Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls

by Lynne Jonell

  Mrs. B’s yellowed, stringy neck twisted. She glanced at the shelf beside her, piled with old kitchen implements, and pulled down a colander.

  Ana looked at her, uncomprehending. Then she understood.

  Merry seemed to understand, too, for she backed away. But Mrs. B’s terrible arm, which had grown in strength and accuracy with every flowerpot thrown, slammed the colander upside down over Merry before she could turn and run.

  Ana saw little hands come through the holes of the colander.

  “Now,” said Miss Barmy, “I’m sure you’d like to see your tiny friend again, wouldn’t you? Safe, and unharmed?”

  Ana nodded wordlessly.

  “Well, then, it’s all very simple, isn’t it? Just follow the instructions, exactly as I told you. Cheswick will be watching.”

  DEEP WITHIN RODENT CITY, Emmy ducked into a shadowed corner.

  Two gophers, chatting in high, excited voices, moved along the fourth-level walkway. “Is it true that Cecilia broke a leg?”

  “Two legs, I heard, and three ribs … and Emmy threw the rock herself.”

  “No!”

  “Well, that’s what they say. It’s probably true. You know how humans are—you can’t trust them, it’s not as if they were rodents.”

  “Personally, I have never trusted anyone without a tail …”

  The voices became a murmur in the distance. Emmy tried to shrug off the comments, but she couldn’t quite manage it. She’d been hearing the same sort of thing all morning long, and for half the night besides.

  Last night, after Emmy had shrunk, Meg had offered to carry her back and hide her until the other girls went home. But Emmy couldn’t bear the thought of doing nothing, and so she’d sent Meg home with a promise to meet the next day.

  Buck had been kind enough to give her a full night’s sleep. He had curled up with his head tucked beneath her chin for fifteen minutes. Then they had gone—he and Joe and Ratty, gone to Peter Peebles’s attic to work on their plan to rescue the tiny girls—and they hadn’t invited her to help.

  She lifted her shoulders, stiffly, and let them fall. She wasn’t going to worry about what her friends—her former friends—thought of her. Let them go ahead and make their plans, and good luck to them. Emmy had some plans of her own.

  First, she wanted to discover what Miss Barmy was up to. That was why, for hours now, she had searched out tunnels, and skulked in corners, and crouched behind twiggy doors to listen, and watch, and learn what she could.

  So far, that hadn’t been much. If Miss Barmy was doing anything in Rodent City besides running a beauty pageant, Emmy had yet to discover it.

  But she knew there was more going on. For one thing, it was certain that Miss Barmy’s mother had something to do with keeping the tiny girls captive. She had rubbed out the footprints right in front of Emmy. And even though the note wrapped around the stick had been chewed, the word “prisoners” had been quite clear.

  Did Mrs. B keep the tiny girls in the attic without Miss Barmy’s knowledge? Emmy doubted it very much. Just weeks ago, Miss Barmy had wanted Emmy’s parents to send her to the Home for Troubled Girls. It was the same thing she had done to the girls whose faces were carved on her old cane. No, Miss Barmy knew all about the tiny girl who had stood at the window, looking at Emmy; Miss Barmy had put her there.

  “They’re passing out the mirrors!” squeaked a rodent just behind her, and Emmy flattened herself against the twigs. A horde of gerbils, their fur carefully brushed, went giggling past on their way to the elevator, a birdcage hung from a sturdy cable of vine.

  Emmy peered over the railing as the gerbils crammed into the bamboo cage. Some rodent far below turned a winch, and the elevator slowly descended to ground level, where two narrow gleaming rails extended from the mouth of a tunnel.

  As she watched, an open boxcar was rolled out of the tunnel and up to the elevator landing. She blinked as the disks inside blazed with reflected light, casting a kaleidoscope of glowing dots over every surface in Rodent City.

  So Miss Barmy had kept one promise, anyway. Of course, Chippy had probably done all the work, but Miss Barmy must have ruined a big mirror of her own, to cut the small ones. Could Miss Barmy have a bit of generosity in her somewhere?

  “I heard that Emmy left her bleeding and alone, for twenty hours … or was it twenty-six?”

  Emmy dodged under a bench as a dormouse and a meadow vole trotted past, murmuring in hushed, shocked tones.

