Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls

by Lynne Jonell

  “She didn’t pay me,” said Emmy coldly. “She sent Cheswick to steal doll clothes from my own room.”

  Mrs. Bunjee blinked. “Perhaps there was a misunderstanding,” she suggested. “If you look carefully, you may find that Cheswick left a nice pile of seeds to pay for the things he took. Of course,” she added quickly, “he shouldn’t have taken them without your permission. But people can’t switch from bad to good all at once, without a few false steps along the way. It’s our job to help and guide, not to criticize.”

  “B-but,” Emmy sputtered, “Cheswick said Miss Barmy had plans—she was going to do something behind our backs, to show us—”

  Mrs. Bunjee made a chirking sound of disapproval. “And why do you assume Miss Barmy’s plans must necessarily be bad? Perhaps she has good plans. Perhaps she wants to surprise us.”

  Emmy was speechless.

  “For instance,” said Mrs. Bunjee, beaming, “we had so much dust from that awful jackhammer, I couldn’t think how I would ever get ready for the party. But Miss Barmy paid the Finicky Field Mice Cleaning Service to take care of everything. And then she had flowers delivered, enough to fill the city! Look around you, breathe in that lovely fragrance, and tell me she’s not trying to become a better person!”

  Emmy looked at the flowers in tall floor vases everywhere—huge pink blooms with ragged edges and a spicy-sweet smell. Now she knew why she recognized the scent. The flowers were just like the ones Mr. Peebles had picked and brought to their table last night; only now, the tiny pinks were as big as her head.

  “My dear Mrs. Bunjee,” said the professor, patting her furry shoulder, “you’re an optimist, and I certainly hope that you’re right.”

  “After all,” said the chipmunk, looking up with a pleased smile, “you said Jane had to learn to love, if she wanted Cecilia’s kiss to work and turn her back to a human again. She’s taking your advice very well, I do believe!”

  “Perhaps so,” said Professor Capybara kindly. “Now, where should I sit, and when do I give my speech?”

  “Oh, the head table, of course.” They moved off together, Mrs. Bunjee chattering away. “… and Chippy rigged up a microphone just for you …”

  Joe looked at Emmy, his face somber. “This is terrible.”

  Emmy nodded emphatically. “We’d better talk to her again after the party.”

  Joe shook his head. “Mrs. Bunjee won’t listen. She’s made up her mind. But what about the professor? He doesn’t believe Miss Barmy’s changed, does he?”

  Emmy threw up her hands. “No, but he doesn’t take her seriously. He says she can’t do much harm—she’s only a rat.”

  “Yeah, well, show me another rat who could have everybody against her one day and then turn it all around the next. That lady has talent, and she scares me.”

  “Appetizers? Sparkling pear cider?”

  Two mice were at their elbow with silver trays. The speaker, a kangaroo mouse, held out a tray with slender glasses of something pale and fizzy. Emmy reached out and then stopped, hand in midair, as she caught sight of the other mouse, dwarfed by its tray.

  “Endear? Is that you?” She peeked under the silver tray of hot appetizers. The mouse, balancing the tray above its head, gave her a shy, pleased smile.

  “Joe! Look who’s here!” Emmy touched the Endear Mouse lightly, and the two exchanged delighted greetings without needing to say a word.

  The Endear Mouse had the power to transfer thoughts, just through touch. This had been very useful a few weeks ago, now it was just an easy way to say hi—especially since the mouse had never been known to speak. And though Endear was still very young, and didn’t always understand big words, it was quick to sense feelings.

  Unfortunately, Emmy remembered this too late to hide her own.

  “Bad lady—bad,” came the thought from the small mouse, and Emmy realized that it had taken in all her fear and anger about Miss Barmy.

  “Don’t worry,” Emmy said hastily, withdrawing her hand. “She’s gone now. The bad lady won’t bother me again.”

  The Endear Mouse’s big eyes looked solemnly at Emmy from beneath the tray.

  “Don’t you have a job to do?” Emmy asked, smiling, and the Endear Mouse nodded happily, easily distracted. Its tail curled around Emmy’s wrist just long enough to send a quick good-bye, and then the mouse moved off into the crowd, offering appetizers to anyone who stopped.

  “I’ll bet anything the bad lady will bother you again,” said Joe at her elbow.

