by Lynne Jonell
But it was the narrow building next door to the Peebles place that worried her most. Weeks ago, Emmy had discovered that the odd people who lived above the ground-floor shoe shop were actually Miss Barmy’s parents. And though Mr. Peebles had said the “Home for Troubled Girls” sign was a joke, it was toward this building that Miss Barmy and Cheswick had run when they had been turned into rats.
Emmy shuddered lightly and turned away, steering Thomas toward a shop of vine-covered brick with a painted sign swinging over the doorway. “So Raston is at your house—alone?”
Thomas looked up at the sign. “The Ant—” he began, sounding out the tall spidery letters beneath the painted gray rat.
“The Antique Rat,” Emmy finished, impatient. “So what did you do with Ratty?”
Thomas looked at her calmly. “I made him chocolate milk—I’m not allowed to use the stove for hot cocoa—and turned on the TV. Then I came to meet you for my next mission.” He paused, waiting.
“Emmy!” cried a big, jovial, white-bearded man, throwing open the door with a jangling of bells. “And you’ve brought a friend—what a very pleasant surprise!”
Professor Capybara leaned back in his swivel chair, placed his fingertips together, and smiled kindly over his glasses. “But, my dear Emmy, I don’t think any of this needs to worry you. After all, how much harm can Miss Barmy do now? She’s only a rat.”
“Well, yes,” said Emmy. “But she’s a very mean rat.”
“Still, I can’t see that there’s anything to be done. You’ve heard no real plans, I take it? Just some rambling talk of revenge.” The professor’s face took on an austere expression. “Cheswick Vole was never very reliable, not even when he was my laboratory assistant back in Schenectady.”
“But—”
“What do you want me to do? I have my research—I can’t just run about after rodents, trying to catch them doing something wrong. It’s beneath anyone’s dignity.”
Emmy gazed around the room, wishing she could put her feelings into words. The afternoon sun streamed in through polished windows, highlighting the tables and chairs, each with its carved or painted decoration of rats, which gave the store its name. “But don’t you think,” she said slowly, “that if someone says she wants to harm you, you should pay attention?”
“Certainly, certainly.” The professor’s glance strayed to the other end of the shop, where the antiques had been moved to one side to make room for a laboratory. “But just now, I’d like to check on an experiment, if you don’t mind. I’m still trying to find a cure for the Snoozer virus.” He pushed back his chair. “If only I hadn’t taken that trip to Palm Desert! The Bushy-Tailed Snoozer Rats were everywhere, and I didn’t take proper precautions …”
Emmy sighed inwardly, and wandered after him to the cluttered counter where a bubbling retort competed for space with rows of vials, trays of glass slides, and innumerable pieces of paper covered with calculations and handwritten notes.
Over to one side was an odd-looking microscope that Emmy had used before. It was Professor Capybara’s own invention, and although it was no good at showing ordinary things like red blood cells and bacteria, it was surprisingly good at showing other things.
“Brian!” called the professor as he hunched over a petri dish. “He was supposed to check on this regularly,” he muttered. “Where did the boy go?”
“Here, Professor!” A tall, slightly stooped teenage boy emerged from the back room with Thomas in tow. “I was just showing Thomas the little apartments you fixed up for the rodents that wanted to stay.”
“But you were supposed to check this every fifteen minutes,” said the professor irritably.
“I am. The next check is due in”—Brian checked his watch—“two minutes seven seconds. Try not to get upset, Professor—you know it puts you right to sleep. The Snoozer virus, you know.”
“Yes, yes, my boy.” Professor Capybara pulled at his white beard. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just a little nervous about something …”
Emmy stopped listening as Thomas appeared at her elbow.
“What’s that?” Thomas pointed at the odd pewter-and-brass microscope with its multitude of knobs and small jointed arms, and tipped his head, trying to look at the lens from underneath.
“It’s called a charascope.”
“What does it do?”
“You can see for yourself.” Emmy pulled out a slide labeled “Barmy,” and slid it under the charascope. It was old, and the blood had dried; instead of a moving, living sample, with the tumble of changing bright and dark shapes that Emmy remembered, this was like a snapshot. But Emmy could still see the dark-green ball made of massed wormlike shapes that had so appalled her before.
