Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls (5 page)

“I didn't know Sissy could read and write,” said Emmy.

Raston straightened. “She can't,” he admitted. “But she can repeat short messages, and … well, she deserves a chance just like anybody else, don't you think?”

“Of course,” Emmy said.

“It's not her fault that she's uneducated. It's not her fault that she hasn't had my advantages. She'd
like
to be smooth and sophisticated, like me …”

Emmy rolled her eyes.

“I have an idea! Take me sailing! I'll tell her about it and expand her horizons!”

“You're not coming,” Emmy said flatly, and went to brush her teeth. By the time she had clattered downstairs for breakfast, put on sunscreen, found her sandals, and run back up to get the life jacket she'd forgotten, the Rat had disappeared.

Emmy shrugged. So maybe he'd taken her advice; or maybe he was hiding somewhere, sulking. Either way, she had one less rodent to worry about.

To Emmy's surprise, Thomas was sitting on the back step.

“My mom said I could come here if I promised not
to go up in the tree fort alone.” He lifted a hopeful face. “Would you play pirates with me?”

Emmy shook her head with regret, wishing she didn't have to go with Mr. Peebles. It would be bad enough to watch the other girls having fun sailing—but now that she had disappointed both Ratty and Thomas, she would feel guilty the whole time.

Thomas trailed after her and sat on the wooden dock, swinging his pudgy legs. Emmy explained about the race, and was relieved to see that Thomas didn't seem to mind too much.

“This isn't as boring as Joe's soccer game,” he said, peering into the water beneath the dock. “There are minnows down there, and snails, and everything! I'll just play here till you come back.”

“Can you swim?”

“I'm in Guppies,” Thomas said proudly. “Last week I ducked my head underwater before anyone else in the class.”

Emmy sighed. Guppies was only the second class after Tadpoles, and four classes below Dolphins, which she had just passed. There was no way she could leave Thomas to play by the lakeshore with a clear conscience.

Emmy trudged across the lawn to her back door. “Mrs. Brecksniff? Oh, Maggie. Would you please tell Mrs. Brecksniff that Joe's little brother is here playing on the dock? I'm leaving when Mr. Peebles comes, so could someone watch him?”

A blue-and-white boat was motoring up past the point. Emmy trotted back to the shore where she had left her life jacket and stopped to watch Thomas as he squatted by the rushes, collecting pebbles and snails. He looked up happily. “Did you know that every time you throw a rock in the water the minnows all swim away? And then they come back, and you can do it all over again?”

“There goes my minnow pie for the second day in a row!” roared a hoarse voice, and a blunt, furry face popped out from between the cattails and snarled.

“Now, Marshall,” came a placating voice from the rushes, “he's just a child.”

“He's old enough to learn some manners!” bellowed Marshall, swimming at Thomas with his whiskers bristling.

Everything seemed to happen at once. Thomas, delighted to find more rodents that he could understand, surged toward the muskrat. At the dock's end,
Peter Peebles was tying his boat to the cleats. And out of the corner of her eye, Emmy could see the sturdy figure of Mrs. Brecksniff hurrying toward them.

Emmy grabbed Thomas by the collar and hauled him back onto the lawn. “Thank you, Mrs. Brecksniff!” she called, giving Thomas a shove in the right direction. She snatched up her life jacket and threw it on, struggling with the buckles. It seemed strangely lopsided, but she was in too big a hurry to adjust it. She sprinted to the end of the dock, jumped in the boat, and helped Mr. Peebles cast off. She waved at Thomas and Mrs. Brecksniff as the boat accelerated, and fell back in her seat with a gusty sigh. She had managed pretty well, considering everything.

There was a squirming sensation in the front of her life jacket. Startled, Emmy looked down. A familiar gray head poked out from the armpit hole, and grinned.

“See? I told you this life jacket didn't need all that padding.”

Emmy suppressed the urge to throw the Rat overboard and be done with it. “I suppose you think you're clever,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Well, yes, actually.” Raston turned back a flap of the life jacket's outer covering to display neatly snipped stitches and a gnawed-out section of the buoyant padding. “See? I fit right inside. And if you ever want to take another rat with you—say, Sissy— I can just chew out a spot on the other side.”

