Ava and Taco Cat (3 page)

Six people in one bedroom is pretty squooshy, but we sat in a circle: Pip and me, Carmen and Lucia, Maybelle and Zara. Pip showed us all her life-size drawing of a model house mouse. It had dot eyes, round ears, short whiskers, a curly tail, and (I don't know how Pip does this) kind of a cute personality. I gave everyone a pencil and scissors, and in the middle, we put a stack of paper, erasers, and a pencil sharpener.

“Why are we making paper mice?” Carmen asked. She and Lucia were both wearing green. They don't dress exactly the same, but they always wear the same color.

“Because my birthday is the day after tomorrow and I want a pet cat.” I said that I wanted to show our parents how practical a cat could be.

“Practical?” Maybelle asked.

“Like, what if we had a
mouse
invasion
?”

“I don't get it,” Zara said. She crossed her legs, but not the crisscross applesauce way. She crossed them yoga style, feet on top. I wondered if she thought mouse-making was immature. Was it? “What are you going to do with all the mice?”

“Put them all over the furniture,” I said. “First thing tomorrow, before our mom and dad wake up.”

Zara looked like she didn't quite get it. (Confession: I didn't quite get what she was doing on my bedroom floor.) She shrugged and said, “I once had a pet guinea pig.”

“In Peru, people
eat
guinea pigs,” Carmen replied.

“Ewww!” Zara said.

“They roast them on spits,” Lucia added.

“Did you ever try one?” Zara asked, squinching her face.

“They're yummy with garlic and lemon,” Lucia admitted, looking sheepish. (Note:
sheepish
is a funny word. No one ever looks cattish or doggish or guinea-piggish.)

“What happened to your guinea pig?” Carmen asked.

“My cousin got to keep it when I had to move in with my grandparents,” Zara answered, putting down her scissors.

It was strange having this new girl in my room. Were we supposed to ask about her family? Or
not
ask? After an awkward moment, Carmen said, “We once had pet mice.”

“All they did was multiply!” Lucia added.

“It was disgusting!” Carmen said.

Pip wasn't saying much of anything. She was being as quiet as she used to be. Probably because of Zara.

I decided to tell the Aesop fable “The Country Mouse and the City Mouse.” The twins like it when I tell fables, so I even spiced it up a little:

A
country
mouse
invites
a
city
mouse
for
dinner, but there's nothing to eat besides a little pile of beans. Then the city mouse, who is snobby, invites the country mouse to come dine with him. The two mice sneak into a fancy banquet hall and are about to dig into delicious leftovers—everything from lobster to banana splits. But no sooner do they start nibbling at what's left of the feast, than a hungry cat and giant barking dog chase them into a hole.

“That's it?” Zara asked.

“What's the moral?” Lucia asked.

“It's better to eat beans in peace than lobster in danger,” I said.

“Or maybe it has to do with making new friends?” Zara said.

“I don't think so,” I said because I didn't, and because I didn't like that Zara was making friends with
my
friends.

“You know what?” Maybelle said. “We're making
suburban
mice!”

“I just made three
blind
mice!” Carmen said. “Look!”

Lucia looked, then quickly erased the eye dots from three of her mice. “Me too!” she chimed, and they both started humming “Three Blind Mice.”

Maybelle said, “Did you know that if you hold your nose, you can't hum?”

“Really?” Pip said.

“Really!” Maybelle said and told us all to start humming “Three Blind Mice.” We did, even Zara. Maybelle raised her arms as if she were conducting a symphony. “On your marks, get set, go!” she said and held her nose, so we all held our noses. She was right: Our mouse-making factory fell silent! You can't hum and hold your nose at the same time!

After we'd made many, many mini mice (alliteration alert!), Pip got out
Alphabet
Fish
, and Zara started asking questions. I know asking questions is
consider
ed
consider
ate, but she was asking a
lot
of questions. She asked why we were making a book (because we felt like it), and why it was about fish (because Pip likes fish), and if we'd ever made a book together before (no), and if Pip took art classes (yes), and if I took writing classes (no), and what G was going to be for (goldfish).

She said, “G could be for guppy.”

I said Pip and I had already decided that G was going to be for goldfish.

