by Lynne Jonell
What time was it? How long had she been in the rat shop? The sky had turned cloudy, and it looked as if a storm were brewing. Ballet must be over by now, but maybe there was still time to sneak into French class and then walk out to meet Miss Barmy on the sidewalk.
On the sidewalk. There, half a block away, was a woman in a bulky raincoat, silhouetted against the gray sky. She was at the entrance to Emmy’s French class, and she was tapping her foot.
Emmy longed to hide. If only she were a rat, she could crawl into that little crumbling hole on the side of those steps, by the concrete planter. It looked a perfect size …
“I don’t think she went this way, Uncle!” Brian’s voice echoed in the alley behind her.
Emmy flew across the road, ducked behind a bush, and peered through the leaves, shivering a little as a sudden cold gust swirled about her.
Brian’s uncle poked his pinched face out of the alley, snarled in frustration, and turned back.
Good. Now all Emmy had to do was come up with an excuse for not being in French class. With any luck, Miss Barmy would only make her shampoo with oil of yak, or write a paper on better bowel habits through dietary empowerment, or read an article on the many exciting uses for tree balm.
There was a rustle of feet behind her. Emmy whipped around to face a pair of grass-stained soccer shorts.
“Hey!” Joe Benson squatted on his heels. “Listen, about that Rat—”
Emmy glanced over her shoulder. The woman in the coat was looking at her watch.
“What’s going on?” Joe looked embarrassed, but determined. “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear the Rat talk, because I know you did.”
“I’m not pretending,” said Emmy hurriedly. “He does. He talks. I don’t know why, either, but nobody else ever seems to hear him—”
“I did,” said Joe.
“Yeah, well, you heard him today, but I’ve been hearing him all year.” Emmy glanced nervously at the sky. It was going to rain any minute now. If she got wet, Miss Barmy would make her wrap up in about fifty blankets and sweat for an hour, to ward off a cold.
“All year? You haven’t been in our class all year.”
Emmy stared at him. “I’ve been sitting across from you since September,” she said slowly.
“No way.”
Emmy nodded. “I have. I was there on the first day of class. Don’t you remember? The Rat bit me, and I yelled.”
Joe shook his head.
“I was there when Mr. Herbifore tripped over the pumpkin in October, and when Robbie brought a snake to school the last day before Christmas break and it got lost, and in February when Kendra only got two valentines and she cried. And I saw you break your shoelace just last week and run around all day in your socks, and—”
“Okay, okay!” Joe ran a hand through his already messy hair. “But how come I can’t remember you?”
“Emmaline Augusta, I see you behind that bush!”
Emmy whirled around. Steaming across the road was a broad, brisk woman with a mole on the end of her chin. Emmy almost melted with relief. It wasn’t Miss Barmy after all.
“Emmaline Augusta?” Joe said in an undertone.
Emmy stood up. “I was named after two greataunts,” she muttered. “Don’t rub it in.”
“Why, hello, Mrs. Brecksniff!” Emmy put on her most winning smile.
“Don’t you Mrs. Brecksniff me! Here it’s Miss Barmy’s afternoon off and I don’t even know the proper time to come and get you, and now I see you dillydallying across the street without so much as a by-your-leave.”
Joe coughed to hide what might have been a snicker. “Dillydallying?” he murmured as Mrs. Brecksniff neared.
Emmy ignored him. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Brecksniff—”
“It’s my fault, ma’am.” Joe stepped forward. “Emmy and I are friends—”
Emmy looked at him in surprise.
“—and I had a question about a school project we’re working on,” Joe went on, shaking the housekeeper’s plump hand in a businesslike manner.
“Joe!” A tall man beckoned from his car. “You need some more practice before supper!”
Joe grabbed his hair with both hands, looking exasperated. “We’ve got to figure this out,” he said. “How about tomorrow? After school?”
“Emmaline is usually busy after school,” said Mrs. Brecksniff. “What is your project about?”
Emmy looked blankly at Joe.
“Rats,” said Joe promptly. “See you tomorrow, Emmy.”
