Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls (12 page)

E
MMY STARED
at the empty hole in the ground. She had never felt more like a rat.

She looked quickly, guiltily around. Joe was talking to his father at the bench—he hadn't seen anything. And Thomas? He was too busy tucking something in his pocket—a grasshopper, probably—to have noticed anything. As Emmy watched, he turned toward the soccer field and broke into an awkward, shambling trot. At the sidelines he picked up a ball, carried it to the middle of the empty field, and began to dribble it slowly with his feet.

He couldn't dribble at all. It was almost painful to watch him, but he shuffled along and kicked it at last, right into the goal. Of course, Emmy thought, he could hardly have missed, he was standing ten feet in front of it—but the ball was solidly kicked and it hit the net with a satisfying
thwap.

Thomas looked to the sidelines, where his father was talking with the coach.

“Good job, honey!” called his mother, waving.

Thomas waved briefly, then retrieved the ball and put it down on the field again, a few yards farther from the goal this time. Emmy was surprised that he was showing such an interest in soccer, when there were grasshoppers to catch and rodents to talk to.

She glanced over her shoulder again at the tunnel into which Sissy had crawled. Still empty. Or wait—
was
that the same hole?

Emmy felt irritable. She couldn't keep track of all the little burrows in the schoolyard—there must be a zillion. And how the rodents themselves kept their bearings underground, she didn't know. Maybe they had little signposts.

The girls around her were giggling over something or other. Emmy tried to laugh along, but she couldn't stop thinking about Cecilia.

What had the rat expected, popping up like that in broad daylight? It was her own fault if she got hurt. And why hadn't the Messenger Service trained her better? For that matter, Ratty should have known that his sister was too inexperienced to be let out alone.

Emmy shifted her weight uncomfortably. Maybe all that was true, but she was the one who had stood by while a friend got rocks thrown at her. Emmy
couldn't forget the look of helpless panic in Sissy's eyes.

Emmy lifted her shoulders and dropped them, as if trying to get a weight to slide off. It wasn't really her fault.
She
hadn't thrown the rock that hit Sissy. Anyway, Sissy was going to be okay. She must be nearly back to Rodent City by now. It was only across Main Street, and even if the tunnel had a few twists and turns, it wouldn't be long before she would be tucked up in bed, with a bandage on her leg and a mug of hot chocolate on a tray. Mrs. Bunjee would see to that.

Emmy cheered up at the thought of Mrs. Bunjee. Cecilia would be in good hands. Still, it would be a nice gesture to check in at Rodent City and see how she was doing. If Emmy walked over to the art gallery, she could quietly speak into the crack in the steps that was the front entrance, and some rodent might come up and give her the news.

The sun was high overhead, and warm on Emmy's neck. There was a pleasant buzz of conversation going on all around her, and bits and pieces came through the general murmur: “Whose puppy is that?” “And so I said to Jenna—” “Hey, that kid can
kick!” None of it was about a rat, and none of it was about Emmy.

Relaxing, Emmy put her hands in her pockets. At least no one seemed to think she was any weirder than before. Her fingers rubbed against a damp piece of paper, and she stiffened. She couldn't forget the little girls. She had to show the letter to Joe.

She found him standing a little way off from his team, his shoulders hunched. “What's up?” He lifted his head.

Emmy had a sudden urge to confess what had happened to Sissy, but she didn't do it. “Look,” she said, and told him about the note.

Joe studied the signatures. “Wow … you're right. There's the dot from the ‘i' in Lisa, and part of the ‘-ry' in ‘Merry'…” He looked up. “They're
alive
! We've got to find them. The minute this game is over, let's—” He stopped abruptly.

“What?” Emmy asked, startled at the black look of anger on his face.

“I forgot. I won't be here. I'm going to stupid
California
.”

Thomas came up, flushed and happy, holding the soccer ball. Joe handed him the note and turned away, a muscle working in his cheek.

“But I thought your dad was going to get a refund!” protested Emmy.

Joe didn't answer.

Thomas looked up. “The soccer camp doesn't give refunds. Dad said they'd only give our money back if Joe had a letter from the doctor that said he couldn't play. Like if he broke his ankle or something.”

