Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls

by Lynne Jonell

  In the middle box, a tiny Emmy yawned and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

  Last night had been fun. After Joe had grown and gone to Mr. Peebles’s attic, after Chippy had returned the jewels through the transit pipe (luckily, the plumbers hadn’t yet appeared—the professor seemed to think this wasn’t out of the ordinary), the professor had taken Sissy and the girls back to the Antique Rat. Emmy, whose mother wasn’t expecting her, decided to stay small for one more night and enjoy a second slumber party.

  The tiny girls had been wild with relief. Although they had begun by giggling and eating—the usual sleepover occupations—they were so jubilant that they progressed to throwing cotton-ball pillows and running wildly between the test tubes until the professor told them, somewhat grumpily, to go to sleep.

  Emmy gazed at the slumbering girls. She had gotten to know each one last night: Berit, athletic and impulsive; Lisa and Lee, friendly and almost impossible to tell apart; Merry, who was like the little sister Emmy wished she had; and Ana, the leader, the responsible one, who was more than ready to give up the job and be a kid again.

  Had it been just a few days ago that Thomas had brought Miss Barmy’s old cane up to the tree fort? Emmy had not wanted to look at the small carved faces then—but now she was deeply gratified to see those same faces in real life, happy and free.

  Emmy felt free, too. The weight that had seemed to press down on her shoulders ever since Sissy had been wounded was gone. She glanced at the charascope, and wondered what a sample of her blood would show now.

  There was a soft shuffle of feet in slippers as Professor Capybara came down the stairs and saw her looking in the charascope. “What are you studying?”

  “Just a sample of my blood.” Emmy slid down the pewter and brass scope, the metal cool beneath her bare feet. “You can look if you want to.”

  The professor bent his head to the eyepiece. “Yes, yes—nothing unusual here—a good amount of courage, though.” He lifted his head. “Were you worried that you might see something else, my dear?”

  “I did see something else yesterday,” Emmy said quietly. “It looked like an orange whip thing. With thorns.”

  The professor took another look. “Ah, yes, now I see it. But it’s only a shadow.”

  He lifted Emmy to the eyecup, and there it was—a faint imitation of the shape she had seen before, thin and insubstantial, like a wisp of fog, or the ghostly pattern of a wake seen on the water, long after a boat had passed.

  “What is it?” Emmy asked.

  The professor shrugged. “Guilt? Shame? It’s only a memory now, my dear.”

  Emmy nodded. She was glad it was gone, whatever it was. “But, Professor, what’s going to happen to the little girls now that they’ve been rescued?”

  “Once Sissy makes them grow, I’ll call the police and tell the truth—that they came to my door last night, newly escaped from Miss Barmy, looking for shelter. And then we’ll locate their families.”

  “But Mr. Peebles said once that all their parents were dead.”

  The professor nodded soberly. “Yes, perhaps—but think how glad their relatives will be, to have them back after so long!”

  Emmy sat on a drooping swing in the schoolyard and swayed gently back and forth, scuffing at the worn earth as she waited for her friends to show up. It felt good to be her real size once more.

  Across the street, the jewelry-store owner arrived to shake his head over the boarded-up window, unlock the door, and take down the sign that said “Closed.”

  A moment later the door popped open again. The man dashed out, looked wildly up and down the street, and dashed back in.

  Emmy grinned. He would be calling the police about now … She could just imagine the conversation. “No, I don’t know how they got back in the case, officer … No, the alarm didn’t go off … I’m telling you, the jewels have been reset into a doll’s tiara … No, I am not crazy!”

  She twisted the swing, winding herself up until the chain was as tight as she could make it. She let go and whipped around and around, her legs straight out and her head back, staring at the crazily circling sky. It was so much fun she tried it on her stomach, but that made her dizzy. She stopped at last, dragging her toes, and opened her eyes to see a small rodent with its paws on its hips, looking irate.

  “Are you quite finished? You almost kicked me.”

  Emmy regarded the mouse with awe, and thought carefully before she opened her mouth. She didn’t want to accidentally speak a wish that she didn’t mean.

