Emmy and the Incredible Shrinking Rat (5 page)

“Now, I'll just lay out your pajamas, and— My stars!” Maggie, who had been rummaging in Emmy's pajama drawer, stopped with her head half turned. She was looking into the playroom.

Emmy felt her cheeks get hot. She hadn't asked for the toys, but they just kept coming. Her parents sent them from London and New York and every other place they went where she wasn't. There was a dollhouse with beds and wallpaper and chests full of doll clothes. There was an expensive model train set with a track that went through tunnels and mountains and all around the room, and a play kitchen, and an art center with a little sink for washing up, and an electronic keyboard, and a puppet theater, and every Lego set and stuffed animal imaginable.

Emmy looked at Maggie, embarrassed. “Can I go to bed now?”

Maggie turned swiftly. “Of course, sugar. Just pop yourself in the tub, and then tuck yourself in. Don't
forget to say your prayers, and I'll see you at breakfast. Do you like sausages?”

Emmy looked at her doubtfully. “The tofu kind?” She had had experience with those.

“Over my dead body,” Maggie said cheerfully.

 

Emmy threw on her pajamas and bounced into bed, turning the picture on her bedside table so it caught the moonlight. Her parents looked back at her.

Jim Addison was big and broad shouldered, with eyes that crinkled at the corners. His arm was thrown over his wife's shoulders, and Kathy Addison's soft brown hair blew back against his sweater. She was smiling right into the camera, her eyes warm.

They would look like that coming off the plane. Her father would grin and ruffle her hair, and her mother would swoop down and hug her close. Then when they got home, her parents might play a board game with her, or sit by the fire and tell stories, or want to look at her school papers. And they would say they were proud of her, and that she was a good girl, and that they loved her very much.

Emmy shut her eyes, happily snuggling deep under her blanket. But sleep wouldn't come.

What was so important about white fur behind a rat's ear? And did the rats in the store really have amazing powers? There had certainly been something very unusual about the Endear Mouse.

Emmy idly watched leaf shadows move and dance on the wall above her bed. How odd that there had been a rat in the store that looked so much like her own Rat. And then there was that awful rat man. She hadn't told him her last name, but might he find her anyway?

Emmy shuddered and quickly thought of something more pleasant. Joe. Now, there was a nice surprise. Someone who
noticed
her.

She gazed at the fluttering leaf shadows. It was good to have a friend. In fact, she had made three friends today, if you counted Brian and the Rat—

The leaves moved.

They had been moving all along, of course, but this movement was different. It was not the gentle fluttering of paper-thin shapes in a light breeze. It was the stealthy, purposeful movement of something
alive. Something lumpy. Something that reached out one stubby finger and tapped.

Emmy stiffened.

The finger reached out again and tapped on the glass. Emmy looked closer. It wasn't a finger after all. It was a—

It was a stubby, short, furry foreleg with a paw attached—

It was the Rat.

“R
AT!”
Emmy ran to the window and creaked it open.

The Rat, wet and bedraggled, dragged himself over the sill and collapsed in a damp heap. His ear looked like it had been chewed.

“Where have you been?” Emmy whispered. “You look just—”

“Terrible,” said the Rat, and sneezed. “I know.”

“But what did you do? What happened to you?” Emmy carried him into her bathroom and set him gently on the counter. The Rat leaned against the blow-dryer and put his head in his paws.

“I have been chased. I have been beaten. I have been manhandled and taunted and set upon. Freedom,” he added grimly, tossing back the lank and dripping fur that hung in his eyes, “has its bitter side.”

“Oh, poor Rat!”

“And I'm cold and hungry, and I want a bath.”

Emmy filled the sink and laid out a towel.

“Th—th—thang—” The Rat swallowed, hard, and cleared his throat.

“Thank you?” Emmy suggested.

The Rat nodded. The tip of his nose turned pink.

“You're welcome.” Emmy tested the water in the sink. “So how did you ever find my house? And how did you know which window was mine?”

“You pointed it out, remember?” The Rat's tone was impatient. “Topmost turret, blue window. I just climbed up the grapevine.”

“Oh,” said Emmy.

There was a little silence. The Rat tapped his foot.

“Look,” he burst out at last, irritably. “Is it the usual thing for you to watch your guests take a bath? Because if it isn't, then why don't you just go get me something to eat—
not
rat pellets—and give me a little privacy?”

 

Emmy was almost down the back stairs to the kitchen when she heard the voice she dreaded above all.

“So you didn't meet Emmaline coming out of French? Where was she, exactly?”

Emmy stopped, paralyzed. Should she try to get
back up the stairs without being heard? But some of the steps creaked. … Undecided, she looked down. The old-fashioned staircase turned a corner just before descending to the kitchen, and a wedge of light crossed the steps just below Emmy's feet. She could see Mrs. Brecksniff's bulky shadow, her hands on her substantial hips.

