Hopper's Destiny

by Lisa Fiedler

  It was coming from the thousands of humans who filled the arena; all of them were adding to the chorus of shouts, hoots, and hollers.

  “Why are they so excited?” Hopper asked.

  “My guess? Because the Nets are winning!”

  Ace guided Hopper farther into the mass of human spectators until he could finally see what all the fuss was about. Far below them, in the belly of the Barclays Center, ten colossal-size human men in short pants and baggy sleeveless tunics were jogging madly back and forth on a gleaming wooden floor. Every one of them seemed intent on capturing the same prey—a bouncing orange sphere.

  “That’s the basketball,” Ace explained. “The goal is to shoot it through those hoops on either end of the court.”

  As Ace said this, one of the men achieved exactly that; from the midway point on the court he hurled the ball—it was an elegant, catapulting motion in which the human’s wrists and knees appeared to be doing most of the work. And what aim! The ball sailed in a perfect arc, hitting its mark—the hoop—and swishing through the roped web that hung from it. Hopper would not like to meet the spider who’d woven that.

  When the ball hit the floor, the human crowd erupted, leaping to their feet, clapping their hands. . . .

  And spilling things everywhere.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Hopper breathed.

  “Yes it is,” said Ace, grinning broadly. “Food! Stadium food. The best kind there is.”

  “Better than eggplant and cannoli?”

  “Okay, well, maybe the second-best kind.” Ace gave Hopper a little push with his nose. “Go get some. But watch out for stamping feet.”

  Hopper squirmed his way under a row of seats and began to feast. He lapped up puddles of sugary soda and munched on more different kinds of crunchy candies than he could count. He tried popcorn but didn’t like the way it stuck in his teeth, so he went back to the sweets. Some were sour, some were tangy, some melted in his mouth, others took forever to chew. But the flavors were scrumptious—cherry, lime, butterscotch, chocolate. Hopper washed the candy down with even more soda—cola, orange, and something called 7UP. Hopper definitely understood where the “up” came from; he was beginning to feel like he could fly!

  “Maybe you’d better slow down,” Ace advised. “You’ve had an awful lot of sugar, and your system’s not used to it.”

  Hopper wiped a sticky smear of something strawberry-flavored from his lips. When he replied, his words came in one long, breathless ramble: “My-system-is-fine-honest-I’m-perfectly-okay-this-candy-stuff-is-delicious-I-would-love-some-more-can-we-bring-some-home-with-us-Ace-and-can-we-only-get-it-here-in-the-belly-of-the-Barclays-beast-or-will-we-be-able-to-find-it-somewhere-else-because-I-really-think-I’d-like-to-eat-it-every-singleday-oh-my-goodness-how-do-they-make-it-taste-so-wonderful?!?!”

  Ace rolled his eyes. “That’s it. You’re done with candy for today.”

  Hopper’s blood seemed to be moving at double time through his veins, and his whole body was tingling. “Where are we going now?” he asked, forcing his words to come out one at a time.

  “There’s another game I want to see.”

  Hopper followed Ace across the shiny-floored concourses, then through a maze of hallways and more tunnels until they reached a door with a sign that read STORAGE. Ace knocked on a loose vent cover toward the bottom part of the door. After a moment the grate swung open. Standing on the other side was a rat.

  And he was wearing a Nets jersey.

  Inside the storage room were eight more rats, all outfitted in some manner of sports attire. Hopper could see that their jerseys had been extensively cut down to size, fashioned from old versions of the human uniforms that had been relegated to this seemingly forgotten closet. Some of the jerseys were black and white, like the real Nets’, but others were blue, gold, green, white . . . or some combination of all these colors.

  Ace quickly introduced Hopper to his athletic friends—first Julius (who’d opened the door), then Dawkins, Kidd, and the rest, whose names Hopper was too revved up on sugar to remember.

  “How do you know these rats?” Hopper asked Ace.

  “I rescued most of them. Julius, Kidd, and Dawkins were living in the attic of a sporting goods store before I relocated them to Barclays. The others were scattered throughout the arena, mostly setting up house near the food concessions.”

