For Your Paws Only

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Uh-oh,” said Oz, realizing too late what his classmates were up to. Before he and D. B. could duck out of the way, Jordan and Tank rushed forward and dumped the contents of the bags over their heads.

  “I hereby crown you Fatboy and Dogbones, King and Queen of the Bake-Off!” cried Jordan. The crowd exploded with laughter. Assuming their applause and cheers were for the music, no one on the float below noticed the antics above them on the Mayflower.

  “You—you—morons!” sputtered D. B., flailing at the cloud of white that engulfed her.

  Oz was coughing too hard to say anything.

  “Whatcha gonna do about it?” taunted Jordan. “Sic your hamster on us?”

  The boys strutted back and forth in a victory dance. They bowed to the delighted crowd. As Oz struggled to wipe the flour from his face, a movement at the far edge of the deck caught his eye. It was a cheese twist. A cheese twist moving across the ship all by itself. By itself? thought Oz. Wait a minute. He shook his head, releasing a whirlwind of flour, and looked again. He grabbed blindly for D. B.’s arm. The cheese twist was not all by itself. Attached to one end of it was none other than Roquefort Dupont.

  “What?” D. B. turned to look at him.

  “Uh,” croaked Oz. He stared down Broadway. They were still blocks away from Times Square. Something wasn’t right—the rats weren’t supposed to show up yet. Not until Macy’s. Had plans changed? If so, he and D. B. hadn’t been informed. He peered up at the sky. There wasn’t a pigeon—or a spy mouse—in sight. “Something’s wrong,” he said, coughing puffs of flour.

  “You better believe something’s wrong,” D. B. replied crossly, flapping her braids. “It’s in my hair. How come everything always ends up in my hair?”

  Oz tugged on her sleeve. “D. B.,” he whispered urgently, still choking on flour. “D. B., something’s really wrong. The rats are here.”

  “I know the rats are here!” said D. B. “You don’t have to tell me that! Two big rats named Jordan and Tank! I have had enough of those jerks!”

  Oz shook his head, releasing another cascade of flour. He prodded at his glasses with a pudgy finger, trying to wipe the lenses clean but only managing to smear them with white. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, pointing across the deck to where Dupont was crouched behind a fake sea chest, greedily tucking into his stolen treat. Over the edge of the deck, another set of whiskers appeared, and then another. The rats were gathering.

  “Holy smoke!” said D. B. “What are they doing here? We’re nowhere near Macy’s!”

  Oz spotted a small heap of brown fur at the feet of Roquefort Dupont. He stiffened.

  “What?” asked D. B. in alarm.

  “They’ve got Glory!”

  D. B. gasped. Oz looked around wildly for a weapon. There was nothing in sight. Bending over, he wrenched his heavy black pilgrim shoe off his foot, held it up menacingly, and started toward Dupont.

  The big gray rat stood up on his hind paws as Oz approached. He stared at him with his red, glowing eyes. A malicious smile appeared on his ugly snout.

  “Oz, don’t,” called D. B. “Wait for the mice.”

  “It’ll be too late for Glory if I do,” Oz replied.

  Still grinning, Dupont reached down and plucked Glory from the Mayflower’s deck with one powerful sweep of his paw. He dangled her by the neck, several inches above the balloon deck’s surface. He began to squeeze. Oz watched in horror as Glory struggled, her tiny legs kicking frantically.

  “Oz, back off!” cried D. B. “Now!”

  Oz hesitated. He lowered his shoe. Dupont watched him, still squeezing. Oz took a step backward. Sneering, Dupont released Glory. She crumpled to the deck in a heap.

  “Dupont’s got us trapped,” said Oz to D. B., his round face red with fury. “If we try and rescue Glory, he’ll kill her.”

  “But we can’t just stand here and do nothing!”

  “I don’t intend to do nothing,” said Oz grimly. “Put your headset on and wait here.”

  He ran to the deck railing and heaved himself over it, teetering on the edge. The ladder that they’d used to climb aboard had been taken away and strapped to the truck pulling the float. Oz looked down. It was a long drop to Plymouth Harbor. He swallowed hard. He had to do it; he had no choice. He had to alert his colleagues that their plan had gone awry. He had to save Glory.

