by Betsy Byars
Holding onto a root with one hand, Mouse took out the spray can. He shook it and began to write. P. “How does that look, Ez? Can you read it?” He made an R and an E. He leaned to the side to continue with the two S’s and suddenly his foot slipped. It was a terrible sickening sensation.
One minute he was painting an S, the next he was hanging by a root with one knee balanced on a sharp rock. His whole life, it seemed, depended on whether this root was going to hold or not.
“Hey, watch it!” Ezzie called.
Mouse couldn’t speak. His leg was digging against the cliff, running as if it were in a race by itself. For a moment, Mouse thought it was all over. His leg started going slower. The root began to pull out of the earth. And then miraculously his other hand found a little ledge and his foot found a rock. The root held; his other foot found a toehold.
Ezzie called, “Hey, don’t do that, will you? It makes me nervous.”
Mouse inched his way back to the ledge. “You!” he managed to gasp.
“Yeah, me.”
Mouse clung for a moment. He was so weak he thought he might slip down the cliff like a blob of grease.
Ezzie said, “You dropped your spray can, did you know it?”
“No.”
“It’s busted.”
“Oh.”
“The whole nozzle’s gone.” Ezzie shook the can. “It’s full of paint but the nozzle’s gone. I told you we should have got pretzels.”
“Well, I might as well come down then.”
Lying on his bed now, Mouse thought that that particular emergency, falling off a cliff, had been avoided by one of those simple survival tricks. Brushes with nature were simple. Emergency Twelve—When you are falling off a cliff, grab a root with one hand, a ledge with another, put your foot on a small rock and then coolly climb down.
His mother came to the doorway and said, “What are you and your dad going to do next weekend?”
“We’re going to the baseball game.”
“Well, that will be nice, won’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Your father’s making a special effort to get home.”
“I wish he could be home all the time,” Mouse said.
“Well, I do too.” She stood there a minute, looking at him. “Your father doesn’t like this either. It’s no fun for him to be driving all the time. Anyway, it won’t be forever.” She waited a minute and then said, “Well, better put on your pajamas and get to bed.”
He got up quickly as if he had just been lying there waiting for someone to tell him what to do. He went into the bathroom, took his pajamas from a hook behind the door and got ready for bed.
He lay there for a while. In the living room, his mother had put out the lights and was watching television. He could see the light flickering as the picture changed. He tried to think of another emergency he could handle.
Emergency Thirteen—Octopus Attack. This was one emergency measure everyone agreed upon—John Wayne, Tarzan, Jungle Jim, everybody. It had worked in every South Sea movie Mouse had ever seen. When attacked by an octopus, you stab the octopus in the eye with the knife you have tucked into the waistband of your bathing suit.
He lay without moving. In the living room, his mother switched channels.
Emergency Fourteen—Parachute Jump. If you are called upon to make an unexpected parachute jump from a plane, you must relax your body completely. Ezzie had learned this from a talk show on television. The natural thing, Ezzie had learned, is for the parachute jumper to start making climbing movements with his arms and legs, trying unconsciously to get back up to the safety of the plane. Ezzie said everybody does this, but what he would do would be hold his body in a relaxed position, count to ten, and pull the rip-cord.
While Mouse was waiting to think of Emergency Fifteen, he fell asleep.
MOUSE CAME SLOWLY DOWN the stairs in the morning. There was a small round hole in the plaster by the front door, and Mouse had once drawn an arrow to the hole and had written DROP COINS HERE BEFORE EXITING. He went out the door, looking down at his feet, taking the steps one at a time. He was trying to be late for school now that his efforts not to go at all had failed.
“Mom, I’m sick, hear? I’m really sick,” he had said at breakfast. He had been sick too. “I can’t even eat, I’m so sick.”
“All right, if you’re sick, show me some fever,” his mother had said, getting up from the table and going into the bathroom for the thermometer. “If you don’t have fever, you aren’t sick enough to stay home.”
He had sat at the table while she went for the thermometer, thinking of how much he missed his father. Breakfast had been a different meal before his father started driving a truck.
