by Lynne Jonell
The Rat, in his terror, had peed.
Meg, the girl who sat in front of Emmy, helped her pick up the scattered papers. “Weren’t you scared?” she whispered.
“To death,” Emmy whispered back. It was such a natural exchange that she didn’t realize what had just happened until the girl turned back to her desk.
Another kid besides Joe had actually spoken to her!
So maybe Professor Vole’s visit hadn’t been all bad. At least the other kids could hardly pretend she didn’t exist, now that she’d been screamed at by a demented maniac and accused of rodent stealing.
Across the aisle, Joe ripped a page from his notebook and dropped it to the floor, looking hunted. Emmy watched as the crisp white paper turned limp and yellow, blotting up the puddle at the base of her backpack. Joe was going to need more paper; it was amazing how much pee one small Rat could hold. But there was something else amazing about the Rat, and Professor Vole knew what it was. If the Rat were in the back room at the Antique Rat, what would his tag say? “The Talking Rat”?
Emmy grinned a little. That might not be so very valuable. After all, what the Rat said was usually obnoxious.
Still, Brian’s uncle could probably sell a talking rat for a lot of money. Even the Endear Mouse, though clearly intelligent, hadn’t seemed able to speak.
Or was it something else that made the Rat so special? Something more?
Emmy stared hard at math problem number 59. “A car is traveling at sixty feet per second …”
What would Professor Vole put on the Rat’s tag?
The other rat, with the white patch behind its right ear, had something written on its tag … “The Shrinking Rat,” that was it. But what did that mean? That the rat got smaller? That wouldn’t be much use to anyone.
The bell rang. The classroom was suddenly noisy with banging desktops and voices.
“Hurry up, Joe!”
“C’mon, big game today!”
Emmy shoved Joe’s backpack under his desk and grabbed her own in the commotion.
“Hey, maybe he’s got the rat, like that crazy old man said.”
“Yeah, Joe—tell us what you did with the rat!”
Emmy shrugged. She could talk to Joe another time.
“Bye, Emmy—see you tomorrow!”
Meg gave a shy wave as she passed Emmy on her way out the door. Emmy managed to wave back in spite of her amazement at being spoken to yet again.
“Emmy?” Mr. Herbifore’s voice stopped her. “Did you remember that you were supposed to stay after school and copy your poem over?”
Emmy stared at her teacher. What was this, a new trend? He’d remembered her name twice in a row.
Mr. Herbifore’s face softened. “I don’t mean to be hard on you, Emmy. Your work has been good in the past. But that’s no reason to be slack now, is it?”
Emmy shook her head.
“Good. Oh, and one more thing.” Mr. Herbifore leaned over his desk and looked at her kindly. “I don’t for one minute think you took that man’s rat—if it was his.”
Emmy remained guiltily silent.
“In fact”—Mr. Herbifore paused, his face rather red—“I should have stopped him sooner. And now that I think about it, let’s forget about you doing your assignment over. Accidents happen. Just hand it in to me as it is.”
Emmy thought quickly. She had put the poetry assignment in her backpack. It was probably drenched in rat pee.
“No, thank you, Mr. Herbifore,” she said. “I’d rather copy it over. Really.”
Emmy worked carefully at her desk. She tried not to look out the window where Joe’s team was warming up, or at the playground where lucky children, free for the day, played on the swings and monkey bars.
“I have to leave for a moment,” Mr. Herbifore said. “Just put the assignment on my desk when you’re done.”
Emmy nodded. She was finishing up when the Rat poked his nose cautiously out of the pack.
“Is he gone?” the Rat whispered hoarsely. “Is the bad man gone?”
“All gone,” said Emmy. “Get back in the pack, will you? I’ve got to go to gymnastics.”
The Rat hesitated, looking behind his tail into the depths of the pack. The skin under his fur flushed pink. “I … I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. It’s a little damp in there.” He twisted the end of his tail nervously between his paws, lifted his chin, and gazed at a point just beyond Emmy’s left shoulder.
“Damp?” said Emmy, keeping a straight face with an effort. She was enjoying this.