“She was right across the street,” said Mrs. Brecksniff, sounding defensive. “There was no danger, she was just talking to a friend.”

“A
friend
?” Miss Barmy's voice scaled up dangerously.

“Nothing wrong with friends, last I heard,” said Mrs. Brecksniff stoutly. “The poor girl could use a few more of them.”

There was a long, dangerous silence.

“Any friends must be approved by
me
,” said Miss Barmy coldly. “Emmaline has been troublesome lately—influenced, no doubt, by this so-called friend. Or perhaps,” she added, her voice silky, “Emmaline has been getting encouragement from
you.
”

“Now, Jane Barmy, there's no call to take that tone with me.” Mrs. Brecksniff made a noise that sounded like an irritated buffalo.

“The girl's health is delicate, and I will allow no interference.” Miss Barmy's voice was crisp.

“I'm not—”

“Her medicines must be carefully calibrated to her exact emotional condition. I was forced to create an entirely new batch and bring it to her at school.”

“Well I'm sure I don't know what you're so worried about,” Mrs. Brecksniff burst out passionately. “
You
don't care about Emmy, you've made that plain—”

“That's enough, now, you're talking wild—”

“—all you care about is the Addison money, and I know that you'd just as soon she was out of the way altogether—”

“STOP!”

Emmy's knees were suddenly trembling.

“Not one word more, Rebecca Brecksniff. I can get you fired tomorrow!”

“I know you can, more's the pity,” Mrs. Brecksniff went on hysterically. “The girl's parents listen to you—who knows why—you'd never dare talk like this in front of your mother, or your poor dear father—your mother knew what it was to be housekeeper of this house, what with managing the staff and keeping nine bathrooms clean, not to mention the windows—”

Mrs. Brecksniff was making a great deal of noise, honking and blowing into her handkerchief. Emmy gripped the stair treads with hands that felt strangely cold. She had never felt that Miss Barmy really liked her; but to actually want her out of the way? Could Mrs. Brecksniff be right?

“Stop sniveling,” Miss Barmy said icily. “Control yourself now. The girl's parents are arriving tomorrow night, and …”

Miss Barmy's voice faded as the women moved off. Emmy strained to hear, but the only word she caught was “potato.”

She waited until the voices had faded entirely. Then, cautiously, she poked her head around the corner. The coast was clear, and she still had to get the Rat something to eat.

What did rats like to eat?

On the counter was Miss Barmy's health food, neatly labeled. Emmy shuddered, pocketing an apple and a box of raisins instead. She risked a look in the fridge—weren't rats supposed to like cheese? But she didn't dare take time to cut a slice … there! Maggie kept a stash of candy behind the breadbox. Emmy snatched a peanut-butter cup and fled up the stairs.

On the second-floor landing she heard Miss Barmy's voice raised in the foyer below.

“No, I insist. You
must
keep the rest of the servants out of the kitchen while I'm baking. It's an old family recipe—and the ingredients are secret.”

Emmy stood in the shadows, suddenly thoughtful. It was the same thing every time her parents came home: Miss Barmy had to bake her special potato rolls. But why?

Emmy stole quietly up the stairs to her bedroom. A whooshing sound was coming from the bathroom, and she cracked open the door.

The blow-dryer, lying on its side, had been turned on. A tube of hair gel was oozing green. And standing happily in front of the mirror, looking remarkably spiky, was the Rat.

 

“So what's for breakfast around here? Toast points with mushrooms? Eggs Benedict?”

Emmy opened her eyes and choked back a scream. The Rat was sitting on her chest, his sharp, whiskered face just inches from her nose.

She sat up, tumbling the Rat among the blankets. “Breakfast is usually cereal. Or, if Maggie cooks,
maybe sausages. What are you talking about? In your cage, all you ate were those little pellets.”

“A rodent can dream, can't he?” The Rat's ears turned pink.

“But where did you ever hear about toast points and all that? You've been locked in a cage for years.”

“I took advantage of my educational opportunities,” said the Rat stiffly. “In short, I learned to read. It would have been hard to avoid, after years in an elementary classroom. Not only that but I know the Pledge of Allegiance, and ‘America the Beautiful,' and all the words to ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.'”

“But toast points? Eggs Benedict?”

The Rat looked uncomfortable. “Well, if you must know,” he said, “every time the paper in my cage was changed, I had something new to read. If the teacher did it, I mostly got
Teacher's Tattle.
But if I was home with a student for the weekend, I got a little bit of everything.” The Rat lowered his voice. “Some kids got the
National Snooper.
Did you know that the English royal family are really descendants of Martians? And that Elvis has been reincarnated as a hound dog?”

