Free Showdown in Crittertown by Justine Fontes

April.
    She whispered, “I think your drawings are better than these.”
    Luckily, the citizens of Crittertown thought that even the early doodles of a famous artist were worth lots of money. As they bid for each picture, Nilla tried to make sense of the numbers on the blackboard.
    She said, “I can’t do subtraction in my head. Are they close to having enough money to fix the school?”
    I smiled. “Very close.”
    Then all the humans suddenly started murmuring. “He’s here!” “It’s Mr. Kingston!” “The artist is here!”
    We stared at the little old man with the wispy white hair poking out of a battered hat. Mr. Kingston smiled at everyone. He shook a few paws and nodded at some kind words. Then he went over to the crafts table.
    The artist pronounced the Mouselympics equipment “quite clever.” When he saw April’s collection of “imagination doors,” his wrinkled face lit with a delighted smile. “Oh! I must have all of these. They will make great gifts for my students.”
    Mr. Kingston insisted on paying “an outrageous” amount of money for the doors. (“Outrageous” according to the thrifty humans gossiping nearby. I thought it was just right.)
    When the school secretary finished the math, I thought she might faint. “It’s more than enough,” she said. “The school is saved!”
    Everyone cheered.
    We’d barely recovered from the excitement of the fair when it was time for the Mouselympics. We didn’t have a torch to carry through the streets like they do at the start of the human Olympics. So the children made a paw print flag that led the parade from the library to the post office and finally to April’s garage. Buttercup barked all the way.
    The children took turns pulling the wagon full of mouseletes and those of us from both colonies who wanted to watch the games. If any grown-up came near, the children quickly covered us mice with stuffed animals. So it looked like the parade was “just for toys.”
    The Mouselympics equipment was all set up in April’s garage. The girls had made tiny medals out of candy wrappers: gold foil for first prize and silver for second. Andy and Wyatt arranged building blocks to form a podium, so the winners of each event could stand there proudly to receive their medals.
    Brownback and Nonfiction announced the opening of the games. They also briefly described the treaty joining our two clans.
    â€œWhat’s all the squeaking about?” Tanya wondered.
    I wrote, “The treaty.”
    Bill groaned. “You know how politicians love to make speeches.”
    Perhaps the two leaders could tell the rest of the crowd felt the same way, because they quickly ended their remarks. Brownback said, “And now for the first event.”
    Nonfiction added, “The paw race.”
    The runners lined up at the starting line. Andy lifted a trumpet to his lips. Wyatt said, “On your mark, get set…” Andy blew the horn just as Wyatt said, “Go!”

    I hadn’t expected to get so caught up in the excitement. After all, it was just a race. But as Grayson and General History pulled out in front of the other mouseletes, I leaped to my feet with a pounding heart.
    Charlie nudged me. “Shouldn’t we cheer?”
    I’d almost forgotten the pom-poms gripped in my paws. For a moment, I couldn’t remember one word of the cheer we’d practiced over and over. Then the recruits’ high squeaks filled my ears and I joined in:
    â€œWho’s the team with the most? Yaaaaay….post! Give me a ‘P’; give me an ‘O.’ Yaaaaay…. P.O.!”
    I can’t claim that our cheer really made a difference. But it seemed like our squeaks gave Grayson the boost he needed.
    As he and General History crossed the finish line, the whole crowd held its breath. Wyatt sounded like a real sportscaster when he