“I believe,” said the Rat, his ears turning crimson, “that it’s not unusual for rodents to sweat a great deal—especially when they’re anxious.” He shot such a worried glance at Emmy that she didn’t have the heart to embarrass him further.
“Of course,” she said quickly. “Ride in the side pocket, then. We have to hurry or I’m going to be late to gymnastics.”
The Rat climbed into the pocket with remarkable haste and hid his head in his paws. He didn’t quite fit, and Emmy tucked his tail in tenderly. Poor Rat. He’d had a terrible day.
Holding the backpack at arm’s length, she dropped her paper on the teacher’s desk. She caught sight of Joe’s poem, right on top.
His printing was bold and very clear. Surely it was all right to look at the one that the teacher had already read aloud? It was titled “To Dad.”
I always have to practice hard
Even out in my back yard.
You make me do it every day.
Can’t you let me—just play?
Emmy blinked. So she wasn’t the only one with parent trouble?
And then she saw the envelope next to Joe’s paper. It was pink, with the address written in an elegant script that she had seen many times before.
Emmy snatched it from the desk and opened the letter. It might be snooping, but finding out what Miss Barmy had written to her teacher was a matter of survival. She scanned it quickly.
Dear Mr. Herbifore,
I certainly understand why you had to cancel; nevertheless, I am sure the children are terribly disappointed—they always love my visits, and of course the atmostherapy I provide is so soothing. So I shall arrive on Friday, at one o’clock sharp, with another very special experience for the class to enjoy during silent-reading time, compliments of the Addison family.
Yours sincerely,
Jane A. Barmy
“Pssst! Hurry up!” The Rat’s paw emerged from the pocket and tapped her wrist with his pointed claws.
Emmy didn’t even flinch. She stared at the paper in her hand as footsteps sounded in the hall.
“Teacher’s coming,” the Rat sang out. Emmy crammed the letter back in the envelope with shaking hands. What did it all mean? Not once, as far as Emmy knew, had Miss Barmy ever come into the classroom during silent-reading time. And what on earth was atmostherapy? There was something very peculiar about Miss Barmy ….
EMMY ALMOST CRASHED into Dr. Leander in her hurry to get out of the building.
“Oh, hello,” he said. “Feeling better, are we?”
“Um,” said Emmy, ducking behind him. She had just seen the rat man coming down the hall, led by the principal.
The Rat had seen him, too. There was a frightened squeak from the backpack’s pocket, and a sudden scrabbling of claws up Emmy’s arm. She nearly yelped aloud.
“Get—your claws—off—my neck!” Emmy hissed, trying to disengage the Rat, who had hidden under her hair.
“What did you say, Emmaline?” The psychologist took out a blue notebook and flipped a page.
Emmy backed out the door, wedging her fingers beneath the Rat’s tightly gripping paws. “Nothing, Dr. Leander—ouch!”
Dr. Leander followed her outside, writing busily. “Do you talk to yourself often, dear?”
Emmy gave the Rat’s body a little furious shake. “Oh—you know—now and then. When I’m really annoyed, or in pain—”
“Are you troubled about something, perhaps? Do you thi
nk someone is out to get you?”
“Someone just got me,” said Emmy through her teeth as she pulled the Rat off her neck with a wrench that felt like it drew blood. “And someone else”—she gave Dr. Leander a hunted look—“keeps following me.”
She thrust the Rat into her backpack, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Who keeps following you, Emmaline?” Dr. Leander kept his head down, writing as he trotted alongside. “Tell me.”
Emmy gave him an exasperated glare. “A giant brain-sucking spider. A ten-foot-tall noodle. Write anything you want, but I’m going to gymnastics!”
“Talks to self … hallucinations,” muttered the psychologist, taking notes as Emmy stalked off. “Becomes hostile when questioned ….”
Emmy was halfway across the playground before she managed to free her hand from the Rat’s death grip. “Did you have to get hysterical?”
“I was not hysterical.” The Rat had regained his dignified bearing. “I was merely reacting with the natural instinct of the hunted animal. Instinct, I might add, is something very understandable in a—”
“Chicken?” Emmy felt the back of her neck tenderly.