  “I bet that didn’t go over well,” said Hopper.

  “No, it didn’t,” said Ace. “Which is why my pal Maintenance brought me in. I realized this place was so enormous the rats could actually stay on-site as long as they kept a low profile and stuck to the nondining areas. When I discovered this forgotten storage room, I knew they had a new home.”

  The rats had cleared a wide section of the floor to use as their court; it did not have the wood sheen of the court in the actual arena, but it did have two soda cups with the bottoms torn out of them tied to mop handles and positioned at either end to act as baskets.

  Hopper and Ace watched as the rats got busy choosing up sides. “They’re down a rat today,” Ace explained. “One of their best players injured himself running away from an angry hot dog vendor.”

  “Where did they get the ball?” Hopper asked, noticing the extremely bouncy rubber orb the rats were tossing back and forth. Truth be told, he was still feeling extremely bouncy himself.

  “That’s my contribution,” Ace explained. “It’s from the gum-ball machine at Bellissimo’s.”

  Just then Dawkins sent a powerful pass to one of his fellow players; the player missed his catch and the ball went rolling out of bounds. Unable to stand still a second longer, Hopper took off after it, zipping across the rat-size court and skidding to a halt just before crashing into an enormous old sneaker. Kidd jogged over to retrieve the ball.

  “Whoooh!” cried Julius, eyeing Hopper with interest. “You’re one fast little mouse.”

  “Not usually,” Hopper admitted. “I’ve just had a lot of candy.”

  “Maybe so,” said Julius, smiling. “But let’s see what you’ve got in the way of skills.” He turned to the rat called Kidd. “Give this tiny rodent that ball.”

  Kidd bounced the springy rubber ball to Hopper. Hopper leaped up into the air, caught it, landed on his hind paws, then spun around and aimed for the soda cup on the opposite end of the court.

  Swish!

  The rats gaped.

  “Three-pointer!” cried Dawkins. “The kid hit a three-point shot his first time out.”

  “Do that again,” said Julius, throwing the ball back to Hopper.

  Hopper didn’t have to be asked twice. His muscles buzzed with energy and his limbs just wanted to move. He caught the ball, bounced it once, and copied the form he’d seen the human Net execute—ankles and knees, graceful arc—to send the ball soaring through the air and into the farthest soda cup. Another flawless three-pointer.

  “I choose him!” said Kidd. “He’s on my team!”

  Ace clapped Hopper on the back. “How do you like that, Hopper? You’ve been chosen.”

  Hopper grinned. “I get that a lot.”

  For the next forty-eight minutes the Chosen One dribbled, passed, and fired off three-point shots like a pro. By the time the game was over, Hopper had earned the respect of the athletes and made nine new friends.

  “Did you have fun?” Ace asked as they sat down to rest.

  Hopper nodded. “It was great!”

  In fact, there was only one thing that could have made the great afternoon even better . . . and that was if Pup and Zucker had been there to see it.

  So much for taking his mind off his troubles. The thought of his brother and friend had Hopper feeling sad and guilty all over again.

  If only he could have been as good at being the Chosen One as he was at basketball, he thought.

  If only—

  He was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of the door grate rattling. And then . . .

  Thwump!

  The enormous door
slammed open.

  There, holding a pile of old towels and fraying sweat socks, stood Maintenance.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WHEN THE JOLLY HUMAN saw the gathering of rodents, he squawked.

  “I thought I got rid of you rats!” he cried, tossing his laundry aside and grabbing one of the mops which held the soda cup baskets. When he saw Ace, his face registered shock.

  “Slam Dunk? I thought you were on my side. And here you are . . . f-rat-ernizing with the enemy!”

  Maintenance’s boot sideswiped Ace, scooting him out the open door. The basketball rats scattered, taking cover behind old gym bags and broken stadium seats. Hopper was too terrified to move; he stood alone in the middle of the rodent-size basketball court. Apparently, this unwitting tactic translated into hiding in plain sight, because Maintenance ignored the mouse completely and began shoving the dusty mop top into all four corners of the storage room.

  “Get outta my nice clean arena, you dirty little buggers!” he commanded.