Emmy followed the housekeeper, who had a stride like a triathlete. If only she could meet Joe after school tomorrow … but of course she was busy. More than once, she had enviously watched the children who poured out of the school building at three o’clock into the free air, with nothing to do but play.
“Mrs. Brecksniff?” Emmy trotted alongside, slightly breathless. “Do you suppose my parents would mind if I didn’t do so much after school?”
Mrs. Brecksniff turned, startled. “Your parents paid good money for those classes. Money isn’t a thing to be wasted, even if you are rich.”
“Yes, but—” Emmy tried again. “After a whole day of school, it gets so tiring. Do you think I could just quit ballet and French?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well then, how about gymnastics? That’s on Thursday.”
“Out of the question.”
“Pottery and tap dancing? Little theater? Tennis? Basket weaving?”
“Now see here, young lady.” Mrs. Brecksniff looked down over her double chins. “Miss Barmy signed you up for all those things, and you know as well as I do what that means.”
Emmy sighed. She knew.
“I don’t care if she is my cousin, she’s a nasty customer when crossed. It’s a hard enough job that I have to do, what with nine bathrooms to clean, not to mention all those windows, and your parents flying in unexpectedly and having all those parties—”
Emmy looked up. Miss Barmy and Mrs. Brecksniff were cousins?
“—so don’t complain to me. And I wouldn’t complain to Miss Barmy either, or she might just sign you up for something else in the evening, too.”
“I have to have some time to do homework,” Emmy said sadly.
“And would that matter to her? It would not,” said Mrs. Brecksniff, puffing out her neck until she looked like a stuffed frog. “Now hurry up, it’s starting to rain. We’ll be a couple of drowned rats before we get out of this.”
The housekeeper churned determinedly down the hill, unfurling a large black umbrella as a peal of thunder crashed. She centered the umbrella directly over her rather ponderous bulk, so that Emmy had to stay very close indeed to be even partly protected.
And as the rain poured off the umbrella in a drip line that soaked her left shoulder, Emmy was not too cold and miserable and wet to spare a kind thought for the Rat, who would be nearly drowned out in this rain, and hope that he had finally found a squirrel who would let him in.
It was dark in Emmy’s bedroom, but the storm had blown itself out at last, and as she watched from her window in the topmost turret, a final ragged cloud scudded across the bright face of the moon and vanished.
There was a brisk knock at Emmy’s bedroom door. “Mrs. Brecksniff says to have a hot bath before bed,” said a young woman, bringing in fresh towels. “I’ll run it for you, honey.”
“Thanks, Maggie,” said Emmy, thinking how much she liked the new housemaid, who always had a smile. “But I can do it myself.”
Maggie bent over the large Jacuzzi set in blue Italian tiles and turned on the faucets. “Honey, if I didn’t do for people, I’d be out of a job.” She smiled her wide, friendly smile, crooked teeth and big nose and all, and Emmy smiled right back.
“Now, I’ll just lay out your pajamas, and— My stars!” Maggie, who had been rummaging in Emmy’s pajama drawer, stopped with her head half turned. She was looking into the playroom.
Emmy felt her cheeks get hot. She hadn’t asked for the toy
s, but they just kept coming. Her parents sent them from London and New York and every other place they went where she wasn’t. There was a dollhouse with beds and wallpaper and chests full of doll clothes. There was an expensive model train set with a track that went through tunnels and mountains and all around the room, and a play kitchen, and an art center with a little sink for washing up, and an electronic keyboard, and a puppet theater, and every Lego set and stuffed animal imaginable.
Emmy looked at Maggie, embarrassed. “Can I go to bed now?”
Maggie turned swiftly. “Of course, sugar. Just pop yourself in the tub, and then tuck yourself in. Don’t forget to say your prayers, and I’ll see you at breakfast. Do you like sausages?”
Emmy looked at her doubtfully. “The tofu kind?” She had had experience with those.
“Over my dead body,” Maggie said cheerfully.
Emmy threw on her pajamas and bounced into bed, turning the picture on her bedside table so it caught the moonlight. Her parents looked back at her.
