Word of Mouse

by James Patterson

  Gabriel shakes his head. “Gwindell will be so disappointed. She loves those jelly balls.”

  “Well,” I say, remembering Mikayla’s similar fondness for sweets, “it’s really not a proper family feast without some kind of yummy-mummy dessert. Let’s go back and grab them!”

  So we all troop out from under the sink, whistling as we march across the floor like a merry mouse parade.

  It’s fun.

  Until it isn’t.

  CHAPTER 19

  “The mouse that has but one hole is soon caught.”

  —Isaiah

  Lucifer—the wrinkle-skinned cat with the evil yellow eyes—is prowling along the kitchen’s cluttered countertops, looking for something to eat.

  He spies the doughnut balls in the middle of the room.

  And then he sees us.

  He purrs. I think that means he prefers mouse-filled mice to jelly-filled doughnuts. I stand frozen in my tracks, halfway between the sink and the fallen goodies.

  What to do? What to do?

  Abandon dessert and flee? Or risk my life and go for the treats?

  Once again, I ask myself that age-old question: Am I a man or a mouse?

  Well, I’m definitely a mouse, and after spending some time observing the Brophys, I’m not sure I ever want to be a man. But I do want Mikayla to have fond memories of the time we spent in the burrow, even if we don’t spend much of it together.

  Therefore, ignoring all my cowardly fears and disregarding all my completely rational survival instincts, I race across the kitchen floor.

  “Isaiah!” shrieks Gabriel, who’s taken up a hiding place under the refrigerator. “What in the name of Mouse God are you doing?”

  “Only what any music-loving mouse must do!” I screech wildly as I zig, zag, and zip across the floor.

  Up on the counter, Lucifer is mesmerized by my swift, snakelike moves. Cats love to watch things whizz across the floor. Reflections. Laser pointers. Mice.

  But after they’re done being mesmerized, typically, they pounce. I don’t have much time.

  I skid to a stop at the doughnut balls and lob them backward over my head, one by one.

  “Got it!” shouts Gilligan behind me.

  “This one’s for you, Geoffrey!” I shout. I spin around and kick another ball. It zooms through the air to Geoffrey, who comes running out of his hiding place to catch it on the fly.

  “Tell everybody dessert’s on me!” I shout.

  The other mice flee, taking all the doughnut holes I could save.

  Because Lucifer springs into action. He leaps off the counter, knocking over a roll of paper towels and a cake pan. His claws are out, and I’m certain he knows how to use them.

  A split second before he shreds my tiny body into minced mouse meat, I dart sideways. Lucifer’s claws end up scarring the wooden floor instead of my back.

  Once again, my treadmill workouts come in handy. Legs pumping, I sprint for the baseboards. Lucifer screeches angrily and sprints after me.

  Thinking fast, I ladder up the drawer pulls and scurry across the cluttered countertop. Lucifer jumps up behind me. I dodge around stacks of dirty dishes and hurdle over some filthy mugs. Lucifer barrels into a few and sends china crashing to the floor. He also takes out a pig-shaped cookie jar and a plastic pasta bin filled with fusilli that pitter-patters as it crashes to the floor.

  While Lucifer slips and slides on the rolling noodles, I leap off the counter, scamper out of the kitchen, and race into what appears to be Dwayne Brophy’s bedroom.

  There are crumpled chip bags, empty soda pop bottles, and discarded Hot Pockets wrappers scattered everywhere. I scrunch up my nose and tunnel under a heap of Dwayne’s dirty underpants.

  The stench might kill me before the cat does.

  CHAPTER 20

  “He who fights and runs away lives to eat dessert another day.”

  —Isaiah

  As I wiggle farther into the heap of soiled laundry, Lucifer swats at the twitching bulges betraying my every move. It’s almost as if he has X-ray vision as he bops at me through the rippling ocean of tossed T-shirts, socks, and underwear.

  Desperate for a better hiding place, I scuttle across the floor and dive for one of Dwayne’s shoes.

  Not a great idea.

  Lucifer slams into the shoe, knocking it—and me—sideways.