“And what if I fall in the lake?” Emmy said under cover of the boat's motor. “With a life jacket full of holes?”

“Oh,
that
,” said the Rat, waving a dismissive paw. “If worse comes to worst, you can always swim. And there's certainly enough left to float Sissy and me.”

“Oh well, if you and Sissy would be all right,” Emmy said gloomily, staring out at the lake whizzing by.

It was true that the Rat had come up with the perfect camouflage. And Mr. Peebles was too busy driving the boat to notice anything happening behind his back. But as they approached the yacht club, and Emmy saw the bright sails gliding smoothly past, she had a feeling of doom. It was a hopeless sort of feeling, as if everything that had already gone wrong would just keep on getting worse, no matter what she did.

As it turned out, she was right.

When Mr. Peebles tried to show her how to put up the signal flags, she ended up losing one overboard in the breeze.

She blew the whistle at the wrong moment, and the whole fleet got confused.

And when Kate and Meg came sailing past, they were so startled to see her that they bumped into another boat and had to turn three circles as a penalty. The breeze carried their comments over the water. “She could have crewed for me,” Kate said, and Meg added, “It's not like she's really
needed
on the signal boat.”

To top it all off, Emmy was so distracted by Ratty (who kept saying “Arrr, me hearties,” and popping out to feel the breeze in his whiskers) that she missed half of Peter Peebles's explanations; and then the other half didn't make any sense.

But the worst moment came at the race's finish, when Ratty lost his head completely and leaped from his hiding place in her life jacket to the glossy white deck.

“Put your backs into it, maties!” he cried, waving his cutlass as the boats passed the final buoy. “Shiver me timbers! Yo ho ho and a bottle of ru—”

His voice cut off suddenly as the boat rocked on a wave. Emmy, who had already caught up her towel to muffle him, watched as if in slow motion as the Rat lost his balance and fell backward over the gunwale, his mouth open in a soundless shriek.

There was a very small splash. Peter Peebles, absorbed in watching the end of the race, hadn't noticed. The racers had eyes for nothing but the goal ahead. No one seemed to have seen the Rat go overboard—no one but Emmy.

Emmy leaned over the gunwale. The Rat, his paws thrashing, looked up at her with panic in his eyes. He tried to speak, got a mouthful of water, and went under.

Emmy sighed. Bleakly, resigned to her fate, she got up on the deck, leaned past the balance point with a convincing sort of lurch, and dropped in. She realized, one moment too late, that she was still holding her towel.

The water was cold, with the chill of a very large lake that iced over every winter and never really warmed up until August, and Emmy sneezed violently as she bobbed to the surface. She grabbed for the Rat and stuffed him in her life vest without any
particular tenderness. She swam around to the ladder at the boat's stern and climbed up, dripping and miserable, to meet the white and frightened face of Peter Peebles and the scornful glance of Kate, who was crossing the finish line in last place.

Emmy sneezed all the way to the yacht-club restroom. She was just making the discovery that a fistful of paper and a hand blower were a poor substitute for a dry towel when Meg came through the swinging door.

She looked at Emmy curiously. “Why did you fall in?”

Emmy rubbed her goose-pimpled arms. “My towel,” she said vaguely, waving at the soggy mass of terry cloth on the counter.

“You went in after a
towel
? Why didn't you just use the boathook?”

“Because I was stupid,” Emmy said bitterly. She wished she could disappear and be done with it, but no—she was going to have to answer questions. She sneezed again.

Meg pulled a duffel bag from a locker. “I always pack extra dry things. Most sailors do.”

“I'm not much of a sailor,” Emmy confessed.

“You sure sounded like an expert yesterday.” Meg unzipped her bag and handed over a towel.

Emmy received it gratefully. “Um—I heard something once from a real expert about what to do if a boat went backward, and it just happened to work.”

“Lucky for us. Listen, here's a dry set of clothes—we're about the same size.” She hesitated. “I could pick them up after I help Kate put the sails away and tidy up the boat.”

“Thanks!” Emmy said, startled.

“That's okay. I bike right past your street on the way home.” Meg grinned, a little shyly. “Besides, I've always wanted to see the inside of a castle.”

