Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls (4 page)

 

Ana sat on the attic windowsill and leaned her head against the dirty glass. She liked climbing up here, to look at the sky and watch the sun sink behind the trees. And tonight, with her fingers sore and her palms pricked from trying (and failing) to sew with a needle as long as her arm, she needed a glimpse of the outside world more than ever.

She wasn't afraid of heights. She had learned not to be, after more than three years of visiting the attic. For although she and the girls used to live in the dollhouse most days, now and then Mrs. B had
banished them to the attic. It was supposed to have been a punishment.

Ana grinned and swung her legs over empty space. It had actually been more like a reward. Although the attic was cold in winter, hot in summer, and gritty with dust, the girls had a freedom in the attic that they never had in the pretty dollhouse. With hundreds of shoes in boxes, the girls had been able to pull out as many laces and knot as many ladders as were needed to climb to the highest shelves. And it had been important to explore the attic room to the very top, for it was full of wonderful clutter.

As far as Ana could tell, Mr. B had never thrown anything away in his life. All the old-fashioned shoes he had never been able to sell; all the hooks and tiny nails and worn-out tools he had no further use for; broken watches, eyeglasses with one earpiece gone, faded ribbons, bits of pencils, assorted books, and almost empty bottles of glue—all of that and more the girls had found in their explorations, and much of it was useful.

Small hooks supported ladders and safety nets. Lenses from broken glasses focused the sun's rays for extra warmth on cold winter days. Ribbons were
woven together over bits of rag to make soft, warm comforters; and pencil stubs, though as thick and long as Ana's arm, were used to help the younger ones remember their letters and numbers. And many more bits of clutter, outdated or left over or nearly used up, could be found somewhere in the vast attic room.

And it
was
vast. To a girl only four inches high, the attic was the size of three football fields together. For Ana, the windowsill was as high above the floor as if she were dangling her legs from the top of a six-story building.

A movement outside the window caught her eye. She pressed her nose to the glass and looked down as a white puppy romped on the grass, barking madly at a butterfly.

There were people below, too. She could see a lady locking the candy store for the night, and a teenage boy polishing the windows of a funny-looking shop with a gray animal painted on its sign. Ana wished, and not for the first time, that one of them would look up and see her. But even if someone did, how could that person know that the tiny bit of movement at an attic window was really a girl, shrunken and imprisoned? And how could anyone possibly
hear her thin small voice through the window, even if she screamed for help?

Even in the same room, people might not understand what they were hearing. Ana had found that out the hard way not long ago, when she had been awakened suddenly by loud voices and stomping feet and then the quick unpleasant swooping that meant the box they slept in was being picked up.

At first the girls had clung to one another, terrified. But when Ana had tried to push open the box lid and failed, and when they had heard the nasty-sweet voice of Mrs. B saying, “Of course you can look, officers, but there are no little girls here,” the children had begun to call for help.

It had been useless, of course. Mrs. B had just talked louder, shaking the box for emphasis. Finally, one of the men had told her to take her box of squeaky toys and get out so they could search.

“Scream like that again,” Mrs. B had hissed after the police were gone, “and I'll call the exterminator.”

No, shouting had not worked. But the whole episode had given Ana a kind of hope that she hadn't felt for a long time. Someone, somewhere, was looking for them.

Ana's eyes came into sharp focus as she looked
directly below. Her favorite person was coming out early from the building next door, an old blue house that had been fixed up as a law office. He must be going somewhere else for dinner; usually at this time of night he was in his kitchen on the second story, scrambling some eggs or pouring a bowl of cereal for his supper.

She felt as if she had gotten to know him over the years, although only in glimpses—the back of his head as he ate his lonely meals, a bit of his elbow as he worked at his hobbies. But sometimes on his way out the front door he would look up at the sky, and she would see his sad, kind face.

Today he stopped to pet the white puppy, which ran to him as if expecting a treat, and then he bent over the garden at the side of his house. Ana loved his flowers; sometimes a sweet, elusive scent would rise on the warm summer air, all the way to the third floor.

She watched the man pick a bouquet, pleased that he had someplace to go tonight—and then she stopped smiling, for all at once she had an idea.

