For Your Paws Only (11 page)

He desperately didn't want to be a loser. Especially not when it involved something he was actually good at, like cooking. Oz didn't want to come in last. Not in front of Jordan and Tank. It would be just too humiliating.

The Mayflower Flour man banged his gavel and Oz picked up the bag of flour, keeping a sharp eye on the sharks. His classmates grinned at him.

“Can I give you a hand there, Oz?” asked Jordan jovially.

“Here, let me help.” Tank whipped out a measuring cup, the very picture of politeness. Both boys smiled for the camera. “There you go, Oz!”

“Exemplary teamwork,” said one of the watching judges, checking something off on his clipboard. “Extra points.”

“Sugar, Oz?” asked Jordan, practically bowing as he rushed forward with another measuring cup.

Oz and D. B. exchanged a glance. The unexpected politeness was unnerving.

“I think I like it better when they act like sharks,” whispered D. B.

“I know what you mean,” Oz whispered back. “At least then we know what to expect.”

One after another, the ingredients were transferred smoothly into the mixing bowl. Jordan and Tank scuttled back and forth like a pair of reformed convicts, beaming at Oz, beaming at D. B., beaming at the camera.

“See?” said Mrs. Scott to Mrs. Wilson, in a loud stage
whisper for Lavinia Levinson and Amelia Bean to hear. “My Jordan isn't a troublemaker—he's an angel.”

In a short time, the pumpkin-bread batter was done. It was perfect. All that was left to be added were the chocolate chips.

Once again, Jordan darted in front of D. B. “Here you go, Oz, old pal,” he said, passing Oz a small bowl.

“Ah, the crowning touch,” noted the observing judge. His pen hovered over his clipboard.

Oz smiled at him. This was going better than he'd expected. Maybe Jordan and Tank weren't planning to sabotage him after all. He was just about to dump the contents of the bowl into the batter when D. B. grabbed his arm. Flashing a broad grin at the judge and the camera, she uttered a single word through clenched teeth: “Don't.”

Oz frowned. D. B. covered her mouth and pretended to cough. “It's a trap,” she said.

Oz looked down. He gasped. Sure enough, instead of chocolate chips, the bowl contained two carefully measured cups of gravel. He looked up again. Tank and Jordan were beaming. They gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Just below the surface of the work table, out of the judge's sight, Jordan held up the bag of chocolate chips. He wagged it tantalizingly, then whipped it behind his back.

“Well, young man?” said the judge, glancing at his watch. “Time's a-wasting.”

“Um,” said Oz, weighing his options. If he complained, the judge would take away their extra points for exemplary teamwork. On the other hand, if he baked the pumpkin bread with gravel in it, they'd come in last for sure. Not to mention possibly be arrested—the judges would break their teeth on the small stones.

D. B. turned away again. “Code Red,” she muttered into her head set. “Rocks substituted for chocolate chips.”

“We're on it!” cried Lip from under the table. “Stall for time.”

So far, the Acorns hadn't proved to be much use. Still nestled in D. B.'s hair, they'd ridden back from Grand Central to the hotel in nearly complete radio silence. Only the occasional peep or squeak as one of them spotted something thrilling out the bus window had let Oz and D. B. know they were still there. Once in the ballroom again, they had scampered quickly down D. B.'s back and disappeared under the long cloth that skirted the workstation. Oz had almost forgotten that they were there.

Stall for time?
thought Oz, his mind suddenly a blank. The cameras zoomed in, and his round moon face loomed large on the TV screen above. What should he do? He glanced desperately at D. B., who shrugged. Spotting his mother in the crowd, Oz had a brainstorm.
The name is Levinson. Oz Levinson,
he thought, then cleared his throat and began to address the camera.
“I'd just like to say,” he began. He stopped. The crowd looked up at him expectantly.

“I'd just like to say that if it weren't for my mother I wouldn't be here at all,” Oz blurted.

The judge and the gathered crowd looked surprised by this sudden outburst, and Oz chuckled nervously. “Well, that's obvious I suppose, but that's not what I meant.” This brought a tiny ripple of laughter.
Lame,
thought Oz.
Really lame.
He'd have to do better than that. “What I mean is, this recipe is special. My mother loves pumpkin bread, and every year at Thanksgiving I make her a batch. My father taught me how.”

