The Oscars
Reuben had neber been to the Oscars before.
In fact, Reuben preferred places that smelled like warm bread and qwiet mornings, not red carpets and thousands ob flashing cameras. But tonight was different.
Tonight he was there for Baxter.
Baxter wiff a B had been nominated for Best Broadway Adaptation for the Screen, and although Baxter wasn’t there to see it, his brothers had promised they would show up properly.
So Reuben came.
The red carpet stretched before him like an endless field ob red belbet cake. Huge lights glowed oberhead. Reporters called out qwestions. Fancy shoes clicked past him in ebery direction.
Reuben leaned gently against a shiny metal stand, trying to look composed while everything around him sparkled and flashed.
“Oh my,” he whispered, adjusting his whiskers.
A photographer spotted him.
“Wait—hold on—is that Reuben from Baxter wiff a B?”
Suddenly the cameras turned.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Reuben froze for a moment, then did what he always did when unsure of social protocol: he leaned politely on the stand and tried to look thoughtful, like someone waiting patiently for a croissant.
“Reuben! Ober here!”
“What are you wearing tonight?”
Reuben glanced down at his fur.
“…my fur,” he said politely.
The reporters laughed, delighted.
Inside the theater, things were calmer. Belbet seats. Golden lights. The qwiet hum ob anticipashun. Reuben was guided to a seat labeled: BAXTER WIFF A B — NOMINEE.
He climbed up carefully and sat down, folding his tiny paws.
For a moment he just looked at the empty seat beside him.
Baxter would hab lubbed this, he thought.
Not the speeches—Baxter didn’t have much patience for speeches—but the excitement, the ridiculousness of it all. The lights. The applause. The adbenture of it.
Reuben smiled softly. “Don’t worry,” he whispered under his breath. “We’re here.”
Backstage, Fish was probably mapping the cheese trays.
Barry had almost certainly tried to conbince someone to let him sing.
But for now, it was just Reuben sitting qwietly beneath the bright theater lights.
When the category finally arrived, the presenter opened the envelope.
“And the Oscar for Best Broadway Adaptation for the Screen goes to…”
Reuben’s ears lifted slightly.
“…BAXTER WIFF A B!”
The audience erupted in applause.
Reuben blinked once.
Then twice.
“Well,” he said softly. He walked carefully to the stage, the whole theater watching the small, thoughtful rat approach the microphone.
He looked out at the sea of faces, lights shimmering everywhere.
Reuben cleared his throat.
“Hello eberyone.” The room grew berry qwiet.
“This story began wiff a berry special rat named Baxter. He had big ideas, a loud boice, and a habit of pulling all of us into adbentures whether we were ready or not.”
A few soft laughs moved through the audience.
Reuben smiled.
“He believed stories mattered. He believed brothers mattered. And he believed—berry strongly—that ebery great dream should be followed.”
Reuben looked down at the golden Oscar in his paws.
“We miss him very much,” he said gently. “But tonight feels like somefing he would have lubbed.”
He looked back up.
“So on behalf of Baxter… and Waffles, Barry… and Fish… and eberyone who eber believed a tiny rat story could become a big one…”
Reuben gave a small nod.
“Fank you.”
The audience rose to their feet.
And somewhere, up in Heaben, Baxter and Waffles were smiling bigger than eber.