Emmy grinned.

“I got stock tips from the
New York Drone,
and I was very interested in
Psychology Piffle.
But my favorite was
Nummi Gourmet.
Those pictures of chocolate mousse—
mmmm
—and toast points …

“Speaking of which—” The Rat's tone sharpened. “What was it you said about sausages?”

“I'll see what I can bring back from breakfast. But I've got to hurry. And you'd better keep out of sight.”

 

The Rat sat on Emmy's dresser and licked the last bit of breakfast sausage off his paws. “Excellent flavor,” he remarked. “But a little heavy on the lint. Did you have to put them in your pocket?”

“Yes,” said Emmy briefly, stuffing her homework into her backpack. It hadn't been easy, sneaking them off her plate under the watchful eye of Mrs. Brecksniff—not to mention the cat, Muffy, who had a strong liking for sausages and a very persistent meow.

“Weren't there any peanut-butter cups?”

“For
breakfast
?”

“Why not?” The Rat skipped nimbly onto Emmy's arm and ran over her shoulder. Emmy felt a little
thump and a rummaging sort of feeling inside the pack on her back. “Just drop me off outside, will you?”

Emmy shut the bedroom door behind her. “You think you'll have better luck with the squirrels in my yard?”

“I couldn't have worse,” the Rat said grumpily. “That squirrel yesterday was an absolute moron. And the chipmunks weren't much better. I could barely understand them, and
they
certainly didn't understand
me.
” A little worry crept into the Rat's voice. “Perhaps I haven't been educated properly. Maybe
Teacher's Tattle
was right—American schools
should
offer more languages.”

Emmy started down the stairs as the Rat burst out again, fretfully. “How can I be a star, a high-achieving rat, when I've never even studied Rodentese?”

Emmy shrugged. “Nobody expects you to be anything more than an ordinary rat, as far as I know.”

The Rat gave an incredulous snort. “And are
you
content to be just an ordinary girl?”

Emmy trailed her hand along the smooth wood of the banister, wishing she dared slide down it. If she
were an ordinary girl, she would. If she were an ordinary girl, she'd have parents at home and cake on her birthday.

“I wouldn't mind being ordinary,” Emmy said.

“And that,” said the Rat darkly, “is yet another flaw in the American school system. Low expectations. Leading—yourself as a prime example—to drab, ordinary children. Oh, the shame …”

Emmy took the last four steps in one leap and landed in the kitchen with a bounce that shook the Rat into silence.

“Is this my lunch, Maggie? Are there any peanut-butter cups?”

“
Peanut-butter cups?
” Miss Barmy appeared in the doorway, abruptly reaching for the bag. “I've told you before, I won't have this child poisoning herself with sugar! Now, what happened to those tofu muffins?” She rummaged in the refrigerator as she spoke, pulling out bran bars. “
This
is the food a growing child needs.”

Maggie glanced pityingly at Emmy as Miss Barmy repacked the lunch bag with a great noise of crinkling paper. The Rat poked his head out to see the
commotion, uttered a distressed squeak, and fell back in again.

Emmy felt something brush against her leg. It was the cat.

“Oh, go away, you,” Emmy muttered. Muffy, staring earnestly at the backpack, began to meow.

“There!” Miss Barmy held out the lunch sack. “Why, whatever is the matter with that cat? It seems to be staring at your—”

“Miss Barmy!” Emmy interrupted hurriedly. “Did you have a nice day out yesterday? Where did you go?” She opened her eyes wide.

A little muscle jumped at the corner of Miss Barmy's eye. “Nowhere in particular,” she said vaguely. “Dear me, we mustn't forget our herbal scent on the pulse points.” She took a small bottle from her sleeve, shaking it fussily.

Emmy smiled with secret joy. She had just discovered something: the way to keep the nanny from being too nosy about Emmy's business was to ask questions about things Miss Barmy would rather keep hidden!

The nanny dabbed a little liquid behind Emmy's
ears. “The lovely scent will linger all day, providing a pleasant respite from the rigors of study.”

Emmy, by a wrenching effort, managed to avoid rolling her eyes. Of all Miss Barmy's weird herbal remedies, this was the most pointless. The scent that she dabbed on didn't even smell particularly nice—and after the first few minutes, Emmy didn't notice it at all.

Miss Barmy sipped her prune juice, humming a little under her breath. “Don't forget, Emmaline—tonight is quality time with your parents. It's on the schedule—fifteen minutes, or perhaps more if you're good.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Emmy, turning to go. Fifteen minutes' quality time—she'd get a lot more than that. Just the ride from the airport was thirty minutes, at least!

Maggie held the back door open and winked. And as Emmy passed outside, she felt something being dropped quietly into her pocket.

Two peanut-butter cups.