E
MMY WAVED GOOD-BYE
to Peter Peebles as the blue-and-white boat roared away from her dock.

All right—this was her chance. She was about to make a normal, regular friend, only this time no rodents were going to interfere.

“Can I get out of the life jacket
now
?” Raston pleaded. “I'm wet, and cold—”

“And whose fault is that?” Emmy asked severely as she walked into the boathouse, a stone building at the water's edge that they used for storage. She hung the jacket on a hook, found a dry rag for the sodden Rat, and turned as Thomas trotted in.

“Oh, good, you're back,” he said, panting. “Mrs. Brecksniff was no fun. She made me wash my snails off in the sink and then wait while she scrubbed the floor.
Now
can we go up in the tree fort?”

“Cabin boy,” Emmy commanded, “come to attention when your captain is speaking.”

Thomas straightened instantly, two fingers to his forehead in a salute.

“You remember your duty, boy?”

“Yes, sir! To obey orders, sir!”

Emmy considered telling him to address her as “ma'am,” but she let it pass. “All right. This pirate”—here she indicated the damp Rat—“was—um—forced to walk the plank. I rescued him from a watery death—”

“From sharks, too!” put in the Rat. “And a giant squid!”

“—from a watery death,” repeated Emmy sternly, “and now he's giving up the pirate life. Take him to Rodent City, where Mrs. Bunjee can dry him off and put him to bed with a cup of hot cocoa.”

“Hot cocoa,” said the Rat dreamily, shutting his eyes. “Arrr.”

“Rodent City, captain?” Thomas looked puzzled. “Where's that?”

Of course Thomas didn't know where Rodent City was, Emmy realized. He had never been bitten a second time by Raston, had never shrunk to rat size; so he'd never gone through the hole in the art-gallery steps to the lively, colorful, bustling city beneath.

“Just bring him to the steps in front of the art gallery on Main Street, and he'll take it from there.
And, Thomas, I'm trusting you to keep him hidden the whole way. This is a secret mission.”

“Aye-aye, captain!” said Thomas, his round face beaming. “Do I report back here when I'm done?”

“No.” Emmy made the syllable emphatic—she didn't want to be playing with a little kid when Meg came over. “But we can meet at the ball fields. Where the natives play a game called soccer.”

“Yes, sir.” Thomas sighed. “
Then
can I play in the tree fort—I mean the ship?”

Emmy clapped a captainly hand on Thomas's shoulder. “Just do your duty, cabin boy, and you'll soon be back on the good ship G.F.”

 

Emmy stood in front of the mirror and redid her ponytail. She had already sent Meg's clothes down with Maggie to be laundered; now she had to decide which of her new tops looked the coolest.

Oh, what did it matter? She flung herself out of her blue-tiled bathroom and went to the window in the turret. If she looked closely, she could see where Chippy had clipped a corner of the screen free from its frame.

Chippy was Mrs. Bunjee's son, and the most
inventive chipmunk Emmy knew. He and his brother, Buck, had created a catapult that threw cockleburs—it worked very well on cats, as Emmy knew from experience—and Chippy loved to tinker with the pulleys and levers and wiring of Rodent City. He sometimes came to play on her electric train, and occasionally brought a friend—so she wasn't bothered that the Rat had picked up an unfamiliar scent. He didn't know how
everyone
in Rodent City smelled.

Still, Emmy decided, if she wanted fewer rodents in her life, she should probably close her window more often.

She gazed through the screen. High in the trees, bits of the fort showed between leafy branches. Would Meg like to play in the tree fort? Or would she be the kind who was afraid of heights?

Oh well, there was plenty to do in the playroom. Emmy wandered over to the door that connected her bedroom to the room stuffed with toys. Let's see, what would Meg like? A board game? The electric train? Maybe she liked to play Barbies. If she did, Emmy had a pile of clothes …

The clothes were moving. Emmy leaned forward intently. Yes, there was something behind the pile of
doll clothes, rummaging about and muttering. Emmy held very still. The words faded in and out, like a radio on a weak frequency.

“… Accessories, she said … Gold beads? … A purple purse? … Something shiny …”

Emmy edged closer, sock-footed, making no sound.