Jim Addison was big and broad shouldered, with eyes that crinkled at the corners. His arm was thrown over his wife’s shoulders, and Kathy Addison’s soft brown hair blew back against his sweater. She was smiling right into the camera, her eyes warm.
They would look like that coming off the plane. Her father would grin and ruffle her hair, and her mother would swoop down and hug her close. Then when they got home, her parents might play a board game with her, or sit by the fire and tell stories, or want to look at her school papers. And they would say they were proud of her, and that she was a good girl, and that they loved her very much.
Emmy shut her eyes, happily snuggling deep under her blanket. But sleep wouldn’t come.
What was so important about white fur behind a rat’s ear? And did the rats in the store really have amazing powers? There had certainly been something very unusual about the Endear Mouse.
Emmy idly watched leaf shadows move and dance on the wall above her bed. How odd that there had been a rat in the store that looked so much like her own Rat. And then there was that awful rat man. She hadn’t told him her last name, but might he find her anyway?
Emmy shuddered and quickly thought of something more pleasant. Joe. Now, there was a nice surprise. Someone who noticed her.
She gazed at the fluttering leaf shadows. It was good to have a friend. In fact, she had made three friends today, if you counted Brian and the Rat—
The leaves moved.
They had been moving all along, of course, but this movement was different. It was not the gentle fluttering of paper-thin shapes in a light breeze. It was the stealthy, purposeful movement of something alive. Something lumpy. Something that reached out one stubby finger and tapped.
Emmy stiffened.
The finger reached out again and tapped on the glass. Emmy looked closer. It wasn’t a finger after all. It was a—
It was a stubby, short, furry foreleg with a paw attached—
It was the Rat.
“RAT!” Emmy ran to the window and creaked it open.
The Rat, wet and bedraggled, dragged himself over the sill and collapsed in a damp heap. His ear looked like it had been chewed.
“Where have you been?” Emmy whispered. “You look just—”
“Terrible,” said the Rat, and sneezed. “I know.”
“But what did you do? What happened to you?” Emmy carried him into her bathroom and set him gently on the counter. The Rat leaned against the blow-dryer and put his head in his paws.
“I have been chased. I have been beaten. I have been manhandled and taunted and set upon. Freedom,” he added grimly, tossing back the lank and dripping fur that hung in his eyes, “has its bitter side.”
“Oh, poor Rat!”
“And I’m cold and hungry, and I want a bath.”
Emmy filled the sink and laid out a towel.
“Th—th—thang—” The Rat swallowed, hard, and cleared his throat.
“Thank you?” Emmy suggested.
The Rat nodded. The tip of his nose turned pink.
“You’re welcome.” Emmy tested the water in the sink. “So how did you ever find my house? And how did you know which window was mine?”
“You pointed it out, remember?” The Rat’s tone was impatient. “Topmost turret, blue window. I just climbed up the grapevine.”
“Oh,” said Emmy.
There was a little silence. The Rat tapped his foot.
“Look,” he burst out at last, irritably. “Is it the usual thing for you to watch your guests take a bath? Because if it isn’t, then why don’t you just go get me something to eat—not rat pellets—and give me a little privacy?”
Emmy was almost down the back stairs to the kitchen when she heard the voice she dreaded above all.
“So you didn’t meet Emmaline coming out of French? Where was she, exactly?”
Emmy stopped, paralyzed. Should she try to get back up the stairs without being heard? But some of the steps creaked. … Undecided, she looked down. The old-fashioned staircase turned a corner just before descending to the kitchen, and a wedge of light crossed the steps just below Emmy’s feet. She could see Mrs. Brecksniff’s bulky shadow, her hands on her substantial hips.
“She was right across the street,” said Mrs. Brecksniff, sounding defensive. “There was no danger, she was just talking to a friend.”
“A friend?” Miss Barmy’s voice scaled up dangerously.
“Nothing wrong with friends, last I heard,” said Mrs. Brecksniff stoutly. “The poor girl could use a few more of them.”
There was a long, dangerous silence.
“Any friends must be approved by me,” said Miss Barmy coldly. “Emmaline has been troublesome lately—influenced, no doubt, by this so-called friend. Or perhaps,” she added, her voice silky, “Emmaline has been getting encouragement from you.”