  I’m seeing stars. My ears are ringing.

  Lucifer is hissing happily. He’s ready to play Cat and Mouse with my life again. He rears back a paw to smack me, and I brace myself to be a furry tennis ball.

  He bats me once, and I bounce off the TV stand. He bats me again, and I bang into a stinky sneaker. I can’t take many more whacks to the head. Those stars I was seeing have turned into constellations.

  And so I go with my last remaining trick.

  “WOOF!” I bark at the top of my lungs. “WOOF-WOOF!”

  I can do a pretty good vocal impression of this nasty guard dog I knew back at the Horrible Place.

  Stunned, Lucifer freezes mid-swat.

  My Doberman pinscher impersonation is good enough to make his eyes bug out of his head, Chihuahua-style. I seize my chance before Lucifer can seize me. The hairless hairball hacker has given me a small opening, and a small opening is all a mouse ever really needs.

  I tear out of the bedroom and zoom back to the kitchen.

  Beyond it, past the refrigerator, is a smaller room filled with muddy work boots and filthy plaid jackets. And, hidey-ho, I see another, extremely conveniently located pet door to the outside.

  I take off like a rocket and fly through the rubber flap. Lucifer, who is right behind me, lunges for the pet door, too. But, judging by the very loud yowl I hear behind me, I’m pretty sure he missed.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Be careful with your heart. Once it’s broken it’s hard to find spare parts.”

  —Isaiah

  Fortunately, I quickly find the oily streak Mikayla and I first followed around the Brophy home. It leads me out of the weedy backyard and down into the cozy communal burrow.

  “He’s alive!” cries Gabriel when I make my entrance. “Isaiah survived!”

  Everyone is gathered around the table, their acorn-shell bowls loaded down with dinner—and our hard-won doughnut holes.

  James the Wise rises from his thimble throne.

  “Well done, Isaiah! Gabriel and Gilbert told us how you bravely confronted the cunning sphynx cat, Lucifer. How you protected your brethren and provided us with this evening’s meal, one of the finest my tired old mouse eyes have ever seen. From this day forward, mice shall sing of your triumph over the evil-eyed destroyer.”

  He holds up a kernel of corn, freshly plucked from the cob we snagged under the table with Dwayne’s soiled napkin. “I raise this bite to you, Isaiah the Brave. Hip! Hip!”

  “Hidey-ho!” shout all my new brothers and sisters and second cousins once removed.

  Isaiah the Brave?

  Well, I don’t know about that. “Isaiah the Foolish” might be a more appropriate title for a mouse willing to risk his life on the off chance that his crazy antics might inspire the fairest creature in all the land to once more sing her dulcet melodies.

  Speaking of Mikayla, I see her seated at the far end of the table. I bustle over to her, earning another hearty round of “Hip, hip, hidey-hos” and high-fives along the way.

  “Miss Mikayla, I hope you enjoy tonight’s dessert as much as you seemed to enjoy the cream horn last night. As you may have heard from Gabriel or Gwindell, I risked my life fetching both treats especially for you.”

  I twirl a paw in front of my face and bow rather elegantly, if I do say so myself.

  “Thank you, Isaiah,” says Mikayla.“You are nearly as sweet as the sugar on this doughnut ball.”

  I’m blushing. That means my blue cheeks are turning purple.

  Mikayla fixes me with a look. By the way, her big brown eyes not only match her fur, but also are extremely dreamy.

  “Isai
ah,” she says, her voice sweet and mellow, “I know how much you say you enjoyed what you heard when we first met.”

  This is it! Mikayla’s about to express her eternal gratitude for my dessert-scavenging heroics by singing to me again.

  She takes a deep breath. Here it comes!

  “But I don’t sing,” she whispers.

  Disappointed, I say, “Yes, you do. I heard you.”

  “Only because I didn’t know you were there.” She’s still whispering. Making sure no one else can hear what she’s telling me. “Girls don’t sing.”