Mouse remembered suddenly the way his father used to tell his dreams at breakfast, fantastic dreams that would have Mouse hanging over his plate, too engrossed to eat.
“Did you dream about the little people last night?” would be the first thing he would say to his father in the mornings. The dreams about the little people had been Mouse’s all-time favorites. They all ended with the little people, a hundred and eighteen of them, lifting his father and bearing him down the street with such speed that his father appeared to be on roller skates. His father got out of a lot of tight places that way, and the puzzlement of his father’s dream enemies as he slipped past them in this manner never failed to delight Mouse.
Now that Mouse was older and had dreams of his own to remember, he thought that the dreams of the little people were just stories his father had made up to amuse him. Still, he wouldn’t mind right now, as big as he was, hearing another of those little people dreams.
His mother returned with the thermometer and he said, “There are lots of illnesses that you don’t have fever with, Mom. Didn’t you ever hear of food poisoning?”
“Put this in your mouth.”
He had known it was hopeless, but he had kept the thermometer in his mouth, rubbing it with his tongue just in case the friction might somehow cause the mercury to rise.
His mother waited by the table. Then she removed the thermometer and looked at it. “Normal. Get your books and go to school.”
“Mom, I am sick.”
“Go.”
Slowly Mouse left the apartment and walked in the direction of school. He knew that he would have to be very late in order to miss Marv Hammerman, because Hammerman never went into the school until the last possible minute. He just lounged outside with his friends.
The street was empty except for two ladies talking, and Garbage Dog who was standing by the ladies looking up at them. There was the faint aroma of bacon grease about one of the ladies. “Go on,” one of the ladies said, kicking at him.
Garbage Dog moved back a few steps and continued to stand watching them. On his short legs he appeared to be lying down. Mouse remembered that he had once measured Garbage Dog’s legs as part of an arithmetic assignment about learning to use the ruler. Each student had had to measure ten things, and the first thing Mouse had measured was Garbage Dog’s legs. They were not quite three inches long.
It had been an impressive way to start out the list of things he had measured. Garbage Dog’s legs—two and seven-eighths inches.
At least half the people in the class had not believed that figure. “Hey, no dog’s got legs that short,” one boy had cried.
“This one does.”
“Two and seven-eighths inches?”
“Yes, two and seven-eighths inches.”
“That’s just that long.”
“I know. Listen, I can bring this dog to class if you want me to, Miss Regent. I can catch him and we can—”
“No, Benjie,” Miss Regent had said quickly, “I don’t think that will be necessary. Some dogs do have very short legs.”
“But two and seven-eighths inches!” the boy had cried again, holding up his paper ruler. “That’s just that long.”
Mouse knelt and scratched Garbage Dog behind the ears. He must have hit the spot where it
really itched, because Garbage Dog leaned back, his nose pointing to the sky, and started making a moaning noise.
“That feel good?” It was surprising, Mouse thought, that a dog like this who had never known soap or flea powder could smell so nice and fresh. It was a kind of dairy and dry leaves smell. “There? Is that where it itches?”
The quiet of the street made Mouse think he was late enough. “I better go.” Still kneeling, he took out his pencil, wrote SCRATCH ME on a smooth spot on the sidewalk and drew a little arrow to Garbage Dog. Then he rose.
As he walked, Hammerman came back into his mind. It seemed to Mouse that everything, everybody, had suddenly shrunk in importance, making Marv Hammerman a giant. Hammerman towered over the street in Mouse’s mind so that the buildings were toys around his ankles, and the pigeons that roosted on the roofs flew around Hammerman’s knees.
Mouse walked slower and when he got to the school, it was deserted. The late bell was ringing. Mouse took the steps two at a time and then ran down the hall to his room.
“You’re late, Benjie,” Mr. Stein said, looking up at Mouse from his desk.
“Yes, sir, my mom thought I was sick.”
He sat at his desk, pulled off his knitted hat and stuffed it in his pocket. He was taking off his jacket when Dick Fellini nudged him in the back. He turned and Dick said, “Ezzie wants you.”