  What I need is a parachute, thought Oz. Agent 007 always carried a parachute. He closed his eyes and made a wish. He opened them again. No parachute. He sighed. Here goes nothing, he thought, jamming on his headset. The name is Levinson. Oz Levinson, he muttered under his breath, and jumped.

  D. B. shrieked as her classmate plummeted downward off the deck. For a split second Oz thought it was all over. But the side of the Mayflower sloped outward just enough to catch him before he reached bottom, and he slid the rest of the way down to Plymouth’s shore, leaving a long smudge of white flour trailing behind him. Lurching to his feet, he lumbered across the float toward his mother.

  Lavinia Levinson’s eyes widened in surprise when she saw her flour-coated son. But she was a diva, and divas didn’t miss a beat. She held up a finger, signaling Oz to wait a moment, and quickly brought her song to a graceful conclusion.

  The Mayflower Flour man stepped forward, frowned at Oz, and took the microphone from his mother. He began to address the crowd again, extolling the virtues of Mayflower Flour.

  “Oz, what on earth happened to you?” Oz’s mother asked, crouching down beside him.

  “It’s a long story,” Oz replied. “Mom, I need your help.”

  “Sure, sweetie, anything. Those boys bothering you? I’ll take care of that so fast it’ll make their heads spin.” She cast a fierce glance over at Jordan’s and Tank’s mothers, who were waving to the crowd, oblivious to the commotion. Amelia Bean had her back to them too, busily filming the tap-dancing trees that preceded them in the parade line-up.

  “It’s not that. Remember the song you recorded for D. B. and me? Back in our hotel room?”

  “ ‘Born to Shake My Tail’?”

  Oz nodded. “I need you to sing it.”

  His mother gaped at him in astonishment. “Now? Here?”

  “Yes,” said Oz. “It’s really, really important.”

  Lavinia Levinson chewed her lip. “Really?”

  Oz nodded again, and tears welled up in his eyes. Glory’s life hung in the balance. But there was no way he could explain that to his mother. He just didn’t have time.

  His mother saw the tears and gave his floury hand a squeeze. “Okay,” she whispered. She glanced up toward the balloon ship’s deck. Jordan and Tank grinned and waved. Lavinia Levinson scowled. “Remember,” she said to Oz, “it ain’t over . . . ”

  A smile tugged at the corner of her son’s mouth. “ . . . till the fat lady sings,” he replied, completing the “I love you” ritual he’d known all his life.

  Lavinia Levinson straightened up again. She plucked the microphone from the startled Mayflower Flour man, silencing him mid-sentence. He didn’t protest, however. Sometimes it paid to be a diva. She crossed the float to the Thanksgiving turkey, whispered something to him, and hummed a few bars. Her accompanist nodded. His hands hovered over the keyboard, then descended to strike the opening notes of “Born to Shake My Tail.”

  Up on the Mayflower’s deck, the half-strangled heap of fur that was Glory stirred slightly. Her elegant little ears perked up. That music! There was something familiar about it. Could it be? She shook her head wearily and closed her eyes. Impossible. She must be hallucinating.

  “I’m a hard-rockin’ mouse, and I bring down the house every time I twitch my tail!”

  Glory opened her eyes. She sat up. She knew that music as well as she knew her own whiskers! No doubt about it, she was listening to the Steel Acorns’ number-one hit.

  As “Born to Shake My Tail” rang out down Broadway, sung by none other than world-famous opera star Lavinia Levinson, Glory’s heart swelled with hope for the f
irst time since her capture. If Bunsen and B-Nut heard this, they’d know something was up.

  “Well done, Ozymandias Levinson,” Glory whispered softly, listening to the musical warning float out across New York City. “Well done, indeed.”

  CHAPTER 30

  DAY THREE • THURSDAY • 0945 HOURS

  “Now!” cried Hotspur Folger as the Mayflower Flour float sailed into Times Square. He threw his gleaming silver skateboard down on the pavement and was all set to leap into action when Bunsen placed a paw on his shoulder.

  “Wait,” said the lab mouse. “Something’s wrong.”

  Bunsen had spent a restless night worried about Glory. His pink eyes were ringed with dark circles, and his white fur was sticking up every which way.

  Hotspur glared at him. “Nothing’s wrong,” he snapped. “You need to learn to obey orders.”