  “Of course she will,” said Emmy absently. Her rage had faded, but in its place was a cold determination. “Let’s see if we can figure out what she’s up to.”

  EMMY AND JOE SLIPPED through the crowd of chattering rodents, unnoticed in the dim light, and mounted steps that wound around a central pillar. There was a gap in the string of lights—three bulbs in a row had burned out—and Emmy and Joe stood in shadow, observing the scene below.

  Rodents moved about, breaking and re-forming in swirling groups of fur. Masses of wide, pink blossoms stood in vases everywhere, filling the room with a strong, sweet scent of cloves.

  “I bet Miss Barmy stole these flowers.” Emmy yanked a pink petal off the nearest bloom and methodically shredded it. “I’ll bet she told her father to steal them from Mr. Peebles’s garden. And Mrs. Bunjee says she’s generous! Ha!”

  Joe leaned on the railing, looking down. “Where did she go?”

  Emmy glanced over the crowd, and suddenly put her finger to her lips. She pointed straight downward.

  “And then I had to connect the positive terminals—but of course I had to go into the conduit first, there was no possibility of shutting off the circuit-breaker—”

  “But wasn’t that very dangerous?” asked Miss Barmy in melting tones.

  Emmy, dismayed, stared down at the top of a black-and-tan-striped head. It was leaning close to Miss Barmy’s sparkling tiara.

  Joe’s eyes were wide and unbelieving. “Chippy?” he mouthed.

  Emmy nodded grimly. Apparently Miss Barmy wasn’t going to rest until she got all the rodents on her side. And the way to Chippy’s heart, as everyone knew, was to show an interest in electricity, or motors, or anything with gears …

  “—but I just used an insulation displacement connector. Then, puncturing the black wire first—of course that’s safest, you understand, it has a neutral charge—”

  “This is terribly fascinating,” said Miss Barmy, placing a paw on Chippy’s forearm. “And you explain it all so well.”

  Chippy gave a foolish sort of giggle.

  “But I just wondered if you could assist with a little project of mine …”

  “A project?” Chippy’s ears pricked forward.

  “No, I shouldn’t ask you. It’s too much … You couldn’t possibly …” The tiara glittered as Miss Barmy’s head drooped. She withdrew her paw.

  “Oh, please!” Chippy fumbled for her paw. “If there’s any way I can help you—”

  “Well,” said Miss Barmy briskly, “since you insist. Can you cut glass?”

  “I-I haven’t lately,” stammered Chippy, “but I could.”

  “Could you cut holes in glass? I mean, circles?”

  “Why, sure …” Chippy seemed to be thinking. “I could use a hole saw … one of those with grit instead of teeth. They’d cut glass, all right, if I could apply enough pressure. Let’s see, I could rig up a crosspiece and a frame—”

  A piercing electronic squeal filled the crawl space, and Emmy put her hands to her ears. Down below, on the low platform that held the head table and a lectern, Mrs. Bunjee was trying to adjust a microphone to Professor Capybara’s height.

  “I have to go help them with the amplifier,” said Chippy breathlessly, “but maybe later we can discuss—”

  “I don’t know.” Miss Barmy’s tone was suddenly cool. “I didn’t realize you would be jumping from one project to another like this.”

  “But—but I’m not—”

  The piebal
d shoulders, swathed in rose and silver, shrugged elegantly. “We were talking about my project. Then, all of a sudden, you lose interest and make excuses.”

  “I’m not making excuses, they need me up there—”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “No, really! I’d rather talk about your project, I truly would!”

  “Perhaps your brother, Buck, could help me.” The piebald rat pulled away, turning to look over the crowd. “He’s quite intelligent, you know, and so steady …”

  Chippy glanced nervously over his shoulder at the rodents on the platform. “They might not need me so very much,” he said in a low, anguished tone. “Now, Miss Barmy, what were you saying about your project?”

  “Call me Jane,” said the piebald rat, patting his cheek with her white-gloved paw. “Dear Chipster, what would I do without you?”

  The dessert course had been served, the professor had made his speech, and the assembled rodents had all applauded wildly, their furry paws making an oddly muffled clapping. The Swinging Gerbils ambled onto the stage and took out their instruments, playing short riffs of disconnected melody as they tuned up.