  “Thirty, I think. And someone told me that all of Cecilia’s legs were broken, and half her tail was cut off, too …”

  Emmy glared at their small, plump backs as they moved away. No one knew anything about Sissy’s condition, but that didn’t stop rodents from gossiping. And each fresh rumor was worse than the one before.

  Well, if anyone had the inside story about Sissy, not to mention the latest on Miss Barmy, it would be the Bunjees. Emmy rolled from the dim recess under the bench and slipped from hidden nook to shadowed cranny, making her careful way to the loft she knew so well.

  Of course, she had a perfect right to walk right down the middle of any walkway in Rodent City. She had broken no law—no rodent police were going to arrest her. But she couldn’t bear the sidelong glances and sneering looks. Emmy tried to tell herself that the opinion of a bunch of rats didn’t matter in the least—but it did.

  A chipmunk hurried toward the elevator, pulling a red wagon with a squeaky wheel. Emmy quickly stepped behind a trellis and waited for him to pass.

  But the wagon rattled to a stop. Emmy peered through the woven slats of the trellis to see Chippy bending over the wagon, tightening a strap on something that looked astonishingly like a soup tureen. He whirled as a voice spoke.

  “Chipster, there you are!” Miss Barmy’s tone was winsome. “I was just telling—oh, someone, I forget who—what a marvelous big chipmunk brain you have, to think of such clever inventions … We got the mirrors cut in record time!”

  Chippy mumbled something and turned red beneath his pelt.

  “I was looking for you, Chipster, because I have another project that a clever chipmunk might find interesting.”

  “I-I’m sorry, Jane, but I can’t help you just now. I’m going to the Antique Rat, to bring Sissy some soup. We hear she’s back from the vet’s.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, she’s all better!” said Miss Barmy brightly. “Anyway, she can’t possibly have much of an appetite yet.”

  Chippy murmured something that sounded like “But Mother said …”

  “Nonsense.” Miss Barmy patted Chippy’s cheek. “Think of how much use you could be to me. Now, have you ever done delicate metalwork?”

  “Like with a soldering iron?” Chippy hesitated, glancing at the soup tureen, which exuded a wisp of steam and a salty aroma of broth. “I soldered a wire splice just the other day, when Baby Grebbler chewed through a cord and killed the lights in Section 3-A, but I don’t know that you’d call it metalwork, exactly.”

  Miss Barmy smiled brilliantly, her large front teeth gleaming. “What about jewelry? Could you set stones in a tiara, for example?”

  Chippy considered this. “Well, I did do some filigree repair for one of Mother’s brooches. Are you talking about the tiara for the beauty pageant?”

  Miss Barmy grasped the wagon handle, her paw over Chippy’s, and wheeled it around. “Yes, but I’d like to add some larger stones to it, jewels that have been in my family for generations.” She walked off, drawing Chippy with her. “Is the tiara still at your loft? We’ll just go and pick it up, and I’ll show you what I want done.”

  Emmy scrambled after them, moving cautiously. If Rodent City hadn’t been full of twigs and branching lofts, with twinkling lights and deeper shadows, she would never have been able to remain unnoticed all the way to the Bunjee loft, where a stream of rodents trotted in and out with garments for alteration. Emmy recognized the clothes with a pang. Barbie and Ken weren’t going to have a stitch left.

  A soft, sma
ll paw tugged at her hand, and Emmy turned. “Endear!” she said with relief, as the little mouse hopped by her side.

  With its touch, the Endear Mouse’s thoughts came easily into Emmy’s mind—a bubbling excitement over the beauty contest, uneasiness about Miss Barmy.

  “I know,” thought Emmy, huddling on a recessed bench. “I’m worried, too. That’s the reason I’m following her.”

  “Is she still bad?” the Endear Mouse asked.

  Emmy waited for a lull in the stream of visitors, then wedged herself and the mouse quickly behind the open door. “She pretends to be good. But I think she’s up to something, and I want to find out what it is.” Emmy put her eye to the crack by the door’s hinge. “I’d like to know how to help the troubled girls, too.”

  Mrs. Bunjee had called in her sewing circle to help, and the loft was packed. Emmy could see Chippy’s mother seated in an overstuffed chair, her short forearm going swiftly up and down as she pulled a needle and thread through a pile of frothy blue.