It was more than an idea. It was a plan.

E
MMY WANDERED GRUMPILY
down to the lake, scooped up a handful of pebbles, and clattered onto the dock. She could make quite a bit of noise with her best hard-soled shoes if she stomped.

She hated waiting around in her good clothes with nothing to do. If only she hadn't had to get cleaned up for their dinner guest, she would have had another hour in the tree fort with Joe. Now, because of the soccer tournament, they couldn't play for the rest of the weekend.

Thomas wasn't much of a substitute. He was only six and a half. And Ratty was in Rodent City, delivering their reply to Mrs. Bunjee's invitation.

Emmy shrugged, clicking the wet stones in her hand. That was just as well. She'd never make new friends this summer if she had a rodent hanging around.

The blue water of Grayson Lake slapped against the keel of the family sailboat, moored to the dock.
Emmy didn't know how to sail, but she wanted to learn. It was on her list for the summer, right after “Build a tree fort.”

The lake, choppy now that the breeze had picked up, wasn't smooth enough for skipping rocks. Emmy tossed her pebbles into some rushes at the water's edge, and glanced back toward the empty driveway that curved at the side of the gray stone mansion. Wasn't Mr. Peebles ever going to show up? She was getting hungry.

“Blast that girl! She chased away my minnow! And you were going to make me a pie, Menna!”

The voice, low and oddly gravelly, came from somewhere near lake level. A sleek brown head poked out from the reeds and gave Emmy an intensely irritated look.

Emmy almost apologized—then clamped her lips shut and tried to look as if she hadn't understood. The last thing she needed was another rodent in her life.

“I'll make minnow pie tomorrow, Marshall,” said a second muskrat, popping up. “Let's have a nice snack of cattails out at the point; it'll be healthier, anyway.”

“I
hate
eating vegetarian,” grumbled Marshall, but he pushed off after his wife and swam strongly toward the sandy point, the water streaming behind his head.

Emmy wandered out to the end of the dock, ignoring the muskrats. The waves slid in, great slabs of water that smacked the rocks to her left with a fine white spray.

“That's a pretty little sailboat.” Menna's voice came faintly back from the cattails. “I do so like a white sail.”

Emmy turned as a small boat glided into view around the point. Two figures with ponytails, silhouetted by the dipping sun, suddenly ducked their heads and shifted sides.

“They don't know how to handle it, though,” said Marshall gruffly. “There, what did I tell you?”

“Oh dear,” said Menna. “They'll be on the rocks in a minute.”

Emmy, watching, could see that the girls were in trouble. They had been trying to change direction, but something had gone wrong. The sail was flopping uselessly, and they were being pushed by the wind straight at the rocky shore.

“They'll smash,” said Marshall furiously, “and serves them right. Put your tiller to starboard, sailors!”

The girls didn't seem to understand the squeaking coming from the cattails.

“Put your tiller to starboard!” Emmy called, clear and strong.

“But that will put us on the rocks!” cried a panicked voice from the boat.

“No, you lubbers!” spluttered Marshall. “The wind's pushing you backward, so the rudder works backward, too!”

Emmy looked at Marshall, then away. “The wind's pushing you backward,” she shouted through cupped hands. “So the rudder works backward, too.” She grinned privately. They didn't have to know she was taking directions from a muskrat.

“Huh!” grunted Marshall, turning his furry face toward Emmy.

“Now what do I do?” cried the girl at the tiller. The sailboat was still moving toward the rocks, but it had begun to turn.

Emmy glanced at the muskrats.

“She needs to loosen that sheet a bit,” Marshall muttered. “When she feels the wind take hold of the sail, she'll have to straighten out the tiller quick.”

“Loosen that sheet a bit!” Emmy said confidently. “When you feel the wind take hold of the sail, straighten the tiller right away!”

There was a flurry of action on the sailboat. And then, hesitatingly, the white sail puffed lightly out, the boat began to move away from the shore, and the girls on the boat cheered in relief.

The one steering leaned toward her companion. “Isn't that the new kid?”

Sound carried surprisingly well across the water, Emmy realized as she recognized her former classmates. At the tiller was Kate, who always had a crowd around her at recess. Meg, near the mast, had sat in front of Emmy the whole year.