  “I have a question,” she said at last. “How do your wishes work? I mean, on Sunday, I asked for an invitation, Joe wished to break an ankle, and Thomas wanted to be a great kicker; and you gave us all our wishes. Then, yesterday, I wanted the flies to stop bothering me, and Meg wished for a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich—”

  “And you each got half your wish,” the tan-and-white mouse interrupted. “And today you get exactly one wish—and only a quarter of it will come true—and then I’m free at last! No more wishes until next June!”

  Emmy looked curiously at the small, bouncy mouse. “What happens in June?”

  “The summer solstice, of course! Don’t they teach you anything in school?”

  “The solstice,” Emmy repeated slowly. “That’s something to do with the sun.”

  “Ding-ding-ding! We have a winner!” The wishing mouse turned a somersault and blinked up at Emmy, grinning. “See the sunburst on my head?”

  Emmy looked at the light patch between its ears. “I always thought it was a star.”

  “The sun is a star,” the mouse said in a lecturing tone. “And when the sun is at its highest point in the year (that’s the solstice), and at the highest point in the day (that’s noon), my wish-granting ability is at its highest. Now do you see?”

  “Sort of,” said Emmy cautiously.

  “Three full wishes at noon on the day of the solstice,” said the mouse impatiently. “Two half-wishes the next day, one quarter-wish the next. And after that, I suppose I could grant an eighth of a half-wish, and so on, but who would know the difference?”

  Emmy frowned. “So, the day before the solstice, did you give two half-wishes?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What were they?”

  The tan mouse fluffed up its fur as if bored. “Someone wished that it would be a sunny day—I gave him partly cloudy. And someone else—oh, who cares. Listen, I’ve got things to do.” The mouse ducked into a hole in the ground.

  “Wait!” cried Emmy. “What about today’s wish?”

  The mouse popped its head out. “You want a wish, come back at noon exactly. And no wishing to change things that have already happened—that’s against the rules.”

  “Can I wish for something multiplied by four?” Emmy asked quickly, but the mouse had already disappeared.

  “Times four what?” said Meg, jumping onto the next swing.

  Emmy explained. Then when Joe appeared, swinging along on his crutches, and Thomas came trotting up, for once without his soccer ball, Meg told it all again, while Emmy looked up at the sky through green summer leaves and tried to decide on her wish.

  “I know what I’d wish for,” said Thomas grumpily, after all had been explained. “That Dad wouldn’t sign me up for sports camp.”

  Joe propped his leg on the slide and chuckled. “Better you than me, buddy.”

  “Are your parents back?” Meg asked, looking from one to the other.

  “They drove up,” said Joe, “and right away Cousin Peter told them about the two windows Thomas broke.”

  “Were they mad?”

  Joe grinned. “Dad told Thomas he should go out for football, he had a gift, he should develop that leg, blah, blah, blah.”

  Emmy wondered why Thomas had wished to kick so well if he didn’t like sports, but her eye was caught by a movement across the street. Emerging from the alley were Mr. and Mrs. Benson, followed closely by Peter Peebles. They stopped to look at the boarded wind
ow of the jewelry store, and the owner came out.

  The children watched as the adults talked back and forth, finally shaking hands.

  “Dad’s agreed to pay for the window,” murmured Joe. “And now … get ready, Tommy, here he comes.”

  Thomas didn’t look up from the sand, where he was building something with sticks. He ripped up a handful of grass and laid it carefully on the roof of his structure. “See? If I catch any toads, they can live here, and eat the grass if they’re hungry.”

  “Thomas! Come here a minute!”

  Thomas got awkwardly to his feet and went to the little group of adults, waddling slightly. “I hear you’ve got quite a kick,” his father said. “Want to show us?”

  Thomas mumbled something that Emmy couldn’t hear. She saw Mr. Benson set a ball down and point toward the far-distant soccer fields.

  Thomas kicked. His father’s mouth fell open.

  “Incredible! Caroline, this kid’s got a foot like I’ve never seen in my life! He needs to train it! We’ve got to map out a plan of action, before we waste any more time!”

  “Now, Jack, calm down,” said Mrs. Benson soothingly.