  Miss Barmy, nearby, tipped the tiara gracefully as she showed Chippy where she wanted the jewels. A few admirers—a gray squirrel, several gerbils—jostled for position around her. There was a lull in the general noise of conversation, and Miss Barmy’s voice rose flutingly.

  “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of entering the contest myself. After all, I’m sponsoring the contest. I couldn’t enter”—she broke off to smile prettily—“could I?”

  A chorus of male voices were raised in protest. “All the more reason!” “You should!” “You’re prettier than any of them!”

  “Your parents can sponsor the contest,” said Chippy, “if you want to enter.”

  “Well,” said Miss Barmy, fluttering her lashes, “since you insist, perhaps I will.”

  Mrs. Bunjee bit off a thread with a snap. “Chipster. Did you get that soup over to Cecilia?”

  Chippy jerked his head up guiltily. “Not yet, Mother. Miss Barmy needed me—”

  “Come to think of it,” interrupted Mrs. Bunjee, shaking out the gown, “I didn’t see either of you in the search party last night. Too busy, were you?”

  The Endear Mouse pressed close to Emmy. “I can find out if she’s still bad,” it said, mind to mind, and then the fawn-colored mouse with the big eyes ran from behind the door, went straight to the piebald rat, and leaned against her.

  The Endear Mouse’s eyes seemed to grow even larger, and a look of horror covered its delicate face. It tried to back away, but Miss Barmy whipped around and engulfed the mouse in a sudden, smothering hug.

  “What a love of a mouse!” Miss Barmy cried, squeezing tight. “You’re just the thing for the pageant—you’ll be darling in blue velveteen. Come with me and I’ll teach you to bow, and curl your tail, and you can carry the tiara on a golden pillow.”

  She swept out of the loft, the Endear Mouse tucked firmly under one arm, and stopped only to point at Emmy. “Mrs. Bunjee!” the piebald rat said, loud and accusing. “Look who’s skulking behind your door! And in her pajamas, too!” And before Emmy could say one word of protest, she was gone, and the Endear Mouse with her.

  Emmy emerged, hot all over, to face the disapproving stares. “I was just trying to see what Miss Barmy was up to,” she mumbled.

  Mrs. Bunjee looked at her. “A laudable goal,” she said quietly. “I wonder, Emmy, would you like to take the soup to Cecilia? Chippy seems to have something better to do.”

  Emmy nodded, overwhelmed with gratitude. Mrs. Bunjee hadn’t lost all faith in her, then! There was enough left, at least, to trust her with a soup delivery.

  “Well …” Chippy turned the tiara awkwardly in his paws. “I guess I should get started. Jane said she’d send Cheswick over with the jewels in a little while.”

  Emmy, hesitating, touched his arm as he passed through the door. “Listen, Chippy. Don’t trust her, okay?”

  Chippy drew back, his fur slightly raised. “Maybe you’re the one I shouldn’t trust. After the way you treated Sissy …” He paused, glancing uncomfortably at the soup tureen. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly,” Emmy admitted, “but she’s not just putting on a beauty contest, she’s doing something else. I know it. And besides that, I think she’s keeping some little girls captive—”

  “You think? Where’s your proof?”

  “Chippy, I know her. She was my nanny for a whole year. Remember how awful she was? Remember how she tried to choke Sissy? That’s when Raston bit her and she turned into a rat. Don’t you remember?”

  Chippy stiffened. “That was long ago.”

  “Yeah, like—what?—four weeks?”

  “She’s a lovely rat now,” Chippy went on dreamily, “and she thinks my inventions are wonderful—”

  Emmy gripped his furry arm and shook it. “She’s just using you, Chippy. Can’t you see that?”

  “Such style, such sharp, gleaming teeth …” Chippy peeled Emmy’s hand off his arm. “Why can’t you forget about the past? Why do you have to be so judgmental?”

  “Wait!” Emmy ran after Chippy, panting. “You want proof?”

  The chipmunk grunted. “Leave me alone, will you? I’m going to my workshop; I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “I dare you to listen. I’ve got all the proof you need.”

  Chippy faced Emmy, his whiskers bristling. “What do you mean?”

  “Find the Endear Mouse,” said Emmy, “and touch it. Let it talk to you. And then you’ll know for sure who’s right about Miss Barmy—unless you’re scared to find out.”

