Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls

by Lynne Jonell

  They all fell silent as a slight vibration shook the attic floor. Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and the rodents dashed beneath a shelf and waited, panting, in the shadow it cast. The door creaked open.

  “Addie, dear? Where are you?” Mr. B’s heavy feet shuffled past the rodents’ hiding place.

  A tiny, shrill cry could be faintly heard under the colander.

  “I’m sorry, little girl, but you just have to stay there.” Mr. B put his hands over his ears. “I hate it when the little ones cry,” he mumbled to himself. “Jane and Addie will be so mad that the other girls got away … and the police keep asking questions …” His footsteps receded to the far end of the room. “Addie? Addie, where have you gone?”

  The four rodents looked at one another and nodded. In an instant, they scampered out the open door and down the stairs. They bunched in a furry heap on the second-floor landing and listened at the apartment door that Mr. B hadn’t quite shut, their sensitive ears cocked. They heard voices.

  “BUT WHERE IS HE, Cheswick? He promised.”

  “Now, Jane,” soothed Cheswick Vole, “I’m sure he’ll turn up in time for the pageant. And if he doesn’t, you can ask someone else to sing.”

  Miss Barmy’s claws tapped on the floor of the dollhouse. “You don’t understand, Chessie. I can’t have just anyone. I need a rodent with a voice.”

  Raston grinned cheekily. Buck and Joe pretended to gag, but Emmy listened intently as the conversation continued.

  “Do you have the ballots ready?” Miss Barmy sounded uneasy.

  “All marked and ready, my little kumquat,” said Cheswick.

  “And the mouse? The one that doesn’t talk?”

  “Locked up with the ballot box and a satin pillow. Don’t worry, princess—the pageant will go exactly as you planned. I will take care of everything.”

  Emmy scuttled around the baseboards to an overstuffed chair with a skirt that went to the floor. The three rodents followed her silently, slipping under the curtain of fabric. They gathered in the dim space beneath the sagging upholstery, and put their heads close together.

  “You heard them,” said Emmy quietly. “They’ve marked the ballots for the beauty contest—before the voting. That means they plan to cheat.”

  Raston’s ears drooped. “I suppose you’re going to say I shouldn’t sing for them.”

  Emmy shook her head. “No, I was actually thinking that you should.”

  Buck pulled back. “What?”

  “Just listen to her.” Joe looked around the circle. “What’s your idea, Emmy?”

  Emmy lowered her voice. “Miss Barmy knows that everyone in Rodent City blames me for what happened to Sissy, including you guys.”

  Joe rubbed a paw over his whiskers, looking uncomfortable. “We don’t blame you now,” he said, and Buck and Raston nodded quickly.

  “But there’s a lot she doesn’t know,” Emmy went on. “She doesn’t know that I was the one who stopped the burglary and helped the little girls escape. I mean, Cheswick was locked in a lunch pail the whole time.”

  “She doesn’t know that Mrs. B is under the colander, or that Merry is gone,” said Buck, realization dawning. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “She doesn’t know that we’re not still mad at you,” added Joe.

  “Well, I’m still kind of mad,” said the Rat.

  Emmy ignored him. “And best of all, she doesn’t know who I am.”

  They looked at her blankly.

  “She won’t recognize me,” Emmy said patiently. “I’m a rat now, see?”

  They saw.

  “You can be a spy!” said Raston.

  “And you three can be double agents. Miss Barmy already thinks you hate me; she’ll think it’s natural if you switch to her side, like everyone else in Rodent City.”

  “We never hated you,” Joe said earnestly.

  Buck sat back on his haunches and nodded approval. “I like it. Miss Barmy won’t be on her guard, but all the time we’ll be undermining her.”

  “The Underminers!” said Joe. “Cool name!”

  “Can we have a secret handshake?” asked the Rat.

  Emmy and Joe moved quickly from the chair to the hole in the baseboard. Buck watched until they disappeared behind the wall. He gave Raston the signal.

  The Rat bounded up the table leg to the dollhouse. “I’m here!” he announced.

  “Rasty!” Miss Barmy gave a charming little squeak. “Just the rodent I wanted!”

  “I have my song all ready,” said the Rat. “Do you want to hear it?”