“What’s that?” Thomas looked through the eyepiece. “It looks nasty.”
“That’s a drop of Miss Barmy’s blood, from about a month ago. What you’re seeing is probably hatred, with some fear mixed in.”
“Hatred?” Thomas raised round blue eyes to Emmy’s. “You can’t see hatred through a microscope.”
“You can through a charascope. Here, I’ll show you. Give me your finger.”
Thomas held out his finger trustingly. Emmy dipped it in rubbing alcohol and poked the fleshy pad of his forefinger with a lancet, squeezing out one bright-red drop.
“You’re pretty brave for six and a half.” She smeared the blood on a glass slide, replaced Miss Barmy’s sample with Thomas’s, and looked through the eyepiece. Yes, it was just like before—small glowing shapes of every color, swimming and twirling in a kind of bright liquid dance. She moved aside so Thomas could see.
“Wow!” he breathed. “This doesn’t look like the other one at all!”
“I doubt you have much hatred in your blood. The shapes you see are probably more like— Here, just a minute.” Emmy took up a colored chart lying nearby and read down the list. “Love, happiness, curiosity, wonder, courage, hope—”
“Hey! One just split into two!”
“Yes, they multiply if you let them—”
“And two different ones just stuck together, and now there’s a whole new shape! How come?”
“It’s got something to do with character,” said Emmy. “I don’t know how it works; ask the professor.” But Professor Capybara, deep in conversation, seemed to have worries of his own.
“I’m not nervous about making a speech,” he said. “I’m used to that. But there’s a dance afterward, and I’m supposed to lead with Mrs. Bunjee …” He looked at Brian helplessly.
Brian grinned. “What’s so bad about dancing with chipmunks? They’re pretty light on their feet.” He arranged a petri dish, an eyedropper, and a small box of colored paper on the counter.
The professor looked at him sideways. “Just because you don’t have to go—”
“Someone has to mind the experiments,” said Brian cheerfully, picking up the eyedropper.
Emmy’s shoulders slumped. She’d forgotten all about the party tonight. What did it matter if she shut her window or stopped up holes to keep out rodents? She was going to have to go underground tonight with hundreds of them. She would be forced to listen to the Swinging Gerbils, too, which didn’t exactly help.
“What’s wrong?” asked the professor, glancing at her. “Don’t you want to go?”
“That’s not it,” Emmy said quickly. The party was in the professor’s honor, after all. “But I have to give some excuse to my parents, or they’ll wonder where I am.”
“Not a problem—not a problem at all!” The professor was beaming. “I’ll just tell your parents that you’re invited to a supper party, and that Brian will pick you up in the truck and bring you back again …” He trailed off, looking at Thomas. “Are you coming to Rodent City, too?” he asked kindly.
“Um—he wasn’t invited to the party,” Emmy said hesitantly. “I don’t think Mrs. Bunjee knows him.”
“That’s all right,” said Brian. “He can stay here with me; I could use a helper. Do you li
ke pizza, Thomas?”
Professor Capybara walked back to the soccer fields with Emmy and Thomas to ask Mr. and Mrs. Benson’s permission. On the way, they stopped to look at the sidewalk, where the workman was taking a break. Behind him, the sign in the jewelry store window read “Closed During Construction,” and the window blinds were shuttered.
“What’s going in under the sidewalk?” asked the professor genially.
The workman looked up from his sandwich, took off his ear protectors, and pulled a small foam plug from his left ear. “Eh?”
“Why are you breaking up the sidewalk?”
“They’re replacing the old pipe with new. Musta had a leak somewhere.”
“Are you putting in the new pipe today?” Thomas asked. “Can I watch you put it through the wall?”
“I’m just breaking up the sidewalk and pulling out the old pipe, sonny. New pipe’ll be laid by somebody else, come Monday afternoon. Or maybe Tuesday, I dunno. Plumbers, they kind of take their time.”
The workman screwed in his earplug and went back to his sandwich, clearly finished with the conversation.
“But—” said Thomas as Emmy dragged him off.