Zara said, “Guppy sounds cuter.” I looked at Maybelle to see if she thought Zara was being a bossy busybody, but Maybelle was admiring Pip's illustrations. “And I like the title
Something
Fishy
,” Zara added.

“The title is
Alphabet
Fish
,” I replied in a firm voice. Carmen and Lucia exchanged a worried look. “And G is for goldfish,” I stated, “in honor of our pet goldfish who died.” I almost told her that we'd named her Goldy Lox because LOX and LOCKS are homonyms: “lox,” like smoked fish, and “locks,” like the blond hair of the girl with the three bears, so it was a funny punny name. But I didn't want Zara to ask any more questions.

Soon Maybelle's mom came to pick up Maybelle and Zara so they could have their stupid sleepover. Maybelle's mom said she could drop the twins off too, “no problem.”

But it
was
a problem because when everyone climbed into the same car, talking and laughing, I felt a twinge of loneliness. (Actually, a few twinges.)

By the time I went back upstairs, Pip was in bed with a book, and I knew she wouldn't want to talk. So I got in bed too and started writing in you.

I wish Taco Cat were here to keep me company.

Ava, Alone with a Mountain of Mice

I just turned on the light-up pen that Bea gave me, the one her parents sell at their bookshop. I wanted to double-check that my alarm was set for 6:45 a.m. so I could sneak down and do what I had to do.

I was also curious about how you say a “bunch of mice,” so I looked it up. Guess what? It's a “
mischief
of mice”!

Ava the Mischievous

I did it!

You know how in
Goodnight
Moon
, there's a mouse peeking out on every single page? That's how it looks downstairs! There are mice everywhere! On chairs and on the sofa and bookshelf and floor and windowsill and coffee table…you name it, I put a mouse on it. I even put two in the fridge!

Now that it's (almost) daytime, a teeny tiny part of me wonders if this whole plan is dumb. Or if Mom will get mad.

Oh well, too late!

As Dad says when he's quoting Shakespeare, “What's done, is done.”

In fifteen minutes, Dad and Mom will wake up and see my mischief of mice. (My
mess
of mice?) I put one on Dad's desk with a note that says, “All I want for my birthday is T-A-C-O-C-A-T. I will take excellent care of him. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”

The “please” might have even more e's. I didn't count.

I keep thinking about Taco Cat. I hope we can get him and that no one else adopts him first. I'm not too worried because Mom says kittens are more popular than cats, especially “cats with issues.” (According to Mom, mismatched ears are an “issue,” even though mismatched eyes are considered a good thing, spelled
heterochromia
.)

Poor Taco! He probably feels so lost and alone!

I remember once when I felt lost and alone.

I was about three, and Mom and I had gone shopping in a giant department store. I don't know if Mom got distracted or if I did, but suddenly the high heel shoes next to me did
not
look familiar. I looked up, and the lady next to me was
not
my mother! I burst into tears. Where was my mom? Would I ever see her again??

The lady with the high heel shoes took me to a security guard and next thing you know, a loudspeaker announcement said: “Will the woman who lost her daughter please report to the information desk?” I stood there with a bunch of strangers for what felt like a really long time until finally Mom came
clip
clip
clipping
over. I guess the security people could tell by my expression that she was not a kidnapper, and Mom swooped me up and took me home.

I wish I could swoop Taco Cat up and take him home.

I'm really tired, but I'm trying to stay awake until it gets light outside. It's already officially New Year's Eve, which means it's almost New Year's Day—and my eleventh birthday! A new year and new age!

I'm practically falling asleep though. If I were a cat, I would have conked out in my food bowl.

Maybe I'll go back to sleep for just five more minutes and get up when Mom and Dad get up.

Ava in Anticipation

I slept until 10:30! I did not mean to do that! I meant to wake up hours ago so I could see Mom and Dad's reaction!

Not only did I oversleep, but just now, I banged my funny bone. It was not one bit
funny
!

Mom must already be at work. She says vets work all the time because animals get sick all the time. Dr. Gross works every day except Sunday, and even on Sunday, someone has to go to the clinic to feed and check on all the animals.

Question: Did Mom and Dad like my mice?

Bigger question: Will they let me have a cat??

Time to find out!

Ava, Awake

I opened my door and saw a trail of mice. It went all the way from my room to Dad's desk! One little mousie after another! I figured this
had
to be a good sign.

