Mouse Mission Read online

  ALSO BY PRUDENCE BREITROSE

  Mousenet

  Mousemobile

  Copyright © 2015 by Prudence Breitrose

  Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Stephanie Yue

  Cover illustrations © 2015 by Stephanie Yue

  Cover design by Whitney Manger

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-1959-6

  Visit DisneyBooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Prudence Breitrose

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  About the Author and Illustrator

  For Henry

  he could have been any sixth grader in Cleveland pedaling home from school, except for the mouse holding tight to a red braid that stuck out below her helmet.

  And except for the fact that her lips were moving, though there was no sign of a phone.

  “Suppose I don’t want to do it?” she was saying.

  “C’mon,” said the mouse. “You have to. You’re the most famous human in the world. Or has that fact slipped your mind?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be famous,” she said.

  “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” he said crisply. “Maybe you should have thought of it just a leeetle bit sooner.”

  “Grrr,” she growled. Yes, Trey was her best friend—of any species—but he really knew how to push her buttons, in this case by sounding just like her mom. Megan decided to annoy him back by taking him literally.

  “So when you talked to me in the night last year, I shouldn’t have made friends with you. I shouldn’t have gone to Headquarters to sign that Treaty Between the Species. I shouldn’t have helped the Mouse Nation get computers. Because I should have known where it would all lead—that I’d have to go on a dumb television show so millions of mice…”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Billions of mice…”

  “Go on,” he said again.

  “Can gawk at me…”

  “And, and, and?” he prompted.

  “And I’ll go red,” she said.

  “Yesssss!” said Trey. She could feel a tug on her braid, as if someone was shifting his grip so he could rub his paws together in glee.

  It was such a big deal, for mice, when her face turned red. They were overawed by the sight of a mammal—a real mammal, not just some reptile—changing color. In their amazement, mice completely forgot their manners and gawked, and pointed, and made the sign for “Laughing out loud.” Now the leader of the Mouse Nation, known behind his back as the Big Cheese, wanted her to give a speech on Megan Day to every mouse in the world, all of them gawking and pointing and laughing because of course she’d blush.

  Yes, it made sense for the Big Cheese to celebrate Megan Day, the anniversary of her visit to the Headquarters of the Mouse Nation in Silicon Valley. It made sense to celebrate the signing of that famous Treaty Between the Species, which promised she’d help mice get tiny Thumbtop computers in exchange for their help on climate change. It made sense to celebrate the way mice had carried out that promise in Operation Cool It, secretly encouraging politicians and opinion makers and captains of industry and just plain folks to use less energy.

  But did the Big Cheese’s gala show to celebrate the treaty have to include a live speech from his favorite human?

  “Maybe the show won’t happen,” she said. “Maybe something more important will come along and they’ll drop it. Some crisis.”

  “Hey, careful what you wish for,” said her braid. “Don’t you think we’ve all had enough excitement for one year?”

  And yes, looking back on last summer, when the entire Headquarters of the Mouse Nation had to escape from California in the Mousemobile, Trey was right. That was quite enough excitement for one year.

  Megan was not the only mammal to have doubts about the Megan Day show that afternoon. The Big Cheese had doubts too.

  When he had first decided to organize a celebration, he’d imagined something quiet and dignified, because, as he often said, the fact that mice were so small made it especially important for them to act with dignity.

  There’d be an ode to Miss Megan written by Talking Mouse Five—Sir Quentin—who’d recently been appointed Mouse Laureate. A speech from the Big Cheese. Maybe a short video about mouse success around the world, like the good work of Swedish mice in reducing that country’s demand for electricity. Maybe a short documentary on the hundreds of mice who had volunteered to toil in the factory at Planet Mouse, assembling Thumbtops. Maybe a segment on the solar blobs that mice fashioned into jewelry, making enough money to cover everyone’s expenses. And of course the climax: a live speech from Miss Megan, the most famous human in the world.

  That was before Talking Mouse Seven got involved. Savannah.

  She hadn’t been the Big Cheese’s first choice as host for the show. He’d really wanted Trey—a competent talking mouse who would never embarrass his species. But Trey had totally flunked his screen test. He’d looked at the wrong camera. He’d mumbled his lines. He’d stared down at his paws. He’d been, in short, terrible.

  The Big Cheese suspected that Trey had failed the test on purpose because of the strong bond that exists among talking mice, the handful who’d been born with the sort of mouth that can be trained to make human sounds. And he suspected (rightly, as it happened) that Trey wanted Savannah to have the job, because if ever there was a mouse made for showbiz…

  But recently the Big Cheese had heard disturbing rumors about the show, and this afternoon he’d asked to watch a rehearsal.

  His heart sank as Savannah sashayed onto the set on her hind feet, swiveling her hips to make her tail swoosh from side to side. Tweaking the brim of a purple hat. Sweeping off her sunglasses as she sat on a doll-size couch, her tail draped over its arm.

