Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls (13 page)

Buck snorted. “Mother and Chippy have gone nutso.”

Relief flooded Emmy. “So you don't think Miss Barmy's changed?”

“If that lady's changed, then I'm a marmot,” said
Buck forcefully. “I was here when she turned into a rat, and I was here when she couldn't change back again. The Endear Mouse was right. She's a bad lady, and she's still bad. All you have to do is look at her blood in the charascope to see for yourself.”

Emmy felt a sudden twinge of conscience. What would her own blood look like now? She had stood by while a friend was pelted with rocks, just so she wouldn't look weird. Was her blood now gummed up with … with whatever cowardice looked like?

She picked up a pink marble paperweight—a rat, of course—and balanced it in her hand. It had a cool, heavy feel, and somehow it calmed her. Sissy was going to be fine. Emmy would ask Buck to go down the back tunnel to Rodent City and check. If only she could think of a good way to explain what had happened … Emmy opened her mouth and found herself telling about the wishing mouse instead.

Professor Capybara looked thoughtful. “I don't remember a wishing mouse. Did you say it could jump?”

Emmy nodded. “It practically
bounced.
I've never seen a mouse leap like that.”

“It must have been some kind of field mouse,” said Buck. “Not all rodents of power live in the city. Some prefer the wild.”

“The playground isn't exactly the
wild
,” said Emmy doubtfully.

Buck's chipmunk teeth gleamed. “They're surrounded by wild rodents, though. Most of them can barely understand us. They dig tunnels every which way—no sense of direction or signage.”

The professor ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. “When Cheswick stole the rats and trucked them here, and I unlocked as many cages as I could, most of the escaped rodents helped me establish Rodent City. But others just scattered. I didn't know all their powers yet, anyway, and then Cheswick disarranged all my notes …”

“But I'm helping you now, Professor,” said Brian, laying two folders on the desk. “Here's the data you wanted on Buck and the Bushy-Tailed Snoozer Rat.”

“Do you think you're close to finding a cure?” asked Emmy. The Snoozer virus had the unfortunate effect of making a person fall asleep whenever there was a little too much excitement, and the professor was infected.

“Possibly,” said Professor Capybara. “Buckram, here, has an interesting ability that may just help.”

There was a pause as the professor opened Buck's folder and flipped through it. Emmy put a hand in her pocket and smoothed the crumpled paper, chewed by the puppy.

“Professor, I have something else to tell you.”

“Yes, yes, just a moment—”

There was a muffled thud from outside, and the delicately balanced vials quivered. Emmy glanced out the window to see the soccer ball spinning back to Thomas.

“Well, Buck, are you ready to put Brian to sleep again?” The professor smiled at Emmy. “Buckram, we've discovered, has a rather unusual power. He can give a full night's sleep to anyone in just fifteen minutes.”

Brian nodded. “I was up all night organizing the professor's folders, and I'm not even sleepy!”

The thud came again. The windows rattled slightly.

“I'm sure you're wondering how this can help with the Snoozer virus,” said the professor, beaming.

“Uh—sure.” Emmy fingered the note from the little girls.

“Well, we hypothesize that a reverse effect may occur when—” The professor stopped as the outside wall shook with a steady, rhythmic pounding.

“What's that noise?” Professor Capybara put his hands to his head. “I can't think!”

“It's just Thomas—I'll tell him to stop,” said Emmy hurriedly. She stepped outside to see the pudgy boy, a look of fierce concentration on his face, kicking the soccer ball hard against the brick. Surprised, Emmy watched as his foot snapped out to catch the ball on the rebound with the precision of a machine.

“Um—Thomas? Would you please do that somewhere else?”

Thomas grabbed for the ball, fumbled, and fell down. “Okay,” he said from the ground. “Where should I kick it?”

“Anywhere—just not against the wall. The professor can't think with all the noise.”

Thomas nodded. Emmy went inside, where Brian was already stretched out on the couch, snoring. Buck, eyes shut, was curled up under his chin.

“I wouldn't mind getting a full night's sleep in fifteen minutes,” said Emmy. “Especially before a sleepover.”

“Perhaps we can let you try it sometime.” Professor Capybara glanced out the window. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

Emmy opened her mouth—but in that instant, the Sunday-afternoon quiet was split by the violent sound of breaking glass.