Mouse glanced back at Ezzie, and Ezzie’s mouth formed the words, “Did you see Hammerman last night?” Mouse nodded. “What happened?” Ezzie asked.
Mr. Stein said, “Ezzie have you got something to share with the class?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why are you talking?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Then if you don’t know, I suggest that you stop,” Mr. Stein said.
“Sure.” Ezzie waited until Mr. Stein was busy with some papers, and then he punched the boy in front of him and whispered, “Tell Mouse that Hammerman was looking for him this morning. Pass it on.”
Four seats up, Mouse could hear what Ezzie had said perfectly. Then he had to listen to it being passed down the row of seats. To Frankie. To Louise. To Dick Fellini. He waited, and Dick said in his ear, “Ezzie says Hammerman was looking for you this morning.”
Mouse nodded. He wished suddenly that he could be part of this chain of whisperers. He wished he could nudge the boy in front of him and say, “Hammerman’s looking for Mouse. Pass it on.” What it came down to, he supposed, was that he wished he wasn’t Mouse.
“What did you do to Hammerman anyway?” Dick Fellini asked in his ear.
Mouse lifted his shoulders and let them fall. He felt terrible. He wondered how anybody could feel this sick and not have fever. It didn’t seem possible.
Mr. Stein was saying, “Let’s see now. I had some announcements. Did anybody see a pink mimeographed sheet?”
“Is that it on the floor, Mr. Stein?”
“Yes, thank you, Rose. Now let’s see what confusion the office has arranged for us today.” He glanced up and said, “Yes, Benjie, what is it?”
Mouse cleared his throat and said, “Could I go get a drink of water?” He paused and then added, “I don’t feel very good.”
Mr. Stein looked at Mouse. Mr. Stein didn’t rely on thermometers. Over the years he had developed an eye for the faker. He looked, judged and said, “I guess so, Benjie.” Mouse got up quickly and started for the door. Then Mr. Stein added, “Only I wish you kids wouldn’t come to school when you’re sick.”
“I didn’t have any fever.”
“Most people don’t early in the morning.”
“Oh.” Mouse wished he had had this piece of information earlier.
“You come to school, infect everyone and go home. Then you get the fever. And where does that leave the rest of us?” Mr. Stein had gotten mumps two winters ago from a boy named Beanie Johnson, and Mr. Stein had been cautious ever since.
Wanting to reassure Mr. Stein that this was not a similar case, Mouse said in a low voice, “I think this is more like food poisoning, Mr. Stein.”
“Well, let’s hope so. Go on and get some water and see if that helps.”
Mouse went out into the hall. As he closed the door he heard Ezzie say, “Could I go get a drink of water too, Mr. Stein?”
Mr. Stein looked him over. “No.”
Mouse walked on down the hall. When Ezzie was smaller, Mouse remembered that he used to keep a tooth in his pocket for emergencies like this. Then he could always go for a drink. He would hold up the tooth and say, “My tooth came out. Can I go get a drink, Miss Regent?” It used to work all the time. It was the only good he ever got out of his lost teeth, because Ezzie’s parents had never heard of the tooth fairy. They claimed it was something Ezzie had invented to get money out of them.
Ezzie had even made Mouse go home with him once. Mouse had stood there in the kitchen in front of Ezzie’s mother, while Ezzie, pink-faced and earnest, had said, “Go on, Mouse, tell her. Is there a tooth fairy or not? All I’m asking for is the truth.”
Mouse had waited a moment for Ezzie’s mother to look at him, but she continued to baste something in the oven.
“Mrs. Weimer?” She had glanced up at him then, her face red and shiny with heat. “Mrs. Weimer,” he had said, “there is a tooth fairy.”
“A what?”
Ezzie had shoved him aside. “A tooth fairy, Mom.”
Mouse had stepped around Ezzie. “What the tooth fairy does, Mrs. Weimer, is leave money under people’s pillows when they lose a tooth.”
Mrs. Weimer finished basting the meat and put it back in the oven.