  “I’m afraid you misunderstood,” said Cheswick stiffly. “We have the song here. It’s already written.” He passed a folded sheet of paper to the Rat.

  Raston’s whiskers fell. “Oh, really,” he said without enthusiasm.

  “Let’s hear it, Raston! Let’s hear your marvelous voice!” Miss Barmy crooned.

  “Well …” The Rat weakened. “I’ll try.” He hummed a note, looked down at the paper, and began:

  There she is, Princess Pretty—

  There she is, your ideal

  The dream of each humble rat

  Here in Rodent City

  Is to have blotches just as pretty

  As the brown, white, and tan we see

  On our fabulous Miss Barmy!

  The Rat hesitated, glanced up, and went on:

  There she is, Princess Pretty—

  There she is, your ideal

  For though you may dream,

  You know you can never be her

  She does you a favor

  Even to let you see her …

  And there she is!

  Rarer than rare, she is!

  Worthy of stare, she is!

  Princess Pretty!

  There was a muffled sound of clapping. “Lovely! Lovely!” cried Miss Barmy. “Don’t you think so, Cheswick?”

  “Well, I wrote it, after all,” said Cheswick.

  The Rat stared down at the paper in his paw. “But this seems to assume that Miss Barmy will be the winner.”

  “But of course!” cried Cheswick gallantly. “Don’t you think she’ll win?”

  “Uh—sure, maybe.” The Rat scratched his head. “But shouldn’t we have a song that could work for someone else, just in case?”

  “Certainly,” said Cheswick. “By all means. Just make sure to practice this one.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “You’d better go put on your tuxedo,” said Miss Barmy, with a winning smile.

  Buck waited until everyone had left. Then he bounded to the kitchen, leaped onto the counter, and scrambled into the cupboard. What he found left him gasping. Not just jars of seeds and nuts, but a whole box of peanut-butter cups!

  He made numerous trips between the kitchen cupboard and an underground storage room in the tunnel to Rodent City. Then, on his last visit, he stopped abruptly at the kitchen door, his head cocked. There was an odd ringing sound overhead— wang-wang-wang-wang—as if something round and metal had been cast aside and was spinning fast, and faster. Suddenly it rattled to a final stillness.

  Buck tucked his carrying pouch under the upholstered chair. He scampered out to the landing and up thirteen steps. He peeked around the edge of the attic door.

  Mr. B was on the chair, looking down in fascination at his miniature wife. “I’m afraid you’re stuck, Addie dear. At least until the glue wears off your feet.”

  A tiny, shrill whine, like that of a furious mosquito, rose from the small figure and went on for some time.

  “Eh?” Mr. B cupped a hand to his ear. “I can’t hear so well as I used to, Addie. But never mind,” he continued, “I’ll take good care of you. I’m used to taking care of little dollies.” He got up, beaming, his white hair surrounding his soft, gentle face like a puff of cloud. “I’ll just see what I can find … Why, look here! A nice little bed for you!” He pottered happily among the shelves, chuckling to himself, as the thin, reedy whisper of his wife’s voice persisted.
It had a distant, almost pleasant sound, like wind in the rushes.

  “You know, I kind of like her small,” he said to no one in particular.

  Mrs. Bunjee was delighted to see Joe. “My, you make a handsome rodent! And you can help me, too. Would you please deliver this to the Antique Rat? It’s for Cecilia, in case she feels better.”

  “Sure,” said Joe. “What is it?”

  Mrs. Bunjee peeled back a corner of the soft, squashy package to reveal a soft bathrobe of a beautiful royal blue. “I ran across this in the pile of clothes that Chippy brought—you know, the ones that Emmy donated—and I made a few alterations. Perhaps she’ll be glad to have it.”

  “Has she woken up yet?” Joe asked.

  Mrs. Bunjee shook her head. “The last messenger said she was still asleep. But that’s good, you know. There’s nothing so healing as sleep.”

  She leaned forward to look past Joe. “And who is your pretty little friend?”

  Emmy shrank back.

  “Oh,” said Joe, “this is—uh—what did you say your name was? I don’t know her very well,” he added in an aside.

  “Mm—Olivia,” said Emmy in a panic, saying the first name that occurred to her.

  “Molivia? What an interesting name, dear. And where are you from? I haven’t seen you around.”