“Her name's Emmy,” Meg murmured.

“She sure knows how to sail. Hey, Emmy!” Kate called. “Want to crew for me at the race tomorrow?”

As the sailboat angled past the dock, Meg clasped her hands. “Please?” she implored. “Then I won't have to. I'm a terrible sailor!”

Emmy was dumbstruck. This was what she had been waiting for! If she became friends with Kate and Meg, she'd be invited to parties and sleepovers and go horseback-riding and biking and swimming and—

“With an expert like you,” Kate added persuasively, “I might even win!”

Emmy's dream crashed like water on rock. She was no expert. Without a certain muskrat along for the ride, she would be so hopeless that Kate would hate her forever.

The sailboat was slipping away from the dock. Emmy took in a breath. “I'm sorry,” she said wretchedly. “I can't.”

 

Peter Peebles came at last, but dinner was boring. The adults spoke about the sapphires that were on display at Grayson Lake Jewelers—“And why on earth they bothered to print that in the paper, I'll never understand,” said Emmy's mother—and the spicy scent of the small flowers called “pinks” that Mr. Peebles had brought in a vase. Then, more interestingly, they talked about the Home for Troubled Girls, which Peter said he had investigated with the police after Jane Barmy had tried to send Emmy there. “It was only a shoe shop,” he said. “Old Mr. B—I've known him for years, he's actually Jane's father—made this dollhouse he likes to call ‘The Home for Troubled Girls,' and he thought it would be cute to put up a sign outside. It's nothing, really.”

“I wonder if the police will catch up with Miss Barmy,” mused Kathy Addison.

Emmy thought they probably wouldn't, unless the police had a description of Miss Barmy that included fur and a long tail.

“It's strange to think,” said Emmy's father, “that Jane Barmy grew up in the caretaker's cottage on this estate. Didn't you know her, Peter?”

“She was a friend,” said Peter, a little grimly. “That's why I trusted her. We used to go sailing together—Jane and Cheswick and Priscilla—” He stopped abruptly.

Emmy fidgeted in her seat and twisted a strand of hair around her finger.

Mrs. Benson changed the subject smoothly. “And do you still sail, Peter? Emmy wants to learn someday, don't you, dear?”

Emmy nodded.

Mr. Peebles smiled at her, the strained look leaving his face. “There's a youth race tomorrow, and I'll be on the signal boat. I invited my cousin's oldest boy to come along, but he's busy with a soccer tournament.”

Emmy sat up alertly.

“Would you be interested, Emmy? I could explain the race, and maybe you'll see some kids you know.”

“What a good idea!” said Emmy's father.

“Make sure you wear a life jacket,” said Emmy's mother.

There was a scurrying sort of noise, and something furry brushed against Emmy's ankle beneath the table. She suppressed a shriek and lifted a corner of the tablecloth.

“I'm coming, too,” said Raston Rat, grinning up at her. “I've always wanted to be a pirate.”

 

Emmy swirled her fork in the raspberry sauce on her plate. It was hard to have much of an appetite when the warm, furry body of a rat was draped across her foot and a slender tail kept tickling her ankles.

“Psst!”

Emmy sighed inwardly, dropped her napkin, and ducked beneath the tablecloth. “What is it
now
?” she whispered, under cover of the clinking of silverware and the hum of grown-up conversation, which had gone back to boring.

“Does G.I. Joe have a pirate hat?” the Rat asked.

“I doubt it,” Emmy said coldly. “Now, will you please stop bothering me? I can't keep on dropping things—they'll get suspicious.”

“I'll need a gold earring,” Raston mused. “
And
a pirate flag.”

Emmy sat rigidly upright. If she ignored him, maybe he would go away … A moment later, she nearly yelped aloud.

“Are you all right, Emmy?” asked her father with concern.

Emmy wanted to tell him the truth—that a rat had just run up her leg—but she gave up the idea as too complicated to explain.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Really.” As the adults began to talk again, she glowered down at the rodent.

“Can you draw me a skull and crossbones?” Raston begged.