“—in a creature that must live by his wits and—”
“Feathers?”
“Oh, shut up,” said the Rat grumpily. “Anyway, you’re the one who’s so troubled. Why do you go to see that guy, anyway? Been torturing frogs? Hearing voices?”
“Miss Barmy makes me. You know, my nanny.”
“Whatever for?”
Emmy glanced over at the soccer game. “Oh, she says my mental health is important, and it’s just like a regular checkup at the doctor’s, or something.”
“And you believe that?” The Rat sounded disdainful.
“Not really, but I don’t care if I skip class—it’s only during silent reading, anyway.”
“Hey, Joe! Nice footwork!”
Emmy walked behind the crowd on the sidelines. They were cheering, but Joe’s father was the loudest of all. He strode up and down, waving his arms.
“That’s my boy! Come on, go, go, GO!”
Joe’s father was laughing, his face full of satisfaction, and Emmy felt a moment of pure envy. Maybe Joe’s dad did make him practice hard, like it said in the poem, but he sure was proud of his son.
Oh, well. Her parents would be home tonight, and maybe they would be proud of her, too. She had saved all her tests, and her essay titled “Animals of India,” and her latest report card. She imagined their faces when they saw all the A’s. Should she show her schoolwork in the car? Or during quality time at home? No—maybe she’d just tie the whole packet up with a ribbon and hand it to her parents at bedtime …
“NO! Follow the player, not the ball—listen, you STUPID KID!”
Joe’s father paced. His neck was swollen, and the pride on his face had changed to dark red anger.
Emmy didn’t want to look at Joe. Now she understood the poem he had written.
But she had problems of her own. Through the shoulders of the crowd, she could see a man in black coming out of the school, looking around.
Emmy’s eyes slid sideways to the belt of trees and bushes that edged the school property. She waited until the man turned away, shading his eyes. And then, like a rabbit, she bolted for the safety of the trees.
“Why did you run? Did you see the bad man again?” The Rat’s tremulous voice wafted up from her backpack as soon as she set it down.
“Yes,” said Emmy, crouched low behind the bushes, “but I found a place to hide.”
“It’s not dark enough,” said the Rat worriedly. “Can’t you find a nice hole somewhere?”
Emmy peered anxiously through the leaves. Where was Professor Vole now? She turned back to see the Rat’s small, plump body clamber out of the pocket. “Ratty, don’t run off!”
“Call of nature,” said the Rat briefly, moving to a nearby tree and lifting his hind leg. “Do you mind?”
He glared until Emmy looked away—and then, all at once, a whistle blew, a player shouted, and a blackand-white ball came crashing through the bushes. It landed just behind Emmy, spinning.
“I’ll get it!” a familiar voice called, and in the next instant two sturdy legs pounded into the brush. In the space of a breath, Joe tripped over Emmy, tumbled in a wild thrashing of bare arms and blue jersey and one flying shoe, and landed a solid elbow right on the Rat’s long, pink tail.
The Rat screamed and snapped in automatic reflex, biting Joe in the biceps. A drop of blood welled up and Joe stared at his arm, his face very pale.
“I … don’t feel so good,” he whispered. “I feel … really weird.”
“I feel worse,” gasped the Rat, still holding his damaged tail. And then he didn’t say any more, for Joe began to shrink.
Right before their eyes, without any warning at all, Joe shrank to the size of the Rat. His clothes shrank with him, all except for the shoe that had fallen off in his wild tumble. Joe stared at it—a black soccer shoe, bigger than his whole body—with the expression of a shock victim.
“Joe! Where are you? Did you get the ball?”
Feet thudded. Voices called. The Rat stood with his paws in his mouth, staring at Joe.
There was no time to think, so Emmy acted on instinct alone. She stuffed Joe and the Rat into her backpack, curled up on the ground, and shut her eyes.
AMID THE SUDDEN BABBLE of voices, Emmy lay still.
“Are you all right, little girl? What happened?”
“Did you see a boy come through here?”