“I wish I
would
break my ankle,” said Joe bitterly. A whistle blew, and he stalked off to take his place on the field.

Thomas bent over the note, his lips moving as he read. A small tan-and-white mouse popped its head out of Thomas's pocket and turned an alert gaze on Emmy. “So—are you going to the sleepover?”

Emmy was startled. How had it known she'd been invited?

The whistle blew again, and the ball was kicked. Then, suddenly, there was a snap and a sharp cry. A blue-jerseyed player was down, his pale hair spread on the grass.

The coach ran on the field with a first-aid kit. Mr. and Mrs. Benson followed as the players milled around.

Emmy stared at all the commotion. “What happened?” she asked one of the players as he passed.

“Stepped in a gopher hole,” said the boy. “Broke his ankle.”

The mouse in Thomas's pocket nodded briskly and dusted its paws with a satisfied air. “That's three,” it said, and leaped to the ground. It bounded off toward the field where Emmy had first seen it, jumping a foot at a time.

“Wait!” Emmy ran after it, but she didn't dare call out in more than a whisper, and the mouse didn't stop. It popped into the ground right before her eyes. Emmy sat down beside its burrow, breathing hard.

“Come out,” she begged.
“Please.”
She looked up to see her new friends glancing curiously her way.

“What is it now?” The bouncy rodent poked its nose out.

“Did you …” Emmy hesitated. “Did
you
break Joe's ankle?”

“Of course not!” The mouse was chagrined.

“But he wished, and then it happened, just like me getting invited to the party.”

The mouse lifted one shoulder expressively, ruffling the star on its back. “I merely allowed his wish to take physical form.”

“Well, then—could you take it back? What if I wished that Joe's ankle wasn't broken, after all? I don't think he really meant it.”

“Sorry,” said the mouse firmly. “Three wishes only, and no changing your mind.”

“What do you mean? Three wishes per day? I know it's not three per person, because I only had one, and Joe only had one …”

The mouse scrubbed at its ears in frustration. “Leave me in peace, will you? You humans are never satisfied. You think you'd be happy to get your heart's desire, but noooo …”

The small annoyed voice dwindled as the mouse disappeared into the tunnel. Too late, Emmy realized that she had forgotten to ask what the third wish had been.

Thomas came up, puffing slightly.

“It was a
wishing
rodent,” said Emmy. “Did you know?”

Thomas beamed over the soccer ball in his arms. “I thought it might be. Do you suppose it will give more wishes?”

“No!”
cried a voice from the tunnel, and somewhere below a door banged shut.

“I guess not,” said Emmy. She led the way back to the sidelines, where the spectators were clustered. Mrs. Benson had brought the car right up over the grass, and Mr. Benson, looking very anxious, was carrying Joe off the field.

Joe's face was tense with pain, but as he passed, Emmy thought he looked more mystified than upset. She gave him a small, private wave, and he attempted a grin.

“That's my brave boy,” said Mrs. Benson, tucking him into the back seat. “Oh, Thomas. You'll have to come with us—we're going to the doctor's to get an X-ray.”

“Can't I stay with Emmy? She'll babysit me.” Thomas slipped his hand into Emmy's and looked up with wide, trusting eyes.

Emmy managed to keep from laughing. “I sure will, Mrs. Benson, if that's okay with you.”

“All right—but you two stay together, and don't go swimming in the lake!”

“What did you run off for?” asked Meg curiously, as the Benson car drove away.

“Maybe she was playing cops and robbers,” said Sara, to general laughter.

Emmy tried to think fast. She wasn't about to say that she ran after a wishing mouse—but she couldn't think of an excuse that sounded good.

“She was trying to catch something for me,” said Thomas. “She's babysitting me, you know.” He gave them the same blue-eyed, innocent look he had used on his mother, and it worked just as well on the girls.

“Cool,” said Sara enviously. “I'm not allowed to babysit yet.”

“Emmy, Emmy!” Thomas tugged at her sleeve in a babyish way. “Take me to see the professor, okay? You said I could show him my soccer kick. You promised!”

Emmy looked at him in admiration. For six, he was awfully quick. “Sorry, girls—I'll see you tonight.” And just that easily, they were on their way to the Antique Rat.