“… maybe that tiara … It might fit between her ears …”

Emmy lowered herself quietly to her knees. Behind the mound of doll clothes, a black rat was busy cramming a rucksack full.

“I wish she'd just come herself, but no,” grumbled the rat to himself. “
I
don't know what she wants.” He looked at the mountain of clothes with an air of desperation, grabbed a last armful at random (Emmy recognized a balaclava, a pair of bright-pink tights, and a tutu), and wedged it all in the rucksack.

“What do you think you're doing?” Emmy demanded.

The black rat jumped four inches and whirled.

“No offense or anything,” said Emmy coldly, “but you do realize that if you take that sack out of this room, you're stealing?”

The rat's paws, which had gone up in a defensive
position, dropped. “You,” he sneered. “You're that nasty girl who stole my Rat. And then you turned my Janie into a rat. And then I had to become a rat. And now
you
call
me
a thief?”

“Only because you are one, Cheswick Vole,” said Emmy, recognizing his glossy black coat. “You stole the Rat in the first place—from his own nest, and then from Professor Capybara—remember?”

The black rat shuffled his hind paws and blinked rapidly.

“Besides,” Emmy said with disdain, “I didn't turn Miss Barmy into a rat. Ratty bit her because she was choking his sister—and you
asked
to become a rat, to be like Miss Barmy. Though why,” she added as an afterthought, “anyone in his right mind—”

“You
never
understood her,” Cheswick said passionately. “She had a difficult childhood.”

“I know how that feels,” said Emmy darkly.

“She's a victim. She didn't get her rights. This house should have been hers when old William died … so this room and these doll clothes really all belong to
her
.”

Emmy shrugged. “Sorry, but they don't. Get over it.” She glanced at the rucksack. “Dump that out,
and then go. I'm keeping my window closed from now on.”

Cheswick lifted a scornful lip. “That isn't the only way into your house, you know.”

Emmy suppressed a shudder. “Why would you want to come back, anyway? Those clothes will never fit Miss Barmy.”

Cheswick sniffed. “Of course they will. With a little ripping and a little sewing, my darling Barmsie will outshine them all.”

Emmy tried to envision Miss Barmy, industrious with a needle and thread, and failed. Was
Cheswick
going to sew for her? And, more important, where was Miss Barmy now?

“She'll show them,” Cheswick gloated. “She's got big plans, clever plans. She's going to—” He glanced over his shoulder, swiveling his dark head.

Emmy followed his gaze automatically, whereupon Cheswick snatched up the bulging rucksack and darted to a shadowy corner.

Exasperated, Emmy scrambled to her feet. She had some idea of trapping him and putting him in a box until he told her what he knew, but the rat skittered away, shoved the rucksack into a gnawed hole
in the baseboard, and backed inside, his beady eyes glowing in the darkness. “You'll regret crossing Jane Barmy—you and Professor Capybara and Mrs. Bunjee and all the rest.”

Emmy listened with dismay. “Leave them alone!”

“You'll never know what we're doing until it's too late …” The yellow eyes blinked into darkness.

Emmy dropped to her hands and knees. “Stay away,” she yelled into the shadowy hole, “or I'll call the exterminator!”

There was a mocking echo of a ratty laugh, and a sound of pattering feet fading away into the distance. Emmy smacked the wall in her frustration. “You dirty rat!”

There was a shuffling sound on the floor behind her. Emmy jumped.

“Um,” said Meg, “is this a bad time to pick up the clothes?”

 

Emmy slumped on the window seat, her forehead pressed against the glass. Of course Meg hadn't stayed. She'd made some excuse to leave right away, and Emmy didn't blame her. Who would want to be friends with someone who shouted at the wall?

Once again, everything was wrecked because of a
rat. Emmy gazed hopelessly at squirrels in the oak trees, chipmunks on the ground, at all the small furry forms darting here and there in the underbrush; and as she turned her head to the lake, she knew that there, among the rushes, a couple of muskrats were probably eating minnow pie.

There was no way to escape them. Rodents were
everywhere.
Worse yet, according to Cheswick, there were lots of ways they could get into her house.