  Hotspur had lost no time taking over the mission in Glory’s absence, and he wasn’t about to let his shot at fame be derailed. To outsmart and eliminate not only Dupont, but also every major rat in the world? It was a coup beyond imagining! A triumph! His picture would be on the cover of every magazine and newspaper! Miceweek would run a profile of him; the Tattletail would make up breathless rumors about his life. He’d be the talk of the town. With a bit of luck, he’d be running the Spy Mice Agency before long. Maybe even run for a seat on the Council. Yes, Hotspur Folger’s future was bright with promise, and he was not about to let some insignificant little runt of a lab mouse ruin his plans.

  “Slap your board down, soldier!” he shouted. “It’s time to kick some rat tail!”

  Bunsen hesitated. Insubordination by a field agent was forbidden. A firing offense. But Bunsen’s own ears were telling him something was wrong, and Bunsen couldn’t ignore his own ears. He held his ground. “Hotspur, listen to me. Don’t you hear that music? Something’s wrong.”

  Hotspur cocked an ear toward the approaching float. So did Bubble and Squeak.

  “ ‘Born to Shake My Tail’!” gasped Squeak. “Hotspur, he’s right! Something’s wrong!”

  “What could be wrong?” Hotspur glowered. “Everything’s going exactly according to plan.”

  Bunsen decided to take matters into his own paws. “B-Nut, come in! B-Nut, come in!” he called into his tiny headset.

  He stepped out from under the peanut vendor’s cart at Forty-third and Broadway and looked up at the sky. Four pigeons were circling overhead. On their backs were B-Nut and the Steel Acorns, awaiting their part in the operation.

  “You’re coming through loud and clear, Bunsen,” B-Nut replied.

  “Do you hear that music?”

  “You bet I do.”

  “Something’s up.”

  “No kidding. Let me do a quick recon and get back to you.”

  “Born to dance! Born to wail! Born to shake my tail!” sang Lavinia Levinson. At the last phrase, she turned around and coyly wiggled her large bottom. The crowd cheered. They loved seeing the dignified diva cut loose. “Brava!” they cried, picking up the refrain and wiggling their bottoms too. “Born to dance! Born to wail! Born to shake my tail!” everyone sang, as Times Square rocked to the beat of the Steel Acorns’ number-one hit.

  In all the commotion, no one noticed the lone pigeon that swooped low over the deck of the balloon ship and then circled back toward the corner of Forty-second and Broadway.

  “Not good, gang,” B-Nut reported. “Something’s definitely gone wrong. The rats are already aboard.”

  Bunsen’s stomach did a flip-flop. “What about Glory?”

  “She’s with them,” replied B-Nut.

  “Is she—is she alright?” asked Bunsen fearfully.

  B-Nut was silent for a moment. “Yeah, but she doesn’t look so good. I’d try an aerial rescue, but there are too many rats. I’d never even get close.”

  “The rats are all there?” Hotspur couldn’t hide his excitement.

  “Dozens of them,” said B-Nut. “Dupont, Piccadilly, Brie, Gorgonzola—all the kingpins.”

  Hotspur’s eyes narrowed as he gazed up at the approaching balloon. “Then we move the timetable forward. Cut it loose now.”

  “Now?” asked Bubble. His normally calm voice was agitated. “But I thought we weren’t going to proceed with that until Herald Square!”

  “Yes, that’s right,” added Squeak. “After the parade. When everyone is safely off the float.”

  “We cut it loose now,” repeated Hotspur.

  Bunsen stared at him in disbelief. “Hotspur, Glory and the kids are still aboard!”

  “Sacrifices have to be made in this business,” Hotspur replied coldly. “You know that as well as I do. Have you forgotten our motto? ‘The noblest motive is the public good.’ ”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten our motto!” cried Bunsen, his nose and tail flaming red with outrage. “But I haven’t forgotten my friends, either! ‘To the last gasp with truth and loyalty,’ as the Bard says, or have you forgotten?”

  “We cut the balloon loose now!” Hotspur said stubbornly. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance! My uncle said so himself. We’ll never have another shot at eliminating the entire leadership of the rat underworld.”

  In reply, Bunsen gathered up his flamingo-pink skateboard. Glory’s skateboard.

  “Stand down, lab mouse,” ordered Hotspur.

  “The heck I will, Snotspur!” Bunsen retorted.

  “That’s it!” screamed Hotspur. “You just crossed the line, lab mouse! I’m going to make a note to report you!”