At last the adults pushed back their chairs. At a nod from her mother, Emmy left the room to get Mr. Peebles's coat. But, as was usual with grown-ups, they couldn't seem to stop talking. Emmy sat on a bench against the wall and waited with her eyes half closed, listening to the voices in the next room.

“I heard it from the detective. She did the same thing over and over again in different states. She'd get a position as a nanny in a wealthy household, and get some kind of influence over the parents.”

“I still don't understand how she did that with us,” said Kathy Addison, very low, as they moved into the hall.

“Some kind of drug, maybe; but not one we're familiar with. Anyway, in the end the story was always the same. The children would be sent off to some place that sounded all right—but they would never be heard from again.”

Emmy sat very still. No one seemed to notice her on the bench.

“Their parents must have been frantic, once the drug wore off,” Emmy's father said.

“They may have been,” said Peter Peebles quietly. “But they're all dead now. And, one way or another, Miss Barmy ended up with a great deal of their money.”

Emmy stood up and moved from the shadows against the wall. “What were their names?” she asked, holding out Mr. Peebles's coat.

The grown-ups looked at her in sudden silence. “Whose names?” asked Peter Peebles at last.

“The little girls. What were their names?”

Mr. Peebles took a long time getting on his coat. “Strangely enough, they
were
all girls.” The lawyer
shut his eyes as if to concentrate. “Ana Stephans. Berit Torvaldsson. Lisa and Lee Milne—they're twins. And Merry Pumpkin.”

“Merry
Pumpkin
?”

“Her last name was really Pumke, but she was only four, and apparently everyone called her Pumpkin …”

Jim Addison cleared his throat. “Doesn't
anyone
have an idea where they are now?”

“No,” said Peter Peebles.

 

“No,” said Emmy firmly the next morning, pulling her swimsuit out of a drawer. “I know you want to be a pirate, but you can't come with me.”

Raston, who had found a plastic cutlass, tied a red kerchief around his head, and put on a black eyepatch with a rubber band, was aghast. “But that's not
fair
!” he cried.

“Listen, Ratty, I can't. I won't be able to hide you on the boat.”

The Rat flipped up his eyepatch to glare at her. “Why not? Just put me in a pocket, like you always do.”

Emmy held up her bathing suit. “Look. Do you see any pockets?”

The Rat pursed his furred lips. “So wear a sweatshirt over it or something.”

“They get clammy when they're wet. All I've got is a windbreaker, and it's too thin to disguise you … Here, leave my life jacket alone and listen to me. Why don't you go back to Rodent City and spend time with Sissy?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” said the Rat, jumping on the life jacket that Maggie had brought up that morning. “Are you sure you need all this padding? This jacket could float an elk.”

Emmy sighed and went into her bathroom to put on her suit. Then she pulled her hair back and snapped an elastic band around it, making a ponytail just like Kate and Meg had worn the evening before. “Why don't you play in the tree fort?” she called through the half-open door. “You and Sissy could be pirates together …”

The Rat's reply was indistinct. Emmy followed his voice into the playroom, where he was sniffing at a pile of Barbie clothes. “Who's been in here?” he asked. “There's a scent I can't place.”

Emmy shrugged. “No one, as far as I know. So—why don't you play with your sister?”

“She's busy today. They're training her as a messenger rat.”

“Really?” Emmy was pleased. Cecilia, Raston's twin, had been caged as long as he had, but while the Rat had been in a classroom where he had learned science, math, history, and more, Sissy had been stuck in a back room at the Antique Rat.

At first glance, the Antique Rat had seemed to be just an old furniture store with an apartment on the upper story. But the back room had once held cage upon cage of rodents, each with its own special power, and each one extremely valuable. Cheswick Vole (formerly an assistant to the famous Professor of Rodentology, Dr. Maxwell Capybara) had shrunk the professor, stolen the rats, and used them to try to get rich. And now that Cheswick had turned into a rat himself and run away with Miss Barmy, Professor Capybara ran the shop and lived in the apartment above it.

The professor was a brilliant rodentologist, and since he was full-sized again, he had gone back to his research. But even he couldn't change the years Sissy had spent in a cage, with no opportunity to learn much of anything.