  “He’ll go to football camp—soccer camp—we’ll start right away. He’s got to catch up. The other kids have been playing for a long time already.”

  “I don’t want to go to camp, Dad.” Thomas wandered back to the sand pile.

  “What do you mean, you don’t want to go to camp? This is a great opportunity for you, son! You can be a star, you can really go places!”

  “But I want to stay right here.” Thomas smoothed out a road with the flat of his hand. “I want to play with turtles, and catch frogs, and play in the tree fort …”

  “Now listen here, Thomas,” said Mr. Benson, his face growing red.

  “… and dig holes, and find caterpillars, and ride my bike, and collect bottle caps …”

  “Now, listen … to me …” The veins in Mr. Benson’s neck pulsed. He passed a hand over his forehead, looking dazed.

  “… and maybe get a puppy, and go fishing, and build a town for toads …”

  Thomas’s father, crimson to his collar, opened his mouth—faltered, blinked twice, and went down like a stunned buffalo.

  “… and be a kid,” finished Thomas, looking down at his father, who was snoring blissfully.

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Benson fanned her husband with her hand. “He’s been like this ever since California. I can’t think why he keeps falling asleep. I’ve scheduled a doctor’s appointment first thing tomorrow.”

  “It seems to be going around,” said Peter Peebles thoughtfully. “Professor Capybara had the same trouble just two days ago. He said it was some kind of virus.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it only attacks him when he gets worked up about something. But Jack gets worked up an awful lot.”

  The children exchanged glances. “Mom,” said Joe carefully, “did you see any animals in California? Like—rodents, for example? With bushy tails?”

  “Oh, heavens, yes, they were all over Palm Desert. They were harmless, though. Jack even picked one up.”

  Thomas looked up from the sandbox. “Did it sneeze on him?”

  “How did you know?” Mrs. Benson was startled. “Oh, Jack, you’re awake! Now, don’t get all excited again, dear. Let’s get you home, and you can lie down.”

  “This is awesome,” said Joe fervently, as the adults moved slowly off the playground. “He’ll never scream at my soccer games again.”

  “Thanks to the Bushy-Tailed Snoozer Rat,” said Thomas happily.

  “The professor said he might find a cure soon,” Emmy reminded them.

  Joe grinned. “Yeah, but we don’t have to mention that to Dad, right, Thomas?”

  Thomas nodded, patting a sand mountain with his pudgy hands. “I don’t want to play football and soccer, anyway. I just want to play kickball at recess. Billy Frank said I couldn’t kick it farther than my grandma could spit, and I said I could kick it over the fence, and I bet him my favorite rubber snake, too. And now I’m going to win it back.”

  He gave his creation a final pat and stood up. “Do you like it?”

  “What is it, Thomas?” Emmy stood beside him, looking down at the hills and roads and small stick buildings. “Is that your toad town?”

  “Yup.” Thomas put his sandy hands in the pockets of his shorts, looking satisfied. “I wish I had some toads to put in it, though. Some big fat ones.”

  A lump of brown sand suddenly lifted its head, its throat pulsing, and resolved itself into a toad. It was immensely fat. It attempted a spasmodic hop, failed, and sat stolidly, blinking its yellow eyes.

  “Oh, no,” said Emmy, with passion.

  “I don’t know what you’re upset about,” said the wishing mouse, looking at the toad critically. “It’s certainly big and fat. And though ‘some’ isn’t an exact number, I thought I was really quite generous to assume he meant ‘four.’”

  High in the tree fort, swaying in the good ship G.F., Emmy leaned back and studied her list. THINGS TO DO THIS SUMMER, it read at the top. The first item, to build a tree fort, had already been crossed off. She smiled as she checked off sleepover, pool party, swings, playground. Should she count sailing? She had watched it twice.

  There was a skittering of claws overhead as two chipmunks chased through the branches, knocking down acorns that had hung on all winter long. “Hey!” Ratty looked up from one of Emmy’s old alphabet books. “Do you mind? We’re having a lesson here.”

  “Look, Rasty! ‘A’ is for ‘Acorn.’” Sissy pointed to the small brown nut that had landed on the page, and laughed happily.

