Only after he had gone on for a long time did Blinker happen to look up: The darkness was fading. In its place was soft, gray light. Wondering, he stared at it. “Goodness,” he sighed, “even the sky changes.” Then he remembered his promise to himself: It was time to return home.
Regretfully, but with some relief, Blinker turned about, only to realize he had neglected to keep track of his route. He had no idea where he was, much less how to get back home.
Eyes squinting, tail twitching, he looked around. What had seemed very beautiful moments before had become a bewildering maze.
He darted off in one direction, certain he had come from that way. The next moment he felt sure it was not from that way, but from this. Trembling with fear, he came to a stop. He was lost.
“Get a grip on yourself, Blinker,” he murmured and made himself look around in the growing morning light.
He was on a sidewalk. The buildings—at least compared with houses in his own neighborhood—were not as brightly painted. Some windows were broken. Doors were lopsided. Many more cars went by than in the night, terrifying in their size, noise, and smell.
As Blinker pondered his difficulty he heard a strange sound. He had not the least idea what this long, high-pitched, drawn-out whistle might be. Still, it was something.
“I must get back home,” he told himself and crept along, halting every few feet to rise up on his hind legs and look and sniff, hoping that every corner he turned would reveal something familiar. None did, and in his confusion the whistle drew him like a beacon of light.
CHAPTER 11
Windshield and Foglight
SAFELY BEYOND THE RUINS of the Cheese Squeeze Club, Ragweed halted. “Are you all right?” he asked Clutch.
Clutch shook her head clear, then looked back toward the club. “Oh, mouse, why do those cats hate us so much?” she cried. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Like, what did we ever do to them? Know what I’m saying? They’re so big and powerful. And what can we do? Like, zippo.”
Ragweed did not know what to say.
Taking a deep breath, Clutch wiped away tears. “Hey, dude, you were something else. You saved my life. I mean, you were totally awesome.”
“You saved mine before,” Ragweed said. “So we’re even. Except I don’t think we should stand here, talking. We need to find a safer place. You sure you’re okay?”
“Hey, I’m cool,” Clutch said. But suddenly she turned to look again at what had been the club. “Hey, like, what about Dipstick and Lugnut? Have you seen them?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Clutch swallowed hard. “What about my guitar?” she asked.
“You smashed it on Silversides’s nose.”
“Oh, yeah, right. And my deck?”
“In Silversides’s mouth.”
Clutch put her paws over her eyes. “Total yard sale,” she said. “Biffed.”
Ragweed touched Clutch’s shoulder gently. “Ah . . . dude,” he said tentatively, “you did the best you could.”
“Yeah, like, maybe,” Clutch replied. Suddenly she grinned. “Hey, was that some kind of killer music or what? Right on the cat’s nose leather.” Just as quickly she became grim again. “Do you think my buds got, like, planted deep?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, mouse, the Cheese Squeeze Club was one cool place. Know what I’m saying? Maybe I should go back and check on my buds.”
“Clutch,” Ragweed urged, “like, don’t you think we’d be safer somewhere else?”
“Safe? Yeah, right. We better haul. Follow me.”
As the two mice scurried along the sidewalk, Ragweed noticed they were not going back the way they had come. “Aren’t we going the wrong way?” he asked.
“Not really. Like, it might not be safe to go back to my pad right away. Can’t tell. Maybe Silversides knows where it’s at. That’s where she chased you. I mean, to live around here, dude, you have to have street savvy.”
“Street savvy?”
“Like, keep your mind to the bind and your feet to the beat. Know what I’m saying?”
“I think so. Where are we going?”
“To my old mouse’s place. They’ll let us hang till this blows over. It’s not far.”
After a two-block run Clutch darted into an alleyway and squirmed under a metal wall whose lower edge was old rubber.
On the other side of the wall stood a very long and, to Ragweed’s eyes, immense metal box with a long row of dirty windows. The box was perched on flat tires and painted yellow, though the paint was peeling badly. On one side of the box was written “Amperville School District.”
“What is that?” Ragweed said.
“Old school bus, dude. Where my parents hang out their tails.”
Ragweed, who had no idea what a school bus was, decided it was not the moment to ask more questions. Instead, he followed Clutch up into the bus itself.
At the top of the ramp Clutch paused. “My folks are way cool, mouse. Just be yourself. You’ll do fine.”
Inside the bus the walls were covered with pictures painted on bits of paper with chewed edges.
“Oh, my,” Ragweed murmured.
“Like, my old mouse is an artist,” Clutch said with pride. “Know what I’m saying?” She stopped so Ragweed could admire the work.
At first Ragweed thought it was the dimness of the bus that made it difficult to see the pictures clearly. Then he realized it was not the light but the art that was obscure. The pictures consisted mainly of swirls of color and curious shapes. He could not begin to tell what they represented, if anything.
“The old mouse—his name is Windshield, but we call him Windy—is really into cheese,” Clutch explained. “That’s what he paints.”
“He paints cheese?” Ragweed asked, bewildered.
“Hey, duh, not the cheese itself. Like, he does portraits of cheese. Know what I’m saying? See, here, that’s his famous Yellow Cheese Descending a Stairway. This one is from his Blue Cheese period. Over there is American Cheese. That blank picture isn’t really blank. It’s a hole from some Swiss cheese. I mean, killer amazing. It takes, like, one wicked mind to think of nothing,
