by Lynne Jonell
Emmy glanced around quickly for any lurking cats. “Will he wake up by the time we get to the Antique Rat, do you think?”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Bunjee, “or it might take a bit longer. But the minute he wakes up, he’ll be on the spot to help. Come, child, out of the way—here comes the pawball team.”
A rumbling of paws sounded in the tunnel passage, and a pack of rodents in red and white jerseys streamed from the crumbling hole in the foundation. The Rat cheered loudly, waving both paws. “I can’t play the first quarter,” he cried, “but do your best, lads, and I’ll come as soon as I can!”
Buck looked at him blankly as Emmy and Joe stifled giggles.
“Nice-looking jerseys,” said Raston breezily. “Where’s mine?”
Buck scowled. “Listen here, you’re not—”
“Come on!” called Mrs. Bunjee. “Run along behind them; there’s safety in numbers,” and they all grabbed a bit of the wagon and pushed hard to catch up.
“But I still don’t understand about Professor Capybara,” said Emmy as they trotted down the dark and echoing alley. “Why does he fall asleep so fast?”
“Ratolepsy,” said Buck briefly.
“It’s a rodent-induced sleep disorder,” Chippy added as they skirted the garbage cans, even smellier at ground level.
“You get it from the Bushy-Tailed Snoozer Rat,” Mrs. Bunjee explained. “Years ago, the professor examined one too closely and it sneezed in his face. He came down with the Snoozer virus, and—well—he hasn’t yet found a cure.”
“So whenever he gets excited, he gets sleepy?” Joe looked down at the professor, whose peaceful face was lit by the streetlight as they emerged from the alley.
“More like comatose,” said Buck.
“Out cold,” said Chippy.
“It never lasts long, though,” said Mrs. Bunjee. “Sometimes just a few minutes, but never more than an hour—why, Professor! You’re awake already!”
“Here’s what I’ve got so far.” Brian yawned as he helped Emmy, Joe, Raston, and the professor get settled on a large wooden desk near the window. “I couldn’t get into the cabinet—he keeps it locked—but I found lots of his papers.”
They were inside the Antique Rat. The chipmunks had run off to the pawball field while the Rat had swarmed up the vine-covered brick to ring the doorbell. About fifty rings later, a rumpled-looking Brian had come to the door. Although he was surprised to see that Emmy, too, had shrunk, he let them in, was introduced to the professor, and set them on the desk amid a stack of old books and papers.
“Wonderful! All my old notes!” Professor Capybara adjusted his tiny glasses, sat down in the circle of light cast by the desk lamp, and heaved open the first of the notebooks. “Hee hee! Here’s the experiment with the Spiny Pocket Mouse—dear me, that one went badly awry; I couldn’t sit down for a week. And the Dog-Eared Marmot! What a charming rodent, except for its unfortunate habit of barking at night …”
Emmy glanced at Joe. “Professor,” she said uneasily, “that’s all very interesting, but could you possibly look up the directions for unshrinking us first? If I’m not my normal size by morning, Miss Barmy will—” She hesitated. She didn’t know exactly what Miss Barmy would do, but she could just about guarantee it would be bad.
“Oh, of course. Let’s see. We were doing shrinking experiments in the spring of the year, as I recall … