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.
As they went along Ragweed was able to gain a better sense of Amperville—or at least the section known as Mouse Town. It was too dark to see much, he reminded himself, and the lights on long poles were not very effective, but most of what he saw appeared to be very run-down. Human nests seemed abandoned. Windows were broken. Doors were shattered. The wide, dusty streets were littered with bits of paper, metal,