  “It’s a visual aid,” called down Buck from above.

  “We’re only trying to help,” added Chippy, dashing down to seize the acorn. He looked over Sissy’s shoulder. “‘C’ is for ‘Cat’? What awful things are they putting in children’s books nowadays? This is terrifying! It will give them nightmares!”

  The Rat glared. “I don’t recall asking for advice. What is this, team teaching? Just because it’s popular doesn’t mean that I’m going to jump on the band-wagon. There is such a thing as the tried and true, you know—solid teaching methods that have stood the test of time, unlike your here-today, gone-tomorrow fads—”

  Emmy grinned and picked up her list again.

  It didn’t seem exactly right. It was incomplete, for one thing. Although she had checked off a number of things, she had done lots more things that had never even made it onto the list in the first place.

  Such as? She sucked on her pencil. Such as riding in the back of a truck or staying up all night and not feeling sleepy. Walking through rodent tunnels, going to a party underground, dancing with a gopher—not a high point, but still. Stopping a burglary, escaping through pipes, and balancing on a telephone wire—that was new! Gluing someone’s feet to the floor; wearing her favorite Barbie dress; winning a beauty contest. And, above all, rescuing eight friends.

  Emmy stopped, struck by the number. Yes, there had been eight—the five tiny girls, and then Joe, Buck, and Ratty. And she had more friends than that, too—lots more, friends too furry to have made her original list, she realized with shame.

  Emmy felt the ghost of a thorned whip stir within her, but she shook the memory away. That had been days ago. She felt different now. Friends were friends, whether big or tiny, smooth or furry, and she wanted every one of them on her list.

  In fact, Emmy realized with a sense of relief, keeping a list was kind of a bore. She lay on her stomach and happily ripped bits off her paper, letting the fragments spiral to the ground like last year’s oak leaves.

  “Hey, Emmy!” The shout came from below as Meg and Thomas ran down the path, with Joe crutching swiftly behind.

  “Password?” Emmy demanded.

  “Barmy Begone!” they shouted in unison.

  Emmy let the rope ladder down. Meg and Thomas held it for Joe, so he could pull himself up more easily, and then they climbed, too,
spilling onto the high platform.

  “This is so cool up here,” said Meg, rummaging in the box for the spyglass.

  Joe looked at his cast. “I think my ankle is healing faster than the doctor thought it would.”

  “Maybe being a rat helped speed things up,” Emmy suggested. “You know, a faster metabolism and all—” She broke off, gazing at Thomas.

  He was reaching out a hand to Miss Barmy’s old cane, the cane she had carved, which now served as their figurehead. He traced the small wooden faces with his finger. “We did it,” he said softly. “We rescued them.”

  “Well, Emmy did it, really,” said Joe.

  “But you guys rigged the line and gnawed the hole in the wall,” Emmy said.

  “We all helped,” said Meg. “Even if it was just buckling a lunch box, or yanking on a fishing line …”

  “Or laying pipes end to end,” said Thomas, “or kicking a ball through a window.”

  “Some of us delivered messages,” said the Rat, looking fondly at his sister.

  “And one of us created a lovely song,” Sissy added, smiling back.

  “Everybody helped,” said Emmy. “And I’ve thought of the perfect thing that G.F. really stands for, except …” She hesitated. “You’ll probably think it’s too sappy.”

  “Not Golden Fortress again,” begged Joe, on his back with his good leg waving in the air.

  “Nope.” Emmy looked around shyly, and told her idea.

  There was a little silence.

  “That’s kind of nice,” said Meg.

  “Yeah, but still sappy.” Joe wiggled the sandal on the end of his foot.

  “How about Gophers are Fluffy?” suggested Sissy.

  “Grumpy Frogs?” This was Thomas’s contribution.

  “Gerbils of Flatulence?” said the Rat. “Groundhogs are Frolicsome? Glorious Flubbery?”

  Emmy, laughing, leaned back against the trunk. They could call it whatever they liked. But to her, G.F. would always mean Good Friends.

  It might be a little sappy—but it was the truth.

  Have you read about

  Emmy and Ratty’s