“You can go back on Monday,” said Professor Capybara, “and get all your questions answered.”
Thomas was silent. As they neared the soccer fields, he began to lag behind.
There was a sound of wild cheering. Joe’s team was celebrating with high fives, and Mr. and Mrs. Benson were grinning widely as they received congratulations from the spectators. Apparently Joe had scored another goal.
Emmy patted Mrs. Benson’s sleeve.
“Why, Emmy!” Mrs. Benson turned around. “How nice that you could make it!”
“Looks like we play for the championship tomorrow,” said Mr. Benson, exultant. “Our son is a powerhouse! Whoops,” he added as his cell phone rang. He walked away from the crowd to take the call.
“Actually, Mrs. Benson,” said the professor in his courteous way, “I was wondering if both your boys would like to join Emmy and Brian and myself tonight for a supper party.”
“That’s very kind of you, Professor,” said Mrs. Benson. “Are you sure they won’t be in the way? I know you’re busy with your research.”
“Not at all, my dear Mrs. Benson; the children are very good with the rodents, after all. Shall I have Brian drive them home a little after nine?”
Emmy wandered back to where Thomas was poking at something on the ground. “Hey, Thomas.” She looked down at his smooth blond head.
He lifted the caterpillar onto his finger. “Look—it’s so nice and fat and green!”
“And with yellow spots,” Emmy added politely.
Two sharp whistle blasts sounded behind them, and the game was over. Emmy turned to see the teams shaking hands, and Professor Capybara walking back to the Antique Rat.
“Did my mom say I could go?” Thomas asked.
Emmy nodded. “You’d better make sure Ratty’s hidden before they get home, though.”
Thomas tipped his finger, inducing the caterpillar to walk up and onto his other hand, and shrugged. “Dad always talks to the coach after a game. He talks, and then the coach talks, and then Mom tries to keep them from getting mad. It takes a long time.”
But Joe’s father was still speaking into his cell phone when Joe left his teammates and wandered over, sweaty, grass-stained, and happy.
“Good game!” said Emmy.
Joe grinned. “You faker. Did you even see any of it?”
“Not really,” Emmy admitted. “But I heard it was a good game. Listen, though. Cheswick Vole and Miss Barmy are planning some kind of revenge.”
“How do you know?”
Emmy told him.
Joe looked serious. “At least I’ve only got one soccer game left. Once that’s over, I can help figure out what’s going on.”
“I saw Miss Barmy’s blood in the charascope,” Thomas said suddenly. “There was something in it that looked like a big ball of caterpillars. Only not so nice.” He held out his caterpillar for Joe’s inspection.
“That’s a big one,” said Joe. “How many do you have in your collection now?”
“Twenty-three,” said Thomas. “I’ve drawn pictures of every one—”
“Joe! Great news!” Joe’s father came striding toward them, snapping his cell phone shut. “You’ll never believe it!”
Joe looked suddenly wary.
“Remember that exclusive soccer camp we were trying to get you into? The month-long one, in California?”
Joe nodded slowly.
“There’s been a cancellation, and you were next on the list! I just called the airlines and managed to get us seats on the next flight out. We’re going to California, Joe—tomorrow, right after the championship game!”
EMMY SAT on the slippery vinyl seat of Brian’s ancient truck, bouncing with every bump in the road, and hung on to the bag of doll clothes in her lap.
“Where’s the turnoff for Joe’s street?” Brian’s voice was pitched to be heard above the roar of the engine.
Emmy leaned out of the window to point. “Two more blocks, on the right.”
The car door was warm from the summer sun, and the rushing air cooled her cheeks. And in spite of the fact that Joe had to go away tomorrow, Emmy felt almost happy. Maybe she was looking forward to this party after all.
Sure, she would have to shrink, but there was no fear of cats, because Brian was going to carry them straight to the Rodent City entrance. Then, too, the party was underground, so at least she wouldn’t be seen hanging around with rodents.
Besides, it would be a good opportunity to tell the Bunjees about Cheswick’s threats. Buck and Chippy would see the danger, even if the professor hadn’t. And practical, no-nonsense Mrs. Bunjee could never be fooled by Miss Barmy.