“Mrs. Weimer,” Mouse had continued, even though the smell of failure was mingled with the odor of meat, “Mrs. Weimer, you are the tooth fairy, you and Mr. Weimer.”
“Did you hear that, Mom?” Ezzie had said. “Did you hear who the tooth fairy really is?”
“I don’t think it’s going to work,” Mouse had said under his breath.
“It’s got to.” If it didn’t, Ezzie was not going to be able to go to dawn-to-dusk science-fiction day at the Rialto on Saturday. “It’s got to.”
But it hadn’t. The next morning when Ezzie looked under his pillow, there was no money. There was only his tooth still wrapped in a little piece of toilet paper.
Mouse walked down to the water fountain and took a few swallows of water. It was warm and tasted of iodine. Ezzie had once said he thought that the teachers were putting a chemical into the water to make them all behave.
Mouse stood at the water fountain. Overhead the hall clock counted out a minute. The school clock didn’t just tick like other clocks, it jerked out the minutes. There had never been enough noise in the hall, not even between classes, to drown out the sound of the clock. Mouse waited for another minute to be sounded, and then he turned and went back to his room.
“Do you feel any better, Benjie?” Mr. Stein asked.
“Yes, I’m fine now.” He took out his pencil, drew an arrow to himself and wrote FINE on the pale wood of his desk. Then he rubbed it away with his thumb and waited for Mr. Stein to tell them to take out their English books.
He was still sitting there fifteen minutes later, staring at his desk, when he realized with a start that everyone else had their English book out and open to the story about King Arthur. Mouse looked around in astonishment. Dick Fellini was trying to explain a knight’s honor. In the back of the room, Ezzie was swinging his hand in the air like an upside-down pendulum so that he could get Mr. Stein’s attention and tell the class the plot of a movie about knights he had seen recently on television. Ezzie got tired of waiting to be called on. “Mr. Stein! Mr. Stein!”
Mr. Stein ignored him. He said to Dick Fellini, “Do you think, Dick, that honor and truth and the things the knights stood for have changed, or do you think they still hold true today?”
“Let me think,” Dick said.
Ezzie could wait no longer to j
oin in the discussion. Still waving his hand in the air he made a generous offer. “Ask me anything you want to about honor, Mr. Stein, and I’ll tell you.”
IT WAS RIGHT AFTER history class when Mouse saw Hammerman for the first time that day. All morning he had been running from one class to another, pushing people aside in his haste, bumping into others, darting around the edge of the hall. The only thought in his mind was getting to the safety of his next class.
“Watch it, Mouse!”
“Look out, Mouse!”
“Way to go, Mouse!”
It occurred to him as he ran that there could be no question of how he got his nickname this day. He was a mouse. He wished his mother was there to see him because she was always asking, “Why do they call you Mouse?”
“Because I act like one, I guess,” he had answered, but this hadn’t satisfied her.
“Well, tell them to stop.”
“Mom, you don’t tell people what to call you.”
“A nickname like that can stick with you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, you will. If you get to be president of a college or a company some day, people will still be calling you Mouse.”
“I don’t think you have to worry. I’m not planning to be president of anything.” But the idea had stuck with him. “I, Mouse Fawley, do hereby swear that as president of this great company …” It did sound bad. “And now we take great pride in presenting the distinguished and honorable president of our university—Mouse Fawley!” Very bad.
By lunch time Mouse began to think he was going to make it through the day without seeing Hammerman at all. Then after history he came out of class on the run. He was the first person out of the room and he started quickly down the hall. He had been out of his seat so fast that the hall was deserted. Even the library had not started to empty yet. Feeling safe, Mouse had glanced down at his books, which were slipping, and when he looked up he saw Marv Hammerman standing by the door to the boys’ rest room. It was as sudden as a feat of magic.
Mouse spun around abruptly. His math class was just down the hall, but he would have to pass Hammerman to get to it. He decided instead on a safer route. He would run down the stairs, cross the first-floor hall and then run up the other stairs to math. He no longer cared how it looked to run like this. He only wanted to avoid a meeting with Hammerman at all cost.