  Joe swallowed his last bite of Prairie Pudding Pie and leaned back in his chair. “Almost time for the professor to lead the first dance. Ten to one he doesn’t make it without falling asleep.”

  Emmy, slumped glumly at the end of the table, didn’t respond. This whole night had been a misery beyond compare. She hadn’t wanted to shrink in the first place, but she had at least thought she’d have fun with her friends. Instead, she had to watch all evening as Miss Barmy swished and smiled and flirted her way into everyone’s hearts.

  “How does she do it?” Emmy glared at the head table where Miss Barmy, squeezed in between the professor and Mrs. Bunjee, was laughing and batting her eyelashes at a handsome brown rat who was leaning over her shoulder.

  “Do what? Get seated at the head table?”

  “Well, that, too,” Emmy said. “But what I mean is, how does she get everyone to think she’s so great? I lived with her a year, and I can tell you—she’s deep-down nasty.”

  “I don’t know how she gets everyone on her side,” said Joe, “but I know how she got to sit at the head table. She bribed the headwaiter.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yup. I saw her slip a few seeds into his pocket, and right away he went and rearranged everything. That’s why our name tags were down here. He moved them.”

  Emmy felt a flush of resentment on her cheeks. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Joe stretched his legs. “I didn’t want to sit at the head table anyway.” He grinned. “If the professor gets a sudden attack of Snoozeritis because he’s upset about having to dance, I didn’t want Mrs. Bunjee to grab me instead!”

  Emmy glanced at Professor Capybara, who was eyeing the band with a look of pale unease, but any further comments were made impossible by the drummer, who suddenly decided to try out his cymbals.

  The microphone squealed, and a spotlight swung around to the podium. Mrs. Bunjee’s furry, smiling face poked above the lectern. “Ladies and gentlerats,” she began, “while the Swinging Gerbils are getting ready, I need to thank each and every rodent who helped with tonight’s party …”

  “This is boring,” muttered the Rat, coming up behind them. “When does the action start? I’ve been sitting with those gophers for ages.”

  “That must have been exciting,” said Joe.

  “Don’t get me started,” said the Rat in tones of deep disgust. “I made the mistake of congratulating the Grebblers on their new litter, and I couldn’t shut them up. Did they seriously think that I’d be fascinated by the burping habits of Gloria, or the cute way little Dribble spits up, or the incredible genius of Baby Grubby? Grubby Grebbler, what a name. I hope the kid learns to use his paws, that’s all.” He thumped down on a chair, poured himself a tumbler of berry juice, and drank deeply.

  Emmy swallowed a laugh. “Where’s Sissy?”

  Raston scowled. “She’s sitting at the Grebblers’ table, giving Grubby his bottle and practicing her Speedy Rodent Messenger Service rules. She forgot the one about delivering a message in private—”

  Joe glanced at Emmy.

  “—and now she feels terrible. She keeps worrying about being fired.”

  “I won’t complain to the Messenger Service,” said Emmy quickly.

  The Rat shrugged. “She could be a secret agent with me. I could use another assistant.”

  “Speaking of secret agents,” said Joe, “you can help us figure out what Miss Barmy is up to. She’s got Chippy doing something with cutting glass in circles—”

  The Rat whipped out his dark glasses and put them on. “I’m on the job, Chief. So Chippy’s a double agent, eh?”

  “Well, not exactly,” Emmy began, but suddenly the microphone crackled and one of the Swinging Gerbils was speaking.

  “And now, starting off the dance to the sweet strains of “Ain’t She Fuzzy,” is our guest of honor, Professor Maxwell Capybara, and our hostess, Mrs. Roseleaf Bunjee! A one! A two! A one, two, three, four!”

  The band swung into the opening bars, the spotlight arced around to Mrs. Bunjee in her violet silk, a panicked-looking professor beside her—and then, suddenly, the professor dropped to the floor, taking Mrs. Bunjee with him.

  “Told you,” said Joe, chuckling.

  There was a moment’s confusion as the professor was dragged away to sleep it off, and Mrs. Bunjee, looking dazed, was helped to a chair.

  The band leader raised his eyebrows at Chippy, who stood at once and offered his paw to the piebald rat at the head table. Miss Barmy rose amid cheers, and blew kisses as Chippy whirled her off in the spotlight for the first dance.