“I should really make you hold my hand, crossing the street,” said Emmy as they came to the road.

“Don't push it,” said Thomas calmly. “Anyway, I'm carrying a ball.”

Emmy grinned and steered him toward the art-gallery steps. “Do me a favor, will you? Pretend you're catching bugs or something, and call down
the Rodent City entrance. I want to see if Sissy's there yet.”

Emmy sat on the brick steps while Thomas knelt by the crack, clearing away chunks of rubble. “Anyone there?” he called quietly.

No one answered. Thomas crawled around a large concrete planter in order to look at the broken sidewalk that the jackhammer had left in front of the jewelry store. The workman had pulled out the pipes and left them lying, and covered the pipe hole in the wall with a temporary flap. Thomas picked up a small copper pipe and fit it into a larger one, moving it back and forth like a slide trombone.

There was a sudden protesting squeak, and a black rat slid out the far end of the pipe, landing on the rubble. He had a cloth measuring tape in his paws. As soon as he saw daylight, he skittered past Thomas's knee and up the side of the planter. He dived in among a mass of pink petunias, the tape measure unrolling behind him.

Emmy parted the foliage and peered in. Cheswick Vole and Miss Barmy glared back with enraged expressions on their whiskered faces.

Emmy jerked away, her heart beating fast. Feeling
foolish, she remembered that she was now full-sized, and Miss Barmy was only a rat. Still, she was a mean rat with teeth and claws, and Emmy picked up a small piece of pipe just in case.

She felt much stronger holding the pipe. She looked closely at Miss Barmy, who had a clipboard in her paw, filled with small, neatly penciled numbers.

“What are you doing?” Emmy demanded.

Miss Barmy slid the clipboard behind a petunia stem and straightened, smoothing the front of her gold-and-green track suit. “Still no friends your own age, Emmy?” She turned to Cheswick, who was hiding the tape measure behind a thicket of leaves. “She was never very popular. She never brought anyone home to play.”

“Only because you
drugged
them,” Emmy said hotly. “You came to my class at school and used a rodent potion to make sure the kids didn't even know I existed!”

“Still pretending, I see.” Miss Barmy's laughter tinkled. “Have you gotten any help yet, Emmaline? A psychiatrist could assist with your delusions … and perhaps help you make a few friends, too.”

“I'm her friend,” said Thomas stoutly.

Miss Barmy looked him up and down. “A kindergartner, Emmaline? A
chubby
kindergartner?”

A wave of scarlet washed up into Thomas's round face, turning his scalp pink beneath his blond hair. “I'm not a kindergartner,” he said, scrambling awkwardly to his feet. “My name's Thomas Benson, and I'm almost a second-grader.”

“But you're fat, Thomas,” said Miss Barmy pleasantly. “And clumsy, too, I see. Isn't your brother Joe Benson, the athlete? Why can't you be more like him?”

Emmy, rigid with anger, opened her mouth. But Thomas was already stumbling into the alley, the soccer ball clutched to his chest.

There was nothing Emmy could say that would make the slightest difference. She contented herself with banging the side of the planter with one of the pipes—a fine, ringing blow; she hoped it hurt their eardrums—and then ran after Thomas.

He said nothing until they got to the Antique Rat. “I'm not coming in.” Thomas looked away.

“But don't you want to see Brian? And the charascope? And say hi to the professor?”

“I want to practice my kicks.” Thomas dropped
the ball at his feet and bumped it slowly toward the green.

Emmy sighed deeply and rang the bell. She had a strong desire to go back to the planter and strangle Miss Barmy with her own two hands. She didn't think she could quite manage to murder her in cold blood, but it was tempting.

 

“They had a clipboard? And a tape measure?” Professor Capybara leaned back in his swivel chair, gazing absently at the vials lined up on the laboratory counter. “Buck, do you have any idea what they might be up to?”

A chipmunk, looking much like Chippy but a little bulkier in build, lifted his head from the eyepiece of the charascope. “They're up to no good, I can tell you that much.”

“Now, now,” said the professor, “let's not be extreme. Your mother and Chippy don't think so—”