Emmy ran to the door. Thomas stood in the middle of the green, open-mouthed, staring across to the shoe shop. From its shattered second-story window came a loud and piercing screech.

“U
NBELIEVABLE!”
The professor's beard wagged in his enthusiasm. “I didn't know Thomas could kick like that! Brian, did you
see
?”

“Brian's still asleep,” said Emmy nervously as the screeching intensified. “Professor, we'd better go help Thomas. Mrs. B is coming out.”

“Certainly, certainly.” Professor Capybara hurried out the door and across the green to the park bench against which Thomas had backed in stunned silence.

Emmy followed more slowly. She was beginning to get an idea of what the third wish had been. And she was not eager to meet Mrs. B, who had a reputation for throwing flowerpots.

The scrawny figure of Mrs. B came stamping out of her front door. She was still screaming hoarsely, but now it was possible to distinguish a few words: “vandals,” “damages,” “the law.” She was followed by an apologetic Mr. B, wringing his hands.

“You seem to be upset, dear lady,” began Professor
Capybara in a tone apparently meant to be calming. Unfortunately, it seemed to infuriate Mrs. B even more.

“UPSET?
I'LL
SHOW YOU UPSET!!!” Mrs. B raised her purse and began whacking the professor about the head.

“Hey!” he shouted, trying to fend her off. “Get away, you—you crazy person—”

Emmy saw with horror that his eyes were closing. “Stay calm, Professor!” she cried, but it was too late. Professor Capybara rocked on his feet and suddenly slumped onto the park bench, sound asleep.

“Got him!” crowed Mrs. B in triumph. Then she tucked her purse under her arm, gripped Thomas by one ear, and towed the boy to the shoe shop, protesting and crying.

Emmy spared one look for the professor, snoring happily under the influence of the Snoozer virus. No help there. And Brian wasn't due to wake up for another ten minutes at least.

But she
couldn't
leave Thomas with that awful woman. Feeling as if events were moving too fast, Emmy ran after them, unsure of what to do. And then she had an idea.

“Mr. Peebles! Mr. Peebles!” she cried, running up the steps to his law office and pounding on the front door. “Come quick!”

 

Inside the shoe shop, Peter Peebles gazed gravely at the broken glass strewn on the floor of the second-story sitting room. Then he gave Mrs. B a long, measuring look. “And
this
is the reason you assaulted Mr. Capybara?”

“He broke it! He kicked that ball right through my window!”

“Who? Professor Capybara?”

“No, that little fat boy!” Mrs. B pointed a long, red-lacquered nail at Thomas, who had taken refuge behind the door.

Peter Peebles's face grew stern. “No personal attacks,
if
you please. Emmy and Thomas, step out of the room for a moment, will you?”

Emmy grabbed Thomas's hand and scooted out onto the second-floor landing. “Did you see it?” whispered Emmy.

“What? The crate of flowerpots?”

“The dollhouse on the table—it had a sign. ‘The Home for Troubled Girls.'”

Thomas put his eye to the crack by the door hinges. “I see it! What did the professor say when you showed him the note?”

Emmy stood up, startled. In all the excitement over the broken window, she had neglected to tell the professor about the message from the girls. And now, of course, he was asleep. She put her hand in her pocket and felt the note, no longer damp. Were they in the dollhouse this very minute?

Mr. Peebles's courtroom voice, deep and authoritative, carried past the half-closed door. “You have already acted very foolishly over this incident. It is altogether possible that Professor Capybara will want to press charges. Furthermore,” he added loudly as Mrs. B began to protest, “I am now going to see if the professor was badly hurt by your assault with a”—he coughed—“well, let us say with a leather weapon.”

“It was a
purse
!”

“Deadly indeed, in the right hands,” intoned Mr. Peebles. “And if you don't want him to call the police and charge you with assault, I'd suggest you come with me and beg him to accept your apology.”

“Me?
Apologize?
” Mrs. B sounded outraged. “What about my
window
? What about that delinquent
boy
?”