  The rats cowered and ducked, but the raglike tentacles of the mop head reached for them, sweeping them out of their hiding places.

  “Help!” cried Kidd as the mop encroached upon him. “Hopper!”

  Hopper gaped at the mop. The cottony ropes of its head seemed alive as they slithered closer to Kidd. His mind flashed on a memory of another slithering foe—the skinny kid’s hungry snake!

  Fueled by fury and fear, Hopper dove for the mop, sinking into the dried grime of its ropes. With dust stinging his eyes, he clawed his way to the long wooden handle, dug his claws into it, and began to climb.

  Again Maintenance poked the mop toward Kidd, which jolted Hopper as he climbed, but he clung to the handle and made his way to the summit, balancing precariously on the rounded top. He was looking right into the human’s eyes.

  “W-what the heck . . . ?” Maintenance blinked at him.

  Hopper blinked back. Then he jumped . . . launching himself right at Maintenance’s face.

  He landed belly-first on the human’s nose, his claws digging into the skin around it, his hind paws scratching at Maintenance’s upper lip.

  “Aaaahhhhhhgggg!” Maintenance dropped the mop handle; it landed with a loud smack. Hopper held on tight as the human slapped at his face, trying to dislodge the mouse from his nose.

  “Get offa me, you filthy little critter!”

  Hopper wanted nothing more. Below him he could see that Kidd and the others had made it safely to the door and were all watching this stupendous act of bravery—or was it idiocy?—with wide eyes.

  Hopper was relieved that they had escaped! Now it was his turn.

  Maintenance continued to stumble and stagger, swiping at Hopper. As the human danced around, shouting and flailing, his boot nearly caught on the mop handle again and again. Hopper was glad it didn’t; if Maintenance fell, he would likely land face-first, squishing Hopper into oblivion.

  Now Ace darted back into the room, heading straight for the mop. Clutching the handle with his teeth, he dragged it until it was directly below Hopper.

  Yes! Hopper could release his grasp on the human’s nose and drop unharmed into the cushiony rope head of the mop.

  Hopper held his breath, then let go of the skin he was grasping. He felt himself dropping.

  Pwuhmff!

  The moment he landed in the softness of the mop head, Ace reached in and tugged him out of the grungy tangle.

  Maintenance was sputtering in pain, crying out something about antiseptic and tetanus shots.

  “Let’s go!” cried Ace, bolting for the door.

  He swung Hopper onto his back and took off, the basketball rats following at top speed.

  Game over, Maintenance, thought Hopper. Game over.

  Hopper, Ace, and the basketball rats managed to free themselves from the Barclays Center just before the real game let out. According to Ace, leaving with the human crowd was a good way for a small animal to get trampled.

  “Thanks, Hopper,” said Kidd. “You really were a team player back there. You saved my life.”

  Hopper shrugged, pleased. “All in a day’s work,” he said modestly.

  “And you’re one heck of a basketball star,” Julius observed with a smile. But his happy expression turned worried. He looked to Ace. “Where do we go now?” he asked. “Where are we gonna live?”

  Ace’s reply was a big grin.

  Grass.

  As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but grass, slender blades looking magical beneath a sparkling coating of frost, stretching out and away toward the vast gray river.

  When Ace stopped walking, Hopper did a double take and rubbed his eyes. He was so startled by the sight of all that space, he thought he might have nodded off on the ride and was dreaming again.

  “Welcome to Pier One,” said Ace. “Brooklyn Bridge Park, otherwise known as the grasslands. Gorgeous, aren’t they? They’re a lot greener in the springtime, but you get the picture.” He nodded to Kidd. “These will be your new digs, if it’s all right with you.”

  “Looks like a cool place,” said Dawkins. “It’s not Barclays, but I think I can get used to it.”

  Ace nudged Hopper toward the grass. “Let’s check on Mrs. Fiorenza’s mice to see if they’ve settled in all right.”

  “Okay.” Hopper slid down from Ace’s back and breathed deeply. Even in the winter chill, grass certainly had a wonderful scent—clean and fresh and earthy. He stepped into it and found that it came right up to the bottoms of his ears . . . and it tickled. The pointy tips of the blades only reached Ace’s knees.