  “B-b-but…”

  She heaves a frustrated sigh. “You’re not a normal mouse, so you don’t understand. In this family, girls aren’t supposed to sing. We’re supposed to wash and dry acorn cups and take care of the babies. I might not like it, but that’s just the way it is. Being different isn’t a good thing.”

  And then she turns to the young mouse seated beside her. An infant who needs help slicing her meatloaf.

  That’s when it hits me.

  Mikayla is telling me that no matter how much I try, no matter how many desserts I heroically haul into the den, this burrow will never be my true home. Mikayla’s mischief will never be my true family.

  I’m just too ridiculously different.

  I quietly slip out of the dining hall. I’m going to skip dinner. All I want to do is lie down in a bed of dry straw where I can sigh and stare at the ceiling.

  Realizing the sad truth about my even sadder situation leaves me feeling even bluer than my very blue fur.

  CHAPTER 22

  “A mouse’s best teacher is his last mistake.”

  —Isaiah

  Bright and early the next morning, while Mikayla and the rest of her nocturnal mouse mischief snooze, I go outside for some fresh air.

  Yes, this is further proof of just how different we are.

  I’m outside in the dewy lawn, feeling the sunshine warm my whiskers. Mikayla and her family remain snug in their beds, dreaming of meatloaf and mashed potatoes falling from the sky.

  I have decided, after much soul-searching, that I need to refocus my efforts. I will no longer be chiefly concerned with scavenging for tasty treats in the hope that they might, somehow, inspire Mikayla to sing for me. Instead, I will use my unusual skills and talents in a renewed attempt to reunite with my real family—the mischief where all the mice are just as peculiar as me. Some even have vastly superior vocabularies and say things like “vastly superior” all the time.

  Fearing that the morning dew might have washed away my trail here in Suburbia, I go for a stroll to re-mark the territory with my distinctive scent, my “Eau de Isaiah,” if you will. If Winnie or Abe pick up one whiff of my fragrant aroma, I feel quite certain they’ll come running to find me.

  As I scurry around the neighborhood, rubbing up against anything and everything that’s rubbable, I notice how much nicer all the other homes on this street are compared to the Brophys’ dilapidated dwelling. For instance, the house across the street from the Brophys’ is very tidy and neat, with lots of flowers and bright green grass.

  As I’m admiring the view, a shadow flits in a swooping arc across the glistening emerald lawn. And then it swoops past again.

  I look up. Yipes!

  It’s a bird. Circling directly overhead.

  As you know, I am not a big fan of birds. However, birds are HUGE fans of mice.

  They like to eat us.

  This undoubtedly hungry bird has me in its sights. I sense it will soon swoop in for the kill.

  But then there’s a noise. A metallic clank and thud. Startled, the bird flaps its wings and flies away.

  I look over to the front porch. A young girl in a bathrobe just yanked open a heavy wooden door so hard, she sent its brass knocker banging against it.

  The girl picks up a newspaper wrapped in bright blue plastic and heads back inside.

  Fearful that the hungry bird might soon return, I run around to the back of the house where the treetops are leafy—thick enough to block a bird’s-eye view of my movements.

  Well, hidey-ho and what do you know? This house has a pet door, too.

  During my short time in Suburbia, I’ve noticed that humans, much like mice, tend to do things in groups. They drive the same kind of cars. They install pet doors. They decorate their grounds with the same types of flowers, shrubberies, and lawn ornaments. Many even have bird feeders and birdbaths in their backyards.

  This one does.

  And both are fully occupied by birds tough enough to scare off the squirrels.

  An angry blue jay nibbling a beak-load of seeds flicks his head in my direction.

  I can read his mind just by studying his beady little eyes and watching his wings twitch: Hmmm, he seems to be thinking. A juicy mouse or dry sunflower seeds? Which would be the more delicious choice?

  I know he’ll go for me instead of the measly seeds. Because birds always choose mice over rice.

  So I make my own choice. I go for the pet door at the back of the house.

  And, just like that, I am once again in a whole new world.

  CHAPTER 23

  “If you don’t want trouble, don’t go looking for it.”