“Lower the bowl, Oz,” said Romeo over the headset.

As he continued to talk, Oz slowly lowered the bowl full of gravel until it was just below the edge of the worktable, out of sight of the judge and the camera. At the same time, D. B. stepped forward, shielding him from Jordan and Tank's view. Out of the corner of his eye, Oz saw Lip, Romeo, and Nutmeg scoot up the tablecloth. He tipped the bowl slightly, and they dove in. There was a flurry of activity as their paws flew, pushing the gravel out. When the bowl was empty, they gave him a paws-up, then scampered back down the cloth.

“Where are the chocolate chips?” asked Lip.

“The chocolate chips!” boomed Oz, startling the judge, who dropped his pen. He continued in a more normal tone, “Um, I'm sure you're all wondering how I came up with that idea. The chocolate chips are, um,
my
secret
ingredient, and I kept them
hidden
from my parents. Popped them into the batter
behind their backs,
if you get my drift.”

“Okay, got your drift,” said Romeo's voice in his ear. “We're on it.”

As Oz droned on with his speech—how much his mother loved the bread, what a nice family Thanksgiving tradition it had become—the Acorns disappeared under the tablecloth again. They reappeared a split second later at Jordan Scott's feet. Leaving his fellow band members positioned by the sixth grader's large tennis shoe, Lip climbed silently up Jordan's pant leg. The mouse circled around behind to where the boy was holding the bag of chocolate chips, then bit down on Jordan's wrist. Hard.

“Yow!” cried Jordan, releasing the bag.

Lip leaped nimbly aboard as it plummeted toward the floor. The second the bag landed, he grabbed a corner, as did Romeo and Nutmeg. Before Jordan could even turn around, the mice had whisked the bag out of sight beneath the tablecloth.

Jordan stared at the floor behind him, puzzled. Then he stared at his wrist.

“What's the matter?” asked the judge.

“Lunch bag,” said Oz softly, just loud enough so Jordan could hear.

“Hamster,” added D. B.

Jordan's face flushed bright red. The cameras rolled.
The sixth grader smiled halfheartedly. “Uh, nothing,” he said weakly.

“And in conclusion,” said Oz, reaching down and grabbing the bag of chocolate chips that suddenly poked out from underneath the tablecloth by his feet, “I'd just like to say that chocolate chips and Mayflower Flour are a winning combination!” He held the bag up triumphantly. Jordan and Tank gaped at him.

“How'd he do that?” muttered Tank.

Oz tore open the bag and poured the chocolate chips into the batter, stirred it vigorously, then handed the bowl to D. B. She poured the batter into the pan and popped it into the oven.

“Well done,” said the judge, nodding approvingly. “Extra points for thanking your parents.”

“Good job, Acorns,” whispered Oz.

Jordan and Tank glared.

“Dogbones and Fatboy think they're smart,” said Tank.

Jordan's eyes narrowed. “Something weird is going on here,” he said, inspecting the tiny bite mark on his wrist. “Something very weird. I don't know what it is yet, but we're gonna find out.”

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1400 HOURS

Bananas Foster poked his head
into the practice room.

“Everything ready for tonight, Cherry?” he asked, his toothy smile sparkling as brightly as his diamond-studded necklace.

“Sure,” said Glory with a confidence she didn't feel. Tonight was going to be a disaster. There was no getting around that fact. But tonight wasn't here yet, and right now Glory had more important things to think about than her ill-fated singing debut. Like getting rid of Bananas Foster.

“I'd love to talk, Bananas, but we're kind of busy right now,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. “Practicing, you know.”

The nightclub owner looked over at Hotspur, Bubble, and Squeak. “Your fans found you already, I see.”

“Just trying to get autographs,” said Hotspur,
whipping out a piece of paper and a pen. “ ‘The memorials and the things of fame,' as the Bard says.”

“Says who?” asked Bananas, with a blank look.

Before Hotspur could reply, the nightclub owner's gaze fell on the cell phone that stood propped up against the purple dinosaur lunch bag. “What's that?”

There was a long pause, then B-Nut said, “It's one of our props. For a new song we thought we'd try out tonight.”

“Really?” Bananas Foster's ears perked up at this. “A new tune? What's it called?”