  “Write it on your bicep, why don’t you?” Bunsen screamed back. “You look at it often enough!”

  The two mice stood nose to nose. Hotspur glared at Bunsen. Bunsen’s whiskers trembled, but he didn’t back down. There was a steely glint in his normally gentle pink eyes. He was sick and tired of Hotspur and his insults. The mouse he loved was in danger, and he, Bunsen Burner, was determined to save her.

  Hotspur flicked a glance toward the float, which was almost upon them. “You’ve got five minutes,” he snapped.

  “Good luck, Bunsen,” whispered Squeak, as the lab mouse hopped onto his skateboard. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  Bubble gave him a paws-up. “If anyone can do it, you can, Mr. Burner!”

  As the float rumbled slowly past the corner of Forty-second and Broadway, Bunsen shoved off with a hind paw and scooted out into the street. Hotspur and the two British agents followed close on his tail. The crowd was too busy dancing and singing to notice them, and the mice whizzed underneath the float undetected.

  Whipping out their harpoon pens, they each took aim at the passing float. Four strands of dental floss flew upwards; four sharpened pen nibs snagged on the underside of the float’s trailer. Moving as one, the mice flipped their boards up and into their backpacks, then climbed paw over paw up their lines of floss, creeping over the side of the float to emerge in a clump of fake bushes.

  “B-Nut, Acorns, wait for my signal,” Hotspur commanded. “I’m giving Bunsen a five-minute headstart, then we’ll cut the tethers.”

  “Got it,” B-Nut replied, as Bunsen scampered past the basket of cheese twists toward the balloon ship.

  “Dude, what’s wrong with Oz and D. B.?” asked Romeo from his perch far above on Ollie’s back. “Check it out—they’re as white as Bunsen.”

  The mice stared at the children. Oz was standing by his mother; D. B. was still up on the Mayflower’s deck, leaning over the rail. Bunsen sped across the float and sniffed the white trail Oz had left on the balloon ship’s side.

  “Flour,” he reported into his headset. “Someone dumped flour on them.”

  “Gotta be the sharks!” cried Lip.

  “Right,” B-Nut replied. “Acorns, we’ve got five minutes. I say it’s time for a little payback, spy mice-style.”

  “Rock on, dude!” cried Nutmeg.

  “Hold your positions!” ordered Hotspur angrily, but the rocker mice and their surveillance-pilot leader ignored him. Instead, they urged t
heir pigeons forward toward Jordan and Tank.

  “Target in range,” squawked Hank.

  “Ready?” called B-Nut.

  “Ready!” replied the Acorns.

  “Aim!”

  The pigeons circled low.

  “Fire!”

  The pigeons dropped their loads.

  “EEEEEEWWWWWW!” cried the boys, as a shower of pigeon poo splattered down on them from the sky above.

  Jordan swiped at his face frantically. “This is disgusting!” he hollered.

  “MOMMY!” wailed Tank.

  “Right tool for the right job,” said B-Nut in satisfaction. “Julius would be proud, boys. Let’s go in for another pass!”

  Hank and the other pigeons circled again and repeated the maneuver. In a short time, Jordan and Tank were nearly as covered in white as D. B. and Oz.

  Still rocking and rolling to the beat of “Born to Shake My Tail,” the crowd slowly began to notice what was going on. A roar of laughter went up, and once again thousands of cameras winked and flashed. Then the TV cameras zoomed in. To Jordan and Tank’s horror, their stricken, pigeon poo-covered faces suddenly appeared on Times Square’s giant TV screen and billboards, from there to be transmitted via satellite to television sets around the world.

  “I do not believe I am seeing this,” said Amelia Bean to Lavinia Levinson.

  “And you thought Halloween was bad!” crowed D. B. “Go Acorns!”

  Oz was laughing so hard he fell helplessly to the ground. “What goes around, comes around,” he wheezed, clutching the sides of his flour-coated pilgrim-boy suit.

  With the crowd distracted by the music and the shark sideshow, Hotspur, Bubble, and Squeak split up, each heading for one of the sturdy rope tethers that anchored the balloon ship to the float. Moving with clockwork precision, they pulled out their lapel knives and stood poised at the ready.

  “NOW!” cried Hotspur, as Bunsen scampered up the fourth tether toward the ship’s deck.

  Bubble and Squeak exchanged a worried glance. “But you said five minutes!” Squeak protested.