.
“Why?” asks Gabriel. “It’ll only prolong Gwindell’s suffering.”
“I gave my word. And I have an idea…”
“I have an idea, too,” says Gilligan. “Big Mr. Brophy is going to come back and trap us all!”
“Either that or step on us!” says Gordon, whose knees are knocking together.
“I just need a spoon.” I gesture toward the counter near the sink. “There’s probably one in that drawer up there. But to retrieve it, I’m going to need some assistance.”
“There’s probably another mousetrap in that drawer,” whines Gordon. “That’s probably where the Brophys hide their mousetraps!”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it myself.”
“No you won’t,” says Mikayla. “I’m coming with you.”
“Me, too,” says Gabriel.
The three of us scurry up the side of the cabinetry while Gilligan and Gordon go over to comfort Gwindell.
“What kind of flowers do you want at your funeral?” I hear Gordon ask her. “Dandelions or clover?”
Gwindell, of course, starts sobbing.
“We have to hurry,” I tell Gabriel and Mikayla. “Those two are going to scare Gwindell to death.”
We dash across the countertop to the edge overhanging a slender drawer.
“Hold on to my feet,” I say. “I’m going over the ledge.”
“Why?” asks Mikayla.
“I need to open that drawer down there. Hopefully, that’s where the Brophys keep their cutlery. We can use one of the utensils to make a lever and pry Gwindell free.”
“What’s a lever?” asks Gabriel.
“One of the six simple machines. A lever is a stiff bar that rests on a support called a fulcrum. It’ll help us lift a load that’s too heavy to lift on our own.”
Yes, it is amazing how much you can learn from books.
“Now, come on. We’re running out of time. Grab hold of my ankles.”
I seriously can’t believe I’m about to do what I’m about to do. I crawl over the edge of the counter and dangle upside down like a trapeze artist.
I clamp down tight on the drawer handle. Now I have to use all my muscles, including the ones in my stomach, to tug on the handle. To wrench it forward.
At first it won’t budge, but then Gabriel and Mikayla help out. When I tug, they yank back on my ankles to give me more oomph.
Soon, Gabriel is leading us in a chant. “Heave! Ho!”
On the “ho!” I tug and they yank. We start building up some momentum.
Slowly but steadily, the drawer slides open.
“Heave! Ho!”
That last pull is a doozy. The drawer is now open a good two inches.
I look into the drawer. Eureka! It is, indeed, filled with knives, forks, and spoons.
“I think a soup spoon will do the job nicely,” I say. “Let go of my feet.”
I drop face-first into the open drawer. The silverware clinks and clatters when I land.
“Are you okay?” asks Mikayla.
“Fine,” I mumble, my nose stuck between the tines of a fork.
We hear Gilligan asking Gwindell if he can have her bedding when she’s dead. She wails loudly in response.
“Hurry,” urges Gabriel. “Please.”
I grab a spoon and try to raise it up over the side of the cabinet, but I can’t do it. It’s too heavy.
“You guys?” I say. “I need more help.”
Mikayla and Gabriel look at each other. Shrug.
Inspired by my lunacy, they step off the edge of the kitchen counter and drop into my drawer. The three of us hoist up the spoon, slide it over the drawer’s front panel, give it one last good shove, and send it sailing. It bounces and clinks a couple times when it hits the floor.
I look over at my two friends. “Now let’s go save Gwindell!”
CHAPTER 34
“Many paws make light work.”
—Isaiah
The three of us work the bowl of the spoon under the bar that’s clamped down on Gwindell’s leg and tail.
“Thank you, Isaiah,” she says, her voice growing weaker.
“Don’t thank me,” I say. “This is a team effort.”
“No mouse left behind,” whispers Mikayla.
“Especially not my sister,” says Gabriel, patting Gwindell’s fur.
When the spoon is lodged between the bar and the wooden base of the mousetrap, Gabriel, Mikayla, Gilligan, Gordon, and I stand beneath the long handle.
“On my count,” I say. “One, two, three—grab!”
The five of us jump as high as we can and catch hold of the spoon.
“And pull!” cries Gabriel.
The bar rises. But not enough.
We let go and drop to the floor. Gwindell groans. I can tell she won’t last much longer.
“Again!” I say. “One, two, three—grab!”
We all leap up and dangle off the spoon handle again.
“And pull!” shouts Gabriel. “Harder! Come on! Give it everything you’ve got, guys!”
We’re all grunting and groaning. Cheeks and faces are turning red. Except mine. I’m turning purple.
Gabriel gives a final, herculean yank and—hidey-ho!—my simple machine actually works. Our weight on the lever provides just enough force to pry up the bar.
And Gwindell has just enough strength left to roll sideways to freedom.
We did it!
Gabriel cradles his sister’s head in his lap.
“My hero,” Gwindell whispers with a faint smile.
“Shhh,” says Gabriel. “We need to get you home.”
We decide to abandon our food run and simply run as fast as we can.
For home.
CHAPTER 35
“Words have no wings, but they can fly a thousand miles.”
—Isaiah
Bright and early the next morning, while the rest of my new mischief sleeps off last night’s party to celebrate Gwindell’s safe return, I scoot across the street to visit my new human friend, Hailey.
No red-tailed hawks or cats pursue me, thank goodness.
When I sneak into the house, I learn that, once again, Hailey isn’t going to school. Apparently, she is sick a lot.
“Mostly,” she tells me, “I’m sick of school. Plus, I broke Mom’s thermometer, so she can’t tell if I actually have a fever or not.”
“why don’t you like school?” I ask with my feet. Fortunately, the question mark is very close to the shift key. Otherwise, I might not be able to ask Hailey anything.
“I like school,” says Hailey. “Well, I used to. Then we moved here, and now going to school means sitting in the same room with a monster named Melissa.”
“is she like a gorgon, the monstrous women with snakes on their head instead of hair, pointy tusks, and reptilian wings? i have read about those.”
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“No,” Hailey says with a laugh. “Melissa is just a mean girl. She likes to call me Zit.” She points to her hair. “Because I have a white head. Get it?”
“yes. very amusing.”
“Um, not really. Whitehead is another name for a pimple, Isaiah.”
I nod. I don’t actually know what a pimple is. And, I suspect, I don’t want to.
As we chat, I realize that Hailey and I have much in common. We both have our Horrible Places. Mine is the prison I shared with my family. Hers is the school where Melissa calls her mean names.
“Maybe tomorrow I’ll go to school,” says Hailey. “If Melissa calls me Zit again, I’ll call her a Gorgon.”
“if you do, you will be just like her.”
She curls her lip. Makes a face. “Yeah. You’ve got a point, wise little mouse. I don’t want that to happen…”
“me neither. one melissa seems to be enough.”
“You hungry?”
I nod.
“Come on. There’s crumb cake downstairs. You can have first dibs.”
So we sit in the kitchen and chat over a delicious breakfast. When she asks, I dance across the kitchen computer keyboard and tell Hailey the sad, awful truth about my life as a mouse:
“we mice are small and misunderstood. just about everybody and everything is bigger than we are. we go through life looking up at everything and being looked down on. not too many creatures seem to like us. except, of course, the ones that like to eat us. there are a lot of those. and humans? even though we have so much in common, most of them—present company excluded—don’t treat us very nicely. that’s my world, hailey. it really, truly is!”
I can’t believe I typed all that without skipping a beat.
But Hailey? She sits there and listens. Well, actually, she reads, but you know what I mean. And when I finally finish, when I leap into an amazingly wide front and rear paw split just so I can type that final exclamation point, she sighs.