“Uh,” said B-Nut. “It's called . . . it's called . . . ”

“It's called ‘Call Me, Sugarpaws,' ” offered Glory. “Fabulous song, just fabulous. It'll hit number one on the charts for sure. B-Nut's vocals are awesome. Wait until you hear him!”

B-Nut cringed. Bananas Foster's eyes lit up with delight. “Sounds fabulous! I'll go add it to the posters right now. And I'll alert the media, too. With any luck, I can beat deadline at the
Tattletail.
We might even make page one!” He bustled out of the room.

“ ‘Call Me, Sugarpaws'?” cried B-Nut as the door closed behind the nightclub owner. “What am I supposed to do with
that
?”

Glory gave him a mischievous smile. “Best I could do under pressure. Let's just say that maybe now we're even for ‘Cherry Jubilee.' ”

B-Nut shook his head unhappily. “Well, we'd better
get rolling here. Apparently I've got a song to write.”

The mice gathered around the cell phone. Bunsen reached out and pressed a series of numbers with his paw. The tiny screen flashed to life, then went dark again.

“I thought you said this would work,” snapped Hotspur. “Did we risk our lives for nothing?”

“I haven't finished yet,” Bunsen replied stiffly. He punched in a few more numbers, and the screen flickered again as the cell phone picked up the video feed from the sewer. Bubble and Squeak drew back in alarm as Roquefort Dupont's hideous face swam into view. There was a long gash over the rat's left eye, and several of his whiskers had been yanked out.

“Looks like someone took a bite out of him,” said B-Nut.

“Stilton Piccadilly, most likely,” said Bubble. “They were bickering all morning.”

The cell phone speaker crackled as the audio relay kicked in.

“GRR!” screeched Dupont.

Glory shot her colleague an admiring glance. “Bunsen, you're a genius!”

Bunsen's nose flushed pink with pleasure at the compliment. “It's nothing, really,” he said modestly. “Just a bit of tinkering, that's all.”

“We call that Bunsenizing,” Glory whispered to Bubble and Squeak, who nodded sagely. They had lab mice in London, too.

“This new wireless technology is really quite amazing,” continued Bunsen enthusiastically. “The relays were the most difficult part. They—”

“Enough of the lab chatter,” said Hotspur rudely. “You test-tube-tails are all alike—you think we're all interested in the boring details. I for one would rather listen to the rats.”

Stung, Bunsen turned his back on Hotspur and made a great show of busying himself with the volume controls.

“And now,” announced a silky voice from the cell-phone speaker, “eet eez my very great
plaisir
to introduce ze G.R.R.'s keynote speaker, ze rat who has called us all together for zis momentous occasion,
mon cousin,
Roquefort Dupont!”

“Who the heck is that?” asked B-Nut, peering curiously at the screen. “She's pretty good-looking, for a rat.”

“Brie de Sorbonne,” replied Bubble. “And never judge a book, or a rat, by its cover. Brie positively terrorizes the guilds in Paris. Our colleagues at Intertail do their best, but she keeps their whiskers in a constant twist.”

“My fellow rodents, we are here today for a purpose!” thundered Dupont, his ugly face flashing onto the cell phone screen again. “We are here today for a reason! We are here today because of something I see happening in my city, and something I know is happening in yours.” He paused dramatically, then leaned forward toward
his audience and intoned, “We are here because we are being outwitted by the mice at every turn!”

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Stilton Piccadilly.

Dupont shot his rival a murderous glance. “If we don't unite now and do something about it,” he continued, “we'll keep losing ground. Soon, we'll be overrun by those wretched small-paws, and the future for rats will be bleak indeed. I say it's time for a new world order! I say it's time for this planet to finally become . . . MOUSE-FREE!”

Limburger Lulu and Limburger Louie appeared on the screen. “MOUSE-FREE FROM SEA TO SEA! MOUSE-FREE FOR YOU AND ME!” they squeaked, hooking tails and dancing in a circle.

Backstage at BANANAS! the mice watched, transfixed, as the leader of Washington's rat underworld warmed to his message. Dupont began to pace back and forth in front of his foreign comrades, his tail thrashing to and fro.

“What we need is a plan. And a plan is exactly what I have to offer you today.”