  “She’s new,” said Joe, on his way out the door. “And very shy. I wouldn’t ask her a lot of questions.”

  “I won’t, then.” Mrs. Bunjee appraised Emmy from ears to tail. “But I can see that we’ll have to hurry to prepare you for the beauty contest.”

  “M-me?” stammered Emmy.

  “My dear,” said Mrs. Bunjee, “you may be shy, but you’re also one of the loveliest rats I’ve ever seen. And we need you in the pageant.” She bustled about in the piles of finery that were left from the day’s frantic sewing. “Here’s just the thing. It was too small for the rat that ordered it, but it will be exactly right for you.”

  She lifted a soft, silky dress of the palest pink, with long flowing sleeves and trailing satin ribbons, and held it up to Emmy. “Look in the mirror, Molivia.”

  Emmy looked. She saw a small, worried-looking rat of dove gray, with tidy white paws and a furry white bib under her throat that encircled her shoulders. On her forehead was a soft white star, and in front of her was a dress she had always loved on Barbie.

  “Why do you need me in the beauty contest?” she asked, fascinated by her reflection. She had always been small for her age, but beyond that, it was hard to find any resemblance to the girl she had been.

  “There’s something fishy about this pageant.” Mrs. Bunjee lowered her voice. “I don’t know what it is, but I’d like someone to win besides Jane Barmy! And you might be just the rat to do it.”

  Emmy stood in the wings of the stage and waited for her turn to go on. Unlike the other rodents around her, she wasn’t at all nervous. She didn’t care in the least whether she won or not—she had another goal.

  It had surprised her, though, when she was chosen as one of the top twenty contestants.

  She hadn’t thought her answer to the question “What is your greatest wish?” was that good. Everyone else had said “world peace.” Emmy had thought of that, too, but remembered that the wishing mouse had said, “World peace is for everyone. Pick something for you,” and so she said, “I wish Sissy would get well soon.” The judges wiped their eyes with their handkerchiefs and gave her the best score.

  It had surprised her even more when she made the top ten.

  She hadn’t expected to succeed in the talent contest. The only thing she could think of to do was tap-dancing. She was just a beginner, but it was a skill that no one else in Rodent City seemed to have, and it wowed them. She even got a higher score than Miss Barmy, whose ability to bat her eyelashes 240 times in a minute was nothing short of remarkable.

  And now that she was among the top five contestants (after the evening-gown competition), she was beyond surprise. The best thing was that she had a perfect opportunity to observe Miss Barmy. Unlike Emmy, Jane Barmy seemed to be getting more and more anxious as time went on.

  “What’s Buckram Bunjee doing now?” the piebald rat muttered, biting her claws. “I didn’t tell him to pass out refreshments.”

  Emmy glanced at Buck, who was quietly moving among the audience, passing a gunnysack pouch from row to row. Where he had been, rodent cheeks bunched and rodent jaws moved in a steady, rhythmic chewing.

  “Maybe he’s just getting into the spirit of the pageant,” Emmy ventured, secure in her identity as Molivia. “Giving back to the community, you know.”

  Miss Barmy gave her a look of intense dislike.

  “Who do you think will win Miss Congeniality?” asked Emmy brightly.

  Buck moved to the stage, wiped some excess chocolate from his mouth, and picked up a sheaf of papers.

  “And now,” said Cheswick Vole into the microphone, “a little musical interlude as our judges mark their ballots. Ladies and gentlerats, Gerry and his Swinging Gerbils!”

  The band swung into a brassy number. Miss Barmy clutched at Cheswick as he walked offstage. “Chessie! Buck Bunjee has the ballots!”

  Emmy drifted back behind the curtain, where she could hear without being seen. She pretended to adjust her sash.

  Cheswick straightened his red bow tie, which had been bumped askew by Miss Barmy’s eager paws. “Of course, my little sugar lump. I asked him to pass them out.” He lowered his voice. “It looks better if I’m not the only one handling them.”

  “But Buck’s never liked me! He’ll be suspicious!”

  “I think you’ll find—” Cheswick had begun when Buck’s voice interrupted.

  “You’re looking mighty fine tonight, Miss Barmy!”

  Emmy hid her face in her sleeve until she could stop laughing.