  Emmy pulled the wagon to the elevator and waited her turn in line. She could hardly dodge from shadow to corner with a cargo of soup rolling behind her, sloshing out from beneath the lid.

  She stepped into the birdcage, steering the wagon to the side to make room for others. But the rodents behind her stayed in line, whispering behind their paws.

  “How could she do such a thing?”

  “And so young, too!”

  Her face burning, Emmy tugged on the cord that signaled the squirrel below to turn the winch. She looked out through the bars of the cage as she made her lonely, creaking descent, feeling as if all eyes were on her.

  Fine, then. She wouldn’t try to warn anyone. Let them find out for themselves what Miss Barmy was really like.

  She rolled slowly past the tunnel entrances on the ground floor. Each one had a chalkboard beside it, and Emmy scanned the warnings as she passed. Cars, soccer balls, children; that one must lead to the playground. But she wanted the passage that led to the backstreets, and at last she found the danger-board on which someone had chalked “(1) Dog, white and yappy, stupid, fast. (2) Hawk, tethered, tattoo parlor: lethal within a two-yard radius. (3) Cat, ginger with white paws: slow, silent, dangerous. (4) Female human, screechy, shoe-shop window: throws flowerpots, good aim.”

  Emmy nodded grimly. She turned into the brightly lit tunnel with its brass wall sconces, and rolled down a passageway that grew darker and earthier the farther she went. At last a glow of daylight appeared, and the floor began to rise. Emmy shoved the wagon up the last incline to the surface of the green, and blinked in the sudden light of morning.

  It seemed safe enough. Emmy was thankful for the low evergreen that screened her from anyone who might be sitting on the park bench. She grunted slightly as she yanked the squeaking wheel over a pebble and past a scrolled iron leg set in concrete.

  Now she just had to figure out how to get to the Antique Rat without being caught by somebody’s pet, or hit by a flying flowerpot. Emmy leaned her elbows on the edge of the concrete slab to get her bearings. Which way was the Antique Rat?

  There was a sudden whoosh overhead—Emmy felt the push of displaced air—and a loud, leathery smack. Emmy shrieked and fell back as pounding feet shook the ground. Get to the tunnel—she had to get to the tunnel—

  The yew branches parted overhead. Emmy’s breath caught in her throat. Staring right at her, not a foot away, was a pair of gigantic blue eyes.


  “Hi, Emmy,” said Thomas, reaching for his soccer ball.

  “SO THE VET couldn’t help her?” Thomas looked from Brian to the professor.

  Emmy was grateful that Thomas was asking the questions. She had tried to speak once or twice, but somehow the words wouldn’t come out.

  She stood on the counter at the Antique Rat, close to the lab equipment, and a little distance from Sissy in her blanket-lined box. She had already been close enough to see Sissy’s closed eyes, and the paleness of her skin beneath her soft gray fur, and to smell the antiseptic beneath the bandage on her leg. Little by little, Emmy had edged away, and now she stood with her back pressing against the smooth, cool metal of the charascope.

  Professor Capybara cleared his throat. “The veterinarian did what she could, but she said that I knew more about rodents, anyway. Apparently it’s an unusual specialty.”

  “When is she going to wake up?” Thomas stared solemnly at the silent gray rat.

  The professor and Brian exchanged a quick glance. “We don’t know, exactly,” said the professor gently. “Soon, we hope.”

  “Did—” Emmy stopped to swallow, and tried again. “Did she break anything?” She had already taken a good look at Sissy’s tail, which seemed intact, in spite of the rumors. But it was hard to tell about bones.

  The professor shook his head. “The X-ray didn’t show any breaks. But the skin was lacerated, of course—that’s where the blood came from. And,” he added in a lower tone, “there’s a little internal bleeding. We’re waiting to see if it stops by itself.”

  Emmy turned away. Internal bleeding was bad; it could kill. She wondered what a sample of her blood would look like in the charascope, now that she was practically a murderer.

  As if through a layer of felt, she dimly heard Thomas explain about Mrs. Bunjee’s soup, and the wishing mouse, and his own newfound kicking ability. After a while, the others went outside for a demonstration, and Emmy was alone on the counter except for the still, gray form on the ragged piece of blanket.