  “Mouselings!” she breathed, in a voice straight from Hollywood. “Mouselings of the world! Welcome to our gala celebration. Welcome to Megan Day!”

  Then Savannah leapt up from the couch to do a pirouette, her long necklace flying wide.

  “Put your paws together,” she breathed, “for your very own Mousettes!”

  A row of young mice appeared, girl mice with little pink frills around their waists like human skirts. They waved pompoms in unison while Savannah trilled, “Come on, girls! Give me an M! Give me an O! Give me a U!”

  The Big Cheese could hardly bear to watch.

  It was partly his fault, he thought, for letting Savannah violate one of his strictest rules—the one stating that no mouse should adopt human clothes and customs like the mice in so many childr
en’s books.

  But it was Savannah’s fault too, wasn’t it? For being such a hero last summer? Risking death by hawk as she saved his entire Headquarters staff from certain destruction? After that, it was hard to insist that she act like a mouse, and look like a mouse, particularly when some of the five Humans Who Knew encouraged her, buying her new doll hats and necklaces and handbags, because she made them laugh.

  The Mousettes had formed a wobbly pyramid, but apparently they’d stacked up one layer too many, because the whole thing collapsed, causing young mice to cascade all over the floor. Savannah froze as the Big Cheese made the sign for “Aaargh” in the silent language most mice use. (For “Aaargh,” you bow your head and press the backs of your front paws to your forehead.)

  Then he turned to the Director of Media, sitting beside him, and said, “We have to talk.”

  He led the director out of the studio and into one of the hundreds of cubicles that made up the Cleveland Headquarters of the Mouse Nation.

  “The treaty we signed last year, on that first Megan Day,” he said. “Did it say anything about mouse pyramids?”

  “No, it didn’t, actually,” said the director, who like most mice had a very literal mind. “But it didn’t say mice couldn’t make pyramids.”

  His boss was speechless. Could it really be happening? That Savannah’s way of thinking had spread to his directors? To members of his Mouse Council?

  Savannah had followed them into the tiny cubicle, filling it to the bursting point with her big-brimmed hat.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” she asked. “Because you’ve hardly seen anything yet. Like the Youth Chorus? And our groovy sports report with Larry? You remember him, my friend Cleveland Mouse 42? Then we have a stand-up comedy mouse and an animal impersonator and—”

  “How many times have you heard me say that as a small species, we need dignity? Gravitas?” the Big Cheese interrupted, feeling at a disadvantage because Savannah was so close that it was hard for him to express himself properly in Mouse Sign Language, or MSL for short. “We must above all maintain our mouseness. Not slavishly imitate the larger species.”

  “Oh please, please, pretty please?” begged Savannah. She tried to go down on one knee, which mice can’t do, not having the right sort of knees, so she crouched, with her hat taking up even more room.

  The Big Cheese tried to glare at her, but there was something about Savannah, especially when she fluttered her eyelashes. Something that made it hard to hurt her feelings. And he sort of caved.

  “I will consider the future of this extravaganza,” he said, “after I watch the rest of it.”

  They went back to their places in the studio, where the Youth Chorus was ready to lurch into song in Mouse Sign Language, their tails and ears and paws swaying and bobbing in unison. They got through the first part:

  Hail our Nation, doubly hail.

  Mice now rule, from tip to tail.

  We are billions, we are smart,

  We no longer are apart.

  As each mouse son and each mouse daughter

  Keeps the world from growing hotter…

  But then one by one the young mice stopped their signs and stared at the mouse who had rushed into the studio with a message for the Big Cheese.

  “Danger,” he said in MSL. “Your humans. They’re out of control.”

  egan had just passed Uncle Fred’s house, marked with a plaque that read BIRTHPLACE OF THE THUMBTOP, when she got the first sign of trouble. Trey’s sharp ears had picked up a beep from the tiny computer in a pocket of Megan’s backpack. He scuttled down to read an e-mail that had just come in from Julia—one of the mice who had been with Megan ever since she learned about the Mouse Nation.

  “Uh-oh,” he said, as he came back up to Megan’s shoulder. “Mom alert.”

  “She’s home?” said Megan. She braked and stopped with one foot on the edge of the sidewalk. “So early? Just so she can keep bugging me?”

  “She wasn’t exactly bugging you was she, last night?” asked Trey. “More like hinting?”

  “Well maybe, but with hints like that…”

  The hinting/bugging had gotten worse since her mom had married Jake, and his son, Joey—Megan’s step-cousin—was promoted to stepbrother. Not that there was anything wrong with Joey. Megan liked him a lot, most of the time. It was the comparison problem. Her mom would never actually come out and say, “Why can’t you be more like Joey?” But you could tell that’s what she was thinking sometimes, especially on the matter of making human friends. Joey’s life was rich in teams and clubs and people to hang out with, while Megan’s life was mostly rich in mice.