  “Why—thank you, Buckram,” said Miss Barmy, clearly taken aback. “This is … unexpected.”

  “Ma’am, I’ve been wrong about you, and I’ve come to apologize. All this that you’re doing for Rodent City—well, it just goes to show what a nice rat you really are. And pretty, too! Dang pretty!”

  Miss Barmy gave a bleating sort of giggle.

  “I’d kiss your paw, but I might get chocolate on your dress. Peanut-butter cups don’t go with pretty dresses, you know—whoops, there’s my signal, I’d better go—”

  Buck picked up a padlocked ballot box and carried it to the judges’ table. One by one, they pushed their folded pieces of paper into the slot. Buck mounted the platform and set the box on the boards with a thump.

  “Now, where did he get peanut-butter cups?” Miss Barmy said to herself, tapping her claws together.

  Chippy appeared on the far side of the platform. Emmy saw with a pang that he was staring at Miss Barmy in mute adoration.

  Buck glanced once at his brother, scowled, and walked off. Chippy trotted on, wheeling several brightly wrapped boxes in a red wagon.

  “The prizes!” he announced with a sweeping gesture. “Third place, two tablespoons of slivered almonds!”

  No one applauded. They were all too busy chewing.

  “Second place,” said Chippy, somewhat surprised, “eleven macadamia nuts. First place, three bottle caps of poppyseeds, and”—he consulted a paper in his hand—“seventeen pecans for the lovely rat who is voted Miss Congeniality by her peers!”

  There was a scattered round of polite applause. Miss Barmy, standing next to Emmy, seemed to swell visibly. “The ingrates!” she hissed. “Those are valuable nuts and seeds, terribly rare and expensive!”

  Emmy put up a paw to cover a smile as she walked onstage with the five final contestants. Rodents who had just been stuffing themselves with the very same seeds and nuts—not to mention peanut-butter cups, too, courtesy of Buck—weren’t likely to be impressed by such cheap prizes. No doubt Buck had made sure to mention just how plentiful they were at the local grocery store.

  There was a rustle behind the curtain. Cheswick Vole came
through, nudging before him a tiny, timid-looking mouse in knickers. The Endear Mouse, looking stiff and uncomfortable in blue velveteen, carried a gold satin pillow.

  There was an expectant hush. The band played a flourish. Chippy opened the last box, lifting out something that caught the light in a brilliant blaze and shimmer of blue.

  There was a collective intake of breath. The crowd, like one huge, eager animal, craned their necks all together. Chippy set the tiara delicately on the golden pillow where it glimmered like bits of the evening sky, sprinkled with stars. He gazed at it proudly.

  Emmy, too, was proud. These were the Addison sapphires, bought by Great-Great-Uncle William for his bride. They were a piece of her own family’s history, and they were beautiful. None of the assembled rodents needed to be told that here was something truly rare and precious.

  “The jewels in this crown were generously, self-lessly donated from the family vault of Miss Jane Barmy,” said Chippy, his voice cracking with emotion. “Jane dear, we don’t deserve you.”

  Miss Barmy inclined her head with a satisfied smile, her teeth gleaming like a ferret’s, and gazed with half-closed eyes over the assembled rodents as Chippy stepped back to his place beside the Endear Mouse.

  A murmuring rustle rose from the back rows and swept forward, but Cheswick held up a paw for silence and unlocked the ballot box. He reached in. He tabulated the ballots, adding the scores as Buck looked over his shoulder, and nodded to the band. The musicians played a continuous chord, with muted drums.

  “Second runner-up, Miss Letitia Lemming!”

  An earnest-looking brown rodent, furry-tailed and small of ear, stepped from the line amid hearty applause, picked up her prize and a kiss from Cheswick, stepped around the Endear Mouse, and stood to one side.

  The band played an ascending progression of chords. The tension mounted. Off in the wings, Raston took a last look at the words of his song, and took a step forward.

  “First runner-up, Miss Denilda Dormouse!”

  Denilda’s large eyes got even larger, and her delicately fluted ears quivered as she acknowledged the honor and clutched a bouquet of flowers to her chest. She wasn’t quite as adroit as Letitia, though, for her box of macadamia nuts swung wide and bumped the Endear Mouse off its feet. Chippy helped the little mouse up and dusted it off.