Emmy rubbed her hand, sore from hitting the wall, and brooded. It wasn't so much that she missed a few Barbie clothes; it was the idea that Cheswick had come into her room and stolen them. What would he take next, she wondered—her stuffed animals? Her paints? And what exactly were he and Miss Barmy planning?

Something nasty, that was certain. The Bunjee family and Professor Capybara had to be warned.

Emmy's thoughts were interrupted by a snuffling sound coming from outside the window. Resignedly, she watched as two small paws appeared over the windowsill's edge, and then a familiar gray head. “You're supposed to be in bed with a cup of hot cocoa, Ratty.”

“It's only me,” gasped an apologetic voice, and
Raston's twin crawled through the flap in the screen, stood up, and adjusted the name badge on her smart blue blazer. “I'm sorry, were you expecting Rasty?”

“Not at all,” Emmy said politely, thinking that it was easy to mix up the two rats. Cecilia looked exactly like her brother except for the triangular patch of white fur behind her right ear. On him, it was behind the left.

The gray rodent cleared her throat, clasped her paws together over her jacket, and fixed her gaze somewhere past Emmy's head. “A message for you,” she began in a high singsong, “from the Speedy Rodent Messenger Service. Testing. Testing. Testing.”

There was a pause. “Is that all?” asked Emmy.

“It's just a test,” said Sissy, looking worried. “Should there be more?”

“No, no, that's fine,” Emmy said quickly.

“I could quote the Messenger Service Slogan,” Sissy offered. She twisted her paws together and shut her eyes. “If for a message you are needy, then call us anytime— No, that's not it.” She flushed beneath her fur and tried again. “If you want a rodent speedy, just call us because we're greedy— No, that's not it, either.” She hung her head.

“That's perfect,” said Emmy promptly.

“No, no—I got it all wrong—”

“But you hadn't practiced the slogan. You said the real message perfectly.”

“I did, didn't I?” Sissy regained a little confidence. “And I tried to speak clearly, and—and distinctly—”

“I have
never
heard a rat speak so clearly and distinctly,” Emmy said with great firmness. “Never in my life. Now, why don't you sit down and tell me about yourself. What made you want to be a messenger?”

Emmy smiled encouragingly at Cecilia. She knew what Raston's sister could do—that is, reverse the effects of her brother's bites. But she didn't know very much about Sissy herself, and the rat did look tired.

Cecilia shook her head. “I can't sit down on the job. I have to get right back for the next message. You see,” she added humbly, “I don't have much of an education, so I have to work twice as hard as the other rats.”

“But,” said Emmy, thinking fast, “I want to send a message back with you.”

Cecilia's eyes opened wide. “You do?” Her voice scaled up with joy.

“Only I need some time to think of how I want to say it. And then you'll need time to practice it. So sit down.”

Emmy filled a cup with water, and looked in a drawer for her stash of peanut-butter cups. They were Raston's favorite, and she always kept a few around.

“Here you go.” She unwrapped the candy, set the water on the windowsill, and thought about her message. In the meantime, Sissy, after one cautious bite, settled down to an ecstatic munching.

“Okay,” Emmy said as Cecilia licked up the last crumbs. “This message goes to Mrs. Bunjee, of Rodent City. Tell her, ‘Do not—repeat, do
not
—trust Miss Barmy or Cheswick Vole. More information later.'”

Sissy clapped her somewhat chocolaty paws. “Oh, good, it goes to Rodent City! I'm not sure of all the field addresses yet,” she added confidentially. “There are
so
many tunnels outside.” She dipped her paws in the cup of water and rubbed hard. “My, what a wonderful treat. All right, now I'll repeat back to you.”

Emmy had a sudden thought. “Wait—can you carry a peanut-butter cup to Raston? And why don't I just write a note for you to deliver?”

Sissy shook her head. “I'll carry the candy, but I'm not allowed to carry dispatches.”

“Really? It seems like it would be easier—”

“‘A messenger must be able to transmit the message,'” Sissy quoted stiffly. “‘If the recipient is unable to read for any reason, the messenger must be able, upon request, to open and read aloud the message. Rodent messengers who have not passed their reading test will not be certified to carry dispatches.'”