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was afraid she’d have a stroke. She couldn’t bring herself to touch the magazine.
    I picked it up and dropped it down the incinerator.
    I was sure Bobby put that lifelike rubber mouse on Minnie’s desk. It made poor Minnie shriek.
    Next, a mousetrap snapped at her sensible shoes.
    Then a wedge of port-wine cheese found its way into Minnie’s typewriter. What a mess that was. I had to send out the typewriter for cleaning. If Vicki was any kind of boss, she’d have stopped the games right there. That cleaning cost the company thirty-nine dollars. The game was getting out of hand.
    Irish Johnny would hang around, waiting for Minnie to make her next ugly discovery. He’d pretend to sympathize, then run back and report every agonized word to Vicki.
    I couldn’t do anything to stop Vicki and the boys, but I refused to take part in the harassment. I would check Minnie’s desk a couple of times a day for mice, cheese, or, once, Mickey Mouse ears. I threw anything I found in the trash.
    I could always tell when she’d found another malicious surprise: Minnie would burst into noisy tears. That woman could weep waterfalls. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to slap some sense into her.
    â€œHave you no shame?” I asked Jimmy, when I caught him leaving more cheese in Minnie’s typewriter. It was a slice of Swiss this time, a bit stinky but harmless. He shrugged but didn’t answer.
    â€œHow can you torment that poor woman?” I said to Bobby when I surprised him planting mouse poison on her desk.
    â€œHow can we not?” Bobby said with a sneer. “She’s such a crybaby.”
    I wished Minnie would stand up for herself. I tried to coach her. One Monday I found her crying in the bathroom after she discovered a windup mouse spinning in circles on her desk blotter.
    â€œNow listen, Minnie,” I said. “Here’s what you do: Don’t cry when they leave that stuff on your desk. That’s what they want. It just encourages them.”
    â€œI can’t help it,” Minnie wailed. “It hurts.”
    â€œThank them for the cute toys. Pretend you like the stuff, and this harassment will stop,” I said.
    â€œI c-c-can’t.” She wept. “I don’t like it.”
    You can’t give someone a backbone implant, I decided.
    Finally, even these sadists were bored with Minnie’s monotonous weeping. Either that, or they got tired of buying mouse novelties at the dime store and lugging cheese in their briefcases. Bobby forgot about a hunk of Limburger one August day and had to throw out a Dunhill briefcase. That made him almost as weepy as Minnie.
    When that game ran down, Vicki started another. This one was more subtle. It took me a while to see what she was up to. She was suddenly, suspiciously kind to Minnie—no mimicry, no mice, no mocking laughter. Poor Minnie started coming out of her shell, or her mouse hole. She even smiled a bit.
    Then Vicki called Minnie into her office. Our blonde boss was at her most charming. She had me fetch herbal tea for Minnie. I stayed outside Vicki’s door to hear what she was plotting.
    â€œNow, Minnie,” Vicki said. “I need you to work on a special project. The Redacher proposal is vital to our department, and only you can do it. You have to help me by doing the best job possible.”
    These words were specially designed to appeal to Minnie. She threw herself into the task. Minnie came to work so early and stayed so late, I was worried about her health.
    One day, I left a message on Bobby’s desk while he was at lunch. I saw a file labeled REDACHER PROPOSAL under his phone. I opened the folder. Inside was a half-finished proposal, with sheets of in-house facts and figures that had to have been supplied by Vicki.
    I knew Vicki’s game now: She’d put two people on the same job, but had given only one the inside information. Bobby’s proposal would be chosen.
    I tried to