Emmy put a hand weakly to her head and tried for a dazed expression. It wasn’t hard. “Yes, but …” She trailed off, looking around her. “I don’t see him.”
“Here’s his shoe,” said one of the men, looking grim. Joe’s father ran into the road, looking up and down Main Street. “Joe! Joe!”
“A kid can’t just disappear,” said someone.
“Not without help,” said another voice. “Did anyone see a car stop?”
There was a silence.
“All right,” said the referee. “Somebody call the police. The rest of you fan out and search.”
Emmy pulled the backpack from under the bushes and stood up.
“Joe!” she called, along with fifty others. “Joe!” She walked across the street and into the entrance to the gym. Through the glass she could see her class practicing on the uneven parallel bars, but Emmy went straight up the stairs to the girls’ bathroom, entered a stall, and locked the door.
The Rat stuck his head out, looking disgusted. “Don’t tell me—we’re in another girls’ bathroom. Sheesh!”
Emmy opened the top flap and looked in nervously. “Joe? Are you okay?”
“Okay? Okay? I’m shorter than a Barbie doll, I’m stuffed inside a backpack with a rat, and you ask me if I’m okay? You’re joking, right?”
Joe pulled down the side zipper and stuck his head out, breathing deeply. “That’s better. No offense, but your backpack really reeks. What is that awful smell?”
Emmy looked at the Rat, who crimsoned deeply under his fur.
“Oh no.” Joe looked from one to the other. “Oh no no no—I remember now—”
Emmy and the Rat both spoke at once.
“I tried to mop it up—”
“It was just a little sweat—”
Joe shuddered, looking like Tom Thumb in a soccer jersey, and shut his eyes. “This has got to be a dream.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Emmy gloomily. She looked at Joe—a tiny person with a disgusted expression—and found that the impossible was not so hard to believe anymore. Maybe she was getting used to it. She had believed in a talking Rat for long enough, after all. What was so amazing about a shrinking boy? Or no—it was a shrinking rat, the tag had said.
“But it’s too bizarre to be real!” Joe looked darkly at the Rat. “What did you bite me for, anyway? Were you trying to shrink me?”
The Rat looked sulky. “You’d bite somebody, too, if they creamed
your tail.” He lifted his tail and examined it tenderly. “Anyway, how come you think it was my fault?”
“But it was!” Emmy sounded excited.
“Oh, sure,” said the Rat hotly, “blame the rodent, as usual.”
“No, listen. That tag—on the other rat in the store, the one just like you—I didn’t understand it at first, but now it all makes sense. You’re a Shrinking Rat.”
“A what?”
“A Shrinking Rat. Of Schenectady, whatever that means.” Emmy grinned. “That’s why the rat man wanted you back. You bite people, they shrink. You’re just like that other rat in the store—”
“But that can’t be right.” Joe frowned in concentration. “He bit me yesterday when I tried to feed him, and nothing happened then.”
“What rat in what store?” The Rat looked from Emmy to Joe and back again.
“Anyway,” said Joe, looking indignant, “if Ratso here did shrink me, then he can just unshrink me right now. No way am I going to spend the rest of my life the size of a Batman action figure.”
“Unshrink you?” the Rat screeched. “What do you think I am, a magician?”
“Guys!” Emmy nudged them back inside the pack. “We can’t sit here arguing in the bathroom forever. We’ve got to think. Who can help us? What are we going to do?”
“It still stinks in here,” Joe said irritably, but Emmy ignored him. Cautiously, she peeked around the corner.
There was no one on the landing. But through the second-floor window, Emmy could see flashing lights. There were police cars. There was Joe’s father, holding his son’s shoe. And there was someone in black, surrounded by officers in uniform.
Emmy slid open the window a crack and listened.
“That’s him!” cried Mr. Herbifore. “That’s the man who threatened Joe, right in my classroom! If anyone took the boy, he did!”
“I need that rat for research!” shouted Professor Vole. “You’re interfering with the pursuits of science! I demand my rights!”
“Here are your rights,” said a burly policeman. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you ….”