Emmy took her turn at the crack between the door and the jamb. Mrs. B's yellow face had turned a furious tomato red. Mr. B, looking somewhat desperate, was trying to soothe her and placate Mr. Peebles at the same time. Emmy caught apologetic fragments— “Now, honey bunny … Now, my dear sir, don't be hasty … Precious lambkin, maybe we
should
…”

Emmy and Thomas backed quietly into the shadows as Mr. Peebles strode out of the room. He was closely followed by Mrs. B, who was clawing at his arm, and Mr. B, who was holding her around the waist. The whole heaving group went down the stairs as one mass and out the door.

Emmy darted into the room and peered inside the dollhouse. “Anybody home?” she called softly.

The dollhouse was empty. Thomas got on his knees to search below the table while Emmy picked her way through the glassy shards to the window. Mr. Peebles and Mr. and Mrs. B were on their way across the green. The professor was still stretched out on the park bench. This was going to take a while.

“They aren't
anywhere
,” said Thomas.

Emmy was silent. The sound of angry voices came
faintly through the broken window like the distant buzzing of bees. Sunshine, warm and golden, stretched across the room. Tiny particles of dust swam through the bright rays, silently swirling. One shaft of light extended a long finger past the door to the square landing, illuminating the first two treads on the battered staircase leading to the attic.

Emmy felt shivery inside. She lifted one foot—

“Emmy!” Thomas pounded past her up the steps. “Come on, hurry!”

At the top there was a small landing and a thick oaken door with a brass keyhole.

“It's locked,” said Emmy, trying the door. Thomas pointed silently at a key hanging on a nail just beyond his reach.

It was heavy in Emmy's hand. She fit it in the lock and heard the latch click.

“Come
on
, Emmy!” Thomas was hopping in his impatience.

Emmy took a breath and pushed at the door. It creaked open, and they slipped inside.

The attic was huge, dusty, hot, and lined with endless rows of shelves. It looked like some old, forgotten shoe warehouse, holding box upon box marked
with sizes and colors and price tags. But there was more than just shoes. There was old furniture, and stacks of magazines and books, and piles of junk everywhere.

Emmy looked around in hopeless desperation. They didn't have much time. How were they supposed to find the tiny girls in all this mess—if they were even here?

“Little girls?” Thomas called softly, squatting to look under a shelf.

“No, Thomas.” Emmy grabbed him by the shoulder. “Not you—me.”

“But I want to find them!” he protested.

Emmy shook her head. “I'm older. I can look faster. You be the lookout.”

“But—”

“Cabin boy! Obey orders!”

Thomas saluted reluctantly. “Aye-aye, captain.” He went to stand by the open door as Emmy padded down an aisle, her head turning from side to side.

Light streamed in through a filthy window, shut tight. Emmy frowned. The window was awfully high off the floor.
If
the girls had been here—and
if
the window had been open before—they would still
have had to climb up to push the message out. But there was no sign of anything like a ladder or rope.

She pushed aside an umbrella, a rubber boot, and a stack of boxes; she called softly, feeling like a fool. If the girls were too afraid to answer—and she wouldn't blame them if they were, she must seem like a giant—she wouldn't be able to locate them in a year, much less a few minutes. Or maybe they weren't here at all.

Emmy glanced nervously over her shoulder. Was Thomas still watching the stairs? She walked down another aisle, and another. Mr. and Mrs. B wouldn't stay away forever. She poked her head around a bin of old kitchen tools and gasped. Thomas was squatting down, gazing at the floor.

“Thomas!” she hissed. “Get back to the door!”

Thomas's smooth blond head didn't turn. “Emmy, look at this.”

Upset and anxious, Emmy moved swiftly. “I don't care how interesting that bug is! When you're lookout, you can't just
leave
—”

Thomas pointed a chubby finger. Emmy bent over, staring. There, plain in the dust, was a trail of tiny footprints.

So it was true. They were really here—or had been recently.

Emmy got down on her hands and knees to follow the tracks. Behind her, Thomas made a small noise in his throat. All at once Emmy's head jerked back as a bony hand gripped her ear.

“Snooping, are you?” whispered Mrs. B, kicking dust over the tiny tracks. She hauled Emmy and Thomas out to the landing and shook them viciously as a startled Mr. B looked on.