  “How lucky these rodents are to have been relocated to such a beautiful place,” said Hopper, reaching down to pick up a pebble in his path. It was smooth and shiny, with shimmering flecks. As they walked, other stones appeared in his path. Some were far too big for him to lift, so he went around them. The basketball rats followed along, taking in the vastness in silent awe.

  “Well, it’s not entirely without its dangers,” said Ace, “but overall it’s a nice arrangement.” He guided Hopper toward a row of benches overlooking the water. “We can usually find some of my clients gathered over there. It’s where the best human food gets left behind. It’s practically a smorgasbord.”

  “A what?”

  “Good eats. And lots of ’em.”

  Sure enough, as they approached the benches, the sweet smell of grass gave way to more savory smells. Crumbs, crusts, and scraps were everywhere. Several rodents were helping themselves to the bounty.

  “There’s someone I recognize,” said Ace with a big smile. “That little white mouse over there. That’s Carroll. I rescued her from an alley after she escaped from a research lab. She was next in line for some medical experimentation. Good thing she was brave enough and smart enough to get herself out of there.”

  “What’s medical experimentation?”

  Ace sighed. “I’d rather not tell you. You’ve got enough scary images in your little head already.”

  Now the little white mouse turned around to smile at them.

  Hopper was sure he’d never felt anything like what he was feeling at that moment. His heart began to pound, his paws began to sweat, and there was a flutter in his belly, a bubbly feeling that reminded him of the 7UP he’d drunk. The more he looked at the white mouse—who, he now realized, had lovely pink eyes to match her petite pink ears—the more bubbly he felt. The sensation was not unlike the one he’d had at the arena; it was like eating too much candy. Or riding the subway train. No . . . it was like eating too much candy while riding the subway train!

  And it was wonderful.

  Carroll ran over and gave Ace a hug.

  “Carroll,” said the cat, “I’d like you to meet my new friend, Hopper.”

  Carroll turned her glowing smile to the mouse. “Hello.”

  Hopper gulped. He tried to say hello but just couldn’t manage it. He wondered where all his words had gone, because none seemed able to find their way to his lips.

&
nbsp; Then Ace spotted another acquaintance.

  “There’s an old friend,” he said, pointing to a handsome chipmunk wearing thick-rimmed spectacles. “Hey, Valky! Over here!”

  When the chipmunk saw who’d called out to him, his face lit up. “Well, if it isn’t Ace the cat! Just in time for a late-afternoon nosh!”

  As the chipmunk bounded toward them, Ace told Hopper and the basketball rats, “Van Valkenburgh got himself trapped in an air vent of some building over on Court Street. The human tenants were clear about not wanting him hurt. I like it when that happens. But they were having trouble coaxing him out. When I heard about the problem, I went right over and handled the job. Now Valky helps me out by looking after the newcomers.”

  Valky proudly puffed out his chest and his cheeks. “That I do,” he said. “And speaking of newcomers . . .” He eyed the rats with friendly interest. “More clients of yours?”

  “Yes. And you’re going to love having these guys around. They’re sports heroes!”

  Now Valky’s face became serious. “We have another new arrival,” he said, motioning across the grass. “She got here this morning. Is she one of yours?”

  Hopper gave a quick glance in the direction Valky had pointed, but found his eyes pulled right back to Carroll.

  “I don’t think so,” said Ace, frowning. “I did send over a family of mice about a week ago, but that’s all. Where is she from?”

  Valky shrugged. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet. She looked exhausted and in serious need of nourishment, so I decided she should eat first and talk later. But she looks pretty worse for wear, like she’s been through something rough.”

  “I heard her talking to a squirrel earlier,” Carroll offered. “Something about coming upland from . . . what did she call it? Oh, right . . . from the subway tunnel.”

  Hopper was still so involved with admiring Carroll’s pretty face that it was a moment before he actually registered what she’d said. When the import of her statement finally broke through the fog in his head, he whirled, training his anxious eyes on the spot where Valky had pointed.