  The topic of Getting Involved and Making Friends had come up again last night, when Savannah had been telling the humans about the Megan Day show in general, and the Mousettes in particular. She loved, loved, loved those Mousettes. Megan’s mom hadn’t actually said anything about Mousettes, or about cheerleaders, because she didn’t need to. She just gave Megan a look, and smiled, and raised one eyebrow, but her meaning was obvious enough to make Joey and his dad laugh.

  “Mom, there is no way I could ever make cheerleader,” Megan had said. And the “Why can’t you have a normal social life like Joey” conversation had ended there, in laughter. But not forever. When Megan was on her way to bed, Susie Fisher made a point of saying, “Okay, kiddo, so you don’t want to be a cheerleader, but you know what? It’s really not healthy to go through life without human friends. Let’s have a nice long talk tomorrow afternoon, as soon as I get home.”

  But did it have to be right now? Megan would much rather follow her usual afternoon routine, starting with her daily lesson in MSL from Julia, who was her second best friend among mice. Then Trey would help her with her math, because he was much better at it than she was. But instead she’d have to spend an hour or so trying to keep her mom from pushing her into a computer club or the Girl Scouts or a soccer team or something.

  “Maybe we should go to the library and do my homework there,” she suggested, slowing up. “We’ll find a corner where no one can see you helping me.”

  But it was one of those times when Trey (who was after all full grown) talked to her like an adult.

  “You’d only postpone the discussion,” he said. “Best to get it over, so…wait.”

  He must have heard another beep, because he climbed down to read the new message on the Thumbtop’s tiny screen.

  “What’s up now?” Megan asked when he came back.

  “Not good,” he said. “It’s from Julia again and she’s frantic. Your mom’s freaking out. Big problem with the poem.”

  “The poem?”

  “Sir Quentin’s poem. His ode for Megan Day. Better get home fast, because Julia says your mom…”

  “Something to do with Sir Quentin?”

  Sir Quentin had come by their house yesterday to recite his ode.

  “It would be a privilege,” he had said, “if Miss Susie could hear my poor verse and perchance provide guidance on any couplets that stray from my desired meter of iambic pentameters.”

  “Iambic pedometers?” Joey had interrupted, with a grin. Like Megan, he sometimes found Sir Quentin a pain because this was a Talking Mouse who had learned to speak with the help of historical dramas from British television and never used a short word when a long one would do.

  “Pentameters,” Sir Quentin corrected him. “The meter beloved by the Bard. By which I mean of course Shakespeare.”

  “How long is it?” Susie had asked.

  “A true epic may require many hours to read,” Sir Quentin had said. “However, at the request of my leader I have limited myself to verses that will take no more than eight minutes to deliver.”

  He’d begun to recite them last night, standing up on his hind legs, his iambic pentameters marching relentlessly out:

  All hail that glorious and important day

  When mice and humans jointly found a way

  To heal the ills of our poor planet Earth


  With brains and brawn and yes, a little mirth

  When fair Miss Megan to Headquarters came

  To there ensure we’d never be the same…

  It was at that point that Susie jumped in to say it sounded wonderful but if it was really eight minutes long maybe he could e-mail it to her and she’d go through it when she had the time.

  And now—well, now what?

  “D’you think she hated that poem but she doesn’t dare tell Sir Quentin?” Megan suggested now.

  “Julia didn’t say, but it sounds worse than that,” Trey said. “Much worse. Please! Just pedal!”

  He held on tight while Megan cranked up her speed and raced the next couple of blocks, past the big house with a sign reading:

  PLANET MOUSE

  Home of the Thumbtop,

  made in Cleveland by mice

  After that, there were only two more corners to navigate to her own house, which Uncle Fred had named “The Fishery” because everyone in it except Megan was now a Fisher. It had been a great find, with its perfect location right behind Planet Mouse and connected with its yard by a gate in the back fence.

  Susie Fisher’s car was in the driveway, its door hanging open. Not a good sign. Megan closed the car door as she passed, dumped her bike on its side, and ran to the front door, which opened from the inside just as she reached it.

  A look at her mom’s face told Megan that this was going to be bad. Yes, she’d seen her mom angry before, but seldom like this.

  There was a skittering of feet on the kitchen floor, then Julia ran up to Megan’s shoulder. And Julia was trembling, as mice sometimes do when human emotions are running high.

  After a quick nuzzle against Megan’s neck, Julia jumped onto the kitchen table, where she made some urgent-looking gestures in MSL, including a couple Megan had just learned. “Danger.” “Stop her.”

  “What happened?” asked Megan.

  “Look!” said her mom, pointing at her laptop. “Just look! I’m going to kill them.”

  “Who?” asked Megan.

  “The Big Cheese,” said her mom, running a hand through her springy fair hair. “And Sir Quentin. Because if this is what we get for trusting another species…The Big Cheese knows how important it is. But do you know what they’ve done, your precious mice? They’ve leaked some very secret information. Now the whole project is in danger!”