“Now, Jane Barmy, there’s no call to take that tone with me.” Mrs. Brecksniff made a noise that sounded like an irritated buffalo.
“The girl’s health is delicate, and I will allow no interference.” Miss Barmy’s voice was crisp.
“I’m not—”
“Her medicines must be carefully calibrated to her exact emotional condition. I was forced to create an entirely new batch and bring it to her at school.”
“Well I’m sure I don’t know what you’re so worried about,” Mrs. Brecksniff burst out passionately. “You don’t care about Emmy, you’ve made that plain—”
“That’s enough, now, you’re talking wild—”
“—all you care about is the Addison money, and I know that you’d just as soon she was out of the way altogether—”
“STOP!”
Emmy’s knees were suddenly trembling.
“Not one word more, Rebecca Brecksniff. I can get you fired tomorrow!”
“I know you can, more’s the pity,” Mrs. Brecksniff went on hysterically. “The girl’s parents listen to you—who knows why—you’d never dare talk like this in front of your mother, or your poor dear father—your mother knew what it was to be housekeeper of this house, what with managing the staff and keeping nine bathrooms clean, not to mention the windows—”
Mrs. Brecksniff was making a great deal of noise, honking and blowing into her handkerchief. Emmy gripped the stair treads with hands that felt strangely cold. She had never felt that Miss Barmy really liked her; but to actually want her out of the way? Could Mrs. Brecksniff be right?
“Stop sniveling,” Miss Barmy said icily. “Control yourself now. The girl’s parents are arriving tomorrow night, and …”
Miss Barmy’s voice faded as the women moved off. Emmy strained to hear, but the only word she caught was “potato.”
She waited until the voices had faded entirely. Then, cautiously, she poked her head around the corner. The coast was clear, and she still had to get the Rat something to eat.
What did rats like to eat?
On the counter was Miss Barmy’s health food, neatly labeled. Emmy
shuddered, pocketing an apple and a box of raisins instead. She risked a look in the fridge—weren’t rats supposed to like cheese? But she didn’t dare take time to cut a slice … there! Maggie kept a stash of candy behind the breadbox. Emmy snatched a peanut-butter cup and fled up the stairs.
On the second-floor landing she heard Miss Barmy’s voice raised in the foyer below.
“No, I insist. You must keep the rest of the servants out of the kitchen while I’m baking. It’s an old family recipe—and the ingredients are secret.”
Emmy stood in the shadows, suddenly thoughtful. It was the same thing every time her parents came home: Miss Barmy had to bake her special potato rolls. But why?
Emmy stole quietly up the stairs to her bedroom. A whooshing sound was coming from the bathroom, and she cracked open the door.
The blow-dryer, lying on its side, had been turned on. A tube of hair gel was oozing green. And standing happily in front of the mirror, looking remarkably spiky, was the Rat.
“So what’s for breakfast around here? Toast points with mushrooms? Eggs Benedict?”
Emmy opened her eyes and choked back a scream. The Rat was sitting on her chest, his sharp, whiskered face just inches from her nose.
She sat up, tumbling the Rat among the blankets. “Breakfast is usually cereal. Or, if Maggie cooks, maybe sausages. What are you talking about? In your cage, all you ate were those little pellets.”
“A rodent can dream, can’t he?” The Rat’s ears turned pink.
“But where did you ever hear about toast points and all that? You’ve been locked in a cage for years.”
“I took advantage of my educational opportunities,” said the Rat stiffly. “In short, I learned to read. It would have been hard to avoid, after years in an elementary classroom. Not only that but I know the Pledge of Allegiance, and ‘America the Beautiful,’ and all the words to ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’”
“But toast points? Eggs Benedict?”
The Rat looked uncomfortable. “Well, if you must know,” he said, “every time the paper in my cage was changed, I had something new to read. If the teacher did it, I mostly got Teacher’s Tattle. But if I was home with a student for the weekend, I got a little bit of everything.” The Rat lowered his voice. “Some kids got the National Snooper. Did you know that the English royal family are really descendants of Martians? And that Elvis has been reincarnated as a hound dog?”