  —Isaiah

  On the other side of the pet door, there is a dog.

  I should’ve seen that coming.

  Who needs a pet door without a pet?

  This time, it’s a very small dog. With a pink bow and a pink collar.

  Since the dog appears to be friendly (her tail is wagging) and somewhat cute, I attempt communicating with her via mental telepathy.

  “Hello, friendly dog. My name is Isaiah.”

  The dog cocks her head, as if she understands what I am thinking. So I keep going.

  “I come in peace and hope that you and I may soon become fast friends, for we share a mutual enemy: cats. Especially the hairless variety. Might I kindly enter your kitchen, as I am on a quest for breakfast? Just for myself, mind you. My days of being a mus and scavenging for others are officially over. I’d also like to add that you have excellent taste in accessories. That pink bow looks very nice on you.”

  The dog pants. Wags her tail.

  And cries, “YIP!”

  Very loudly. As you might recall, my ears are quite sensitive, especially to yips and/or yaps.

  “YIP! YAP! YIP!”

  Perhaps the dog is simply attempting to say hello in its somewhat primitive canine language. So, I return the greeting.

  “YIP!” I shout.

  “YIPES!” squeaks the dog.

  Oh, dear. I think I scared her. Claws clicking, she scampers away, her tail drooping between her hind legs.

  Fascinating. I actually scared off a creature much larger than myself. I am starting to understand why Benji and so many other members of my real family kept encouraging me to be more courageous. Being brave has its rewards.

  For instance, now that the “guard dog” has abandoned her post, I notice that the neat and tidy countertops of this kitchen hold a cornucopia of tasty delights. I see fruit in a bowl. Bread on a cutting board. And, judging by the sugary-cinnamon smell, something yummy-mummy in a cardboard box.

  Should I go for the healthier, more nutritious fruit, or the mysterious sweet treat in the box?

  Easiest decision ever!

  I climb up the back of a rolling chair and jump off it to a computer desk, which I use as a springboard to take me up to the countertop and the sweet-smelling blue box.

  The box has a plastic window through which I can see a rugged landscape of sweet brown-sugar lumps. I read the words printed around the plastic window: “Entenmann’s Ultimate Crumb Cake.”

  Well, hidey-ho.

  This is no ordinary crumb cake. This is the ultimate. The high point of crumb cake creation. The very peak of crumb-cakiness.

  I must sample it immediately.

  The thin plastic window is easy to slice through with a flick of my claws. In no time, I am inside the box, rolling around in t
he clumps of buttery, cinnamony brown sugar. I bury my face in the cake.

  It’s delicious. Dare I say, the ultimate?

  I come up for air, ready to dive in for more moist and spongy cake. That’s when the girl comes into the kitchen.

  Remember her? The one in the bathrobe on the front porch? She’s carrying a rolled-up newspaper.

  And now I’m noticing something else. Not to be rude, but she’s a little odd-looking. Even though she appears to be a human teenager, her hair is frosty white—even her eyelashes. And her eyes? Why, they’re bluer than my fur.

  I also think she might be ill. She has a thermometer dangling out of her mouth. That means she could be running a fever.

  Oh, I hope she isn’t contagious. Humans are so worried about mice and the diseases we supposedly carry (confusing us, once again, with rats!), but let’s be honest here—humans carry many more diseases than mice.

  Oh, no. She just spotted me. Her mouth flies open.

  There goes the thermometer. It tumbles out of her lips and crashes on the floor. I have to remember to watch out for those glass shards when she chases me across the kitchen.

  And then, of course, she does something that, as a mouse, I’m very used to seeing and hearing.

  She screams.

  “EEEEEEK!”

  CHAPTER 24

  “Never dance on the nose of a sleeping cat.”

  —Isaiah

  I need for Little Miss Shrieksalot to calm down immediately!

  Otherwise, some adult humans might come running into this kitchen and whack me with a rolled-up newspaper.

  Wait a second. She has a rolled-up newspaper! And she’s coming right for me, ready to smash me into the cake! Trapped by the plastic window, there’s no escape.