“Did you find them all?” I asked Dad.

“Good morning, Sleepy Head,” he said. “Yes, I think we did.”

“Even the pair in the cheese drawer?”

“You put mice inside the fridge?”

“Just two,” I said
sheepishly
(but not mouseishly). “What did Mom think?”

“Actually, she thought it was funny. She knows this means a lot to you.”

“Really?”

“Really. You did a good job of expressing yourself.”

I said thanks, and Dad told me a story about when he and Mom were housesitting when they were newlyweds. They bought a little bag of fancy chocolate-covered almonds and left them on the kitchen counter. In the middle of the night, they heard a loud clattering and were afraid burglars had broken in. So they went downstairs and turned on the lights. No one was there, but the bag of chocolates was empty, and on the kitchen floor, they saw itty-bitty mouse droppings! The cat burglars were…a
mischief
of
mice
!

I laughed and planned to tell that story to Chuck in school. He is pretty much the only fifth-grade boy I talk to, and we like to make each other laugh. I've known him even longer than I've known Maybelle, because in kindergarten we sat next to each other on the bus on an apple-picking field trip.

“So can I get Taco Cat for my birthday?” I asked Dad straight out.

Dad pushed back his big brown chair and did not say no. He said, “Want to run some errands? You and Pip went through a lot of paper last night.”

I said, “Sorry,” even though I could tell Dad wasn't mad. He likes it when Pip and I do “creative projects” together.

“What do you think: Great Wall or Taco Time?” Dad asked.

“Taco Time! Should I wake up Pip?”

“At your own risk,” Dad said because lately Pip has been waking up grumpy. I took the stairs two at a time, and with each giant step, I could feel myself coming up with a brand-new plan.

“Pip!” I said, knocking and barging in at the same time. “Get up!” I started talking a mile a minute.

Pip opened her eyes and listened. “It'll never work,” she said, sounding like the big brother in
The
Carrot
Seed
. The one who doesn't believe in his little brother's little seed and says, “It won't come up.”

“You should be more optimistic,” I said.

“You should be less annoying,” she said.

But here's the thing: she's getting dressed, so I think she
is
willing to give my plan a try.

Ava, Full of Plans

At Taco Time, Dad asked if I knew how to spell “quesadilla” and “guacamole.” I spelled both words, no peeking and
no
problema
. So far in fifth grade, I've gotten nothing but 100s on all my spelling tests. English is by far my best subject. (I stink at math, which is Maybelle's best subject, and I'm only okay at gym, which is Chuck's best subject.)

After lunch, Pip told Dad that we wanted to take him “on a field trip.” Dad looked suspicious, and I stayed quiet (M-U-M). Pip was saying everything exactly as we'd planned. “The rescue center is really nearby,” she casually remarked.

“The rescue center?” Dad made a face, then said, “Oh, why not?”

Pip gave me a little kick under the table, so I gave her a little kick back. We both know that deep down, Dad is a mushball when it comes to us kids. And deep down, maybe he likes cats as much as we do.

While we were walking the three blocks, Dad started rambling about how writers and cats are natural companions. He said that James Joyce wrote about cats, and so did Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. He said Ernest Hemingway left money in his will for his cats in Key West, Florida, “and some were polydactyl.”

“Polywhat?” I said.

“Polydactyl. It means having extra toes.” Dad said that most cats have five toes on their front feet and four on their back, but “mitten kittens” are born with extras.

“H-U-H,” I said, because our family likes spelling out palindromes. I was trying to picture “mitten kittens” and trying to picture myself as a famous writer known for her children's books and her faithful furry feline friend, Taco.

“T. S. Eliot,” Dad added, “wrote cat poems that got turned into the Broadway musical.”

“
Cats
,” Pip said.

I thought about T. S. Eliot and said, “If you take the S away, his name backward is T O I L E T.”

Dad laughed. Pip said, “Dad, it's mostly your fault we're word nerds!” (which is true, even though Mom must have agreed to name us P-I-P H-A-N-N-A-H and A-V-A E-L-L-E).

Anyway, we're now at the rescue center. Ponytail Lady said that before we could go upstairs, Dad had to fill out a form. So when Dad started writing, I did too.

Gotta go! Here comes Nostril Ring Lady!

Ava, About to See Animals