  Emmy, so furious that her stomach hurt, ignored the discussion Joe and the Rat were having about the band’s singer (“Too squeaky,” said the Rat. “Right, like you could do better,” said Joe. “Watch me!” said the Rat), and didn’t even notice the rodent who had come to stand beside her, until he tapped her arm.

  “Want to dance?”

  Taken by surprise, Emmy hadn’t had the wit to say no. And now, gripped firmly by two hairy paws, she was jigged and jogged all over the dance floor by an enthusiastic gopher. His name, he had shouted, was Gus.

  His name didn’t matter to Emmy, who planned to forget him as soon as possible. She wasn’t a big fan of gophers anyway, and to be bounced around by one whose idea of dancing was limited, to say the least, was like living a nightmare that had no end.

  “I have to sit down,” Emmy gasped, groping past a thicket of chairs to Sissy’s table, where she collapsed. Baby Grubby, who had just finished his bottle, chose that moment to screw up his tiny face and cry.

  Sissy looked helplessly around for the parents. “They said they’d be right back. What do I do now?”

  Emmy, sighing, picked up the baby gopher, laid him against her shoulder, and patted the fuzzy back briskly until he burped. Little Grubby, instantly happier, began to play with her buttons.

  “Oh,” said Sissy. She twisted her paws together. “I guess there are a lot of things I still don’t know.”

  Emmy tucked the baby gopher into Sissy’s awkward arms. “There. Rock him a little, maybe.”

  “I keep trying,” said Sissy, anxiously rocking the baby a shade too fast. “I can’t read, I don’t know anything, but I listen as hard as I can …”

  “You’re doing fine. Just”—Emmy searched her brain for something inspirational to say—“hang in there.”

  “Hang in there.” Sissy raised brown eyes to Emmy’s. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, you know, keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t give up, even when you’re discouraged. Believe that things are going to get better soooo—”

  “Hi-oh!” cried Gus happily, pulling Emmy to her feet before she knew it. “The next one’s a slow dance!”

  Emmy caught a glimpse of Raston in his dark glasses, walking the lead singer off the podium—how had
he managed that?—as she was towed onto the dance floor. The next thing she knew, Raston was crooning “Bye Bye Ratbird,” as the smooth brass of the Swinging Gerbils filled the room.

  Clutched in a hairy embrace, Emmy suddenly rebelled. She didn’t care if Gus thought she was rude—she was not going to slow-dance with a gopher.

  She twisted sideways, yanked hard, and broke free. “Thanks for the dance!” she cried, waving as she ran. She dodged around couples all the way across the room, until at last she slid into her place beside Joe. “Let’s go,” she panted.

  “And miss Ratty’s song?” Joe turned to Emmy. “Besides, don’t you want to dance anymore with—what was his name?—Hoppy? Jumpy?”

  “Stinky,” said Emmy. “I don’t think gophers believe in deodorant. Seriously, let’s get out of here.”

  But before they could push back their chairs, the music died down, and Mrs. Bunjee was at the microphone again. “Dear friends—I have a wonderful announcement to make! I’ve just been speaking with the lovely Miss Jane Barmy—”

  Emmy choked.

  “—and she has graciously offered to sponsor a beauty contest for our female rodents!”

  Chippy leaned in toward the microphone. “She’s commissioned me to cut a number of small round mirrors out of her large one, so there’ll be a mirror for everyone that enters the contest.”

  “There will be prizes, of course,” said Mrs. Bunjee. “The third-place winner will receive slivered almonds. Second place, macadamia nuts. And first place wins three bottle caps of poppyseeds!”

  There was a gasp. And then, “What about Miss Congeniality?” said a voice from the crowd.

  “Seventeen Southern pecans,” called Miss Barmy, to general laughter. She made her way to the microphone and stood there gracefully in the spotlight, her tiara glinting, her white-gloved paw waving. Then she raised her paws to her head, lifted the tiara off, and held it out.

  “Two days from now, the winner will be crowned. And her title will be—”

  “What? What?” cried the crowd.

  Miss Barmy’s smile gleamed. “Princess Pretty of Rodent City!”

  “THAT’S RIGHT, MERRY—make a ‘y’ with a nice long tail. Now give me the pencil, and I’ll sign my name.”