Emmy smiled, thinking of the chipmunks. It would be fun to see them again, even though they weren’t real, human friends …
Up ahead, on the sidewalk, three girls walked arm in arm. Two of them looked all too familiar, and they were laughing.
In a panic, Emmy pulled her head in and slid down on the vinyl seat just as the truck passed the girls. She was almost sure that she had ducked in time.
“What’s the matter, Emmy? Did you drop something?” Brian asked.
Emmy pretended to search for something on the floor mat, hoping that Meg and Kate hadn’t seen her. It had been embarrassing enough to have to fall off Mr. Peebles’s boat right in front of them. But by now, Meg must have told the other girls how she’d caught Emmy talking to herself and pounding the wall. No wonder they had been laughing, Emmy thought gloomily as Brian’s truck screeched to a stop in front of Joe’s house.
It was a nice house, though small, built of cream-colored brick with a peaked roof and windows set in gables. It looked like a happy sort of place. But as Emmy neared the door, the voices from within didn’t sound happy at all.
“Well, of course I said yes!” Joe’s father sounded exasperated. “If I hadn’t, someone else would have gotten his spot. We discussed it months ago; he said he wanted to go—”
“He doesn’t want to go now. And I should think you would have asked him, Jack. People change, you know.”
“But this is about his future! He could have a big career in sports! And I’ve laid out a lot of money already—the airline tickets, and the camp fees—”
Emmy didn’t want to knock and interrupt, and she didn’t want to stand there listening. She backed away and stood on the walk, irresolute.
“I don’t want him to go out tonight.” Mr. Benson’s voice carried clearly through the screen door. “He needs to pack for his trip and rest up for tomorrow’s game.”
Mrs. Benson murmured something Emmy couldn’t hear.
“But it’s the championship!” Mr. Benson said, his voice rising in anguish. “You don’t seem to understand how important that is to him!”
A toot from Brian’s horn made Emmy jump. The voices stopped, and Emmy rus
hed forward and rang the bell before the argument could start up again.
“We’re here to pick up Joe and Thomas,” she said brightly. “Are they ready?”
“I am,” said Thomas, squeezing past his mother. He wore a sweatshirt in spite of the heat, and he walked hunched over, his arms folded across his stomach.
“Joe will be just a minute,” said Mrs. Benson with a slight worried frown, and in the background Emmy heard Mr. Benson muttering, “We’ve got to hide the cookies again, Caroline—I swear that kid’s gained five pounds since yesterday.”
Emmy leaped off the doorstep and followed Thomas with a sense of relief. She caught up to him at the elm near the street, where he was squatting with his back to her.
“All clear, Ratty.” Thomas opened his sweatshirt.
The Rat skidded out and landed on his feet, lurching. He brushed the sweatshirt lint off his paws, smoothed his neck fur, and gave Thomas a cool stare. “The name’s Rat. Raston Rat.”
There was a little pause.
“Agent 86,” clarified the Rat, shading his eyes as he scanned the lawn. “Hold your position; I’m going to secure the perimeter.” He flattened himself against the elm tree, blending in with the gray bark, and edged, claw by claw, around to the opposite side.
Emmy looked at Thomas. “What did you let him watch?”
“Just Sesame Street,” said Thomas, shrugging.
“I put in Get Smart instead.” The Rat poked his head out briefly. “I’m not a kindergartner, in case you hadn’t noticed. Besides, Big Bird gives me a headache. Too much yellow.”
“Oh, for—”
The Rat narrowed his eyes and held up a paw. “Enemy agents sighted!” he hissed. “Lurk! Lurk!”
Emmy made an exasperated noise and turned around. Standing in the street were three girls.
“Hi,” said Meg.
“Hi,” said Kate.
“Um—” said Emmy, startled and cautious. Had they seen the Rat?
The third girl jingled some coins in her pocket.
“This is Sara,” said Kate politely. “We’re going to the candy store. Do you want to come, too?”
Emmy looked at Kate in hopeless frustration. Of course she couldn’t go with them. Naturally. She was going to a party with a bunch of rats.