“As if breaking—my window—wasn't enough,” Mrs. B snarled between shakes, “now you
break
—into my
attic
! You're going to
jail
, you little sneaks!”

“I think
not
,” said an authoritative voice.

Abruptly Mrs. B was pulled away, and the familiar form of Mr. Peebles took her place. He dusted off the children and looked at them grimly. “Let's get out of here. We'll deal with this in my office.”

The attic door shut with a bang. Mrs. B turned the key in the lock with a
snick.
“We've been careless and trusting, Mr. B,” she said, dropping the brass key into her pocket. “We won't make
that
mistake again.”

“No, dear,” said Mr. B. “Certainly not.”

Mr. Peebles's grip on Emmy's shoulder was firm as
he hustled the children down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly the hair on Emmy's head lifted as something swooshed past. There was a shattering sound of crockery and she spun, startled, to see the smashed remains of a flowerpot on the sidewalk.

“Oops!” said Mrs. B, leaning out of the window over their heads. “Must have slipped. How
clumsy
of me.”

Peter Peebles's face was grim. “Do that again and I'll sue.”

“For what?”

“Reckless endangerment,” he said coldly. “Illegal discharge of a flowerpot in a residential area. Come along, children.”

He marched them up the steps to his wide front porch. “Sit,” he commanded, pointing to the porch swing. “Whatever possessed you to go into that attic? Don't you know better than to poke around in people's houses without permission?”

“Yes, sir,” said Emmy, nodding fervently. If she was polite enough, maybe he wouldn't tell her parents.

“It was my fault,” said Thomas, clutching the soccer ball he had snatched up on their way out. “I ran
upstairs, and then Emmy had to come after me.” He opened his blue eyes wide, his round face angelic. “I always
wanted
to play in an attic.”

Peter Peebles snorted. “If you want to play in an attic, you're welcome to visit mine—but stay out of other people's!” He fished a phone out of his pocket.

Emmy stiffened. Was he going to call her parents after all?

“Hello, Jack? Listen, I've got Thomas here—”

Emmy's shoulders slumped in relief.

There was a pause. “No, no problems—well, just one. He kicked a soccer ball through a neighbor's window, and they're upset. But I've talked to them, and—”

This time the pause was longer. “Yes, a soccer ball—yes, quite a long way. He's got a powerful kick, you know.”

Mr. Benson's excited voice could be heard over the cell phone. Thomas swung his legs placidly.

Out on the green, the professor was sitting up groggily on the park bench, and Brian was bending over him. Emmy glanced at Mr. Peebles. He was still on the phone—now he was asking about Joe's ankle. She stood up, walked casually to the top of the porch
steps, and looked back. Mr. Peebles frowned and shook his head.

Emmy sighed. She would have to wait to tell the professor about the tiny girls, but she hoped she didn't have to wait too long.

“He
did
break his ankle? I see … So what about the California soccer camp?”

Mr. Peebles's voice faded into a background drone as Emmy edged over to the railing and looked up at the house next door. She couldn't see much of the attic window from this angle.

The afternoon sun slanted over the tops of the trees. It was hours before sunset, on this longest day of the year. Emmy remembered that she had a pool party to go to, and Meg had said they were planning pizza. At the thought, her stomach growled lightly.

There was another growl, and then a series of noises that sounded like the clash of small cymbals mixed with the high-pitched squeal of an amplifier. The sounds were coming from somewhere beneath Emmy's feet. Improbably, she heard a familiar voice singing something that sounded like “a hunk, a hunka rodent love.”

“Will you
stop
with the Elvis tunes?” shouted an enraged voice.

“But that's a
great
song!” pleaded another. “One of
the all-time classics, and it works so well with my vocal range!”

Emmy scanned the lawn. The grass was beautifully thick and green—Mr. Peebles must have a lawn service—but there, just a yard away, was an opening in the ground the size of a large cookie.

As she watched, there was another shriek, and a confused scrabbling at the mouth of the tunnel. In a flurry of gray, a small rodent-shaped body flew out as if forcibly propelled from behind, and landed, tumbling, on the lawn.

“And stay out!” A rodent in a black T-shirt poked his head out from the tunnel's mouth and shook his fist. “We're a
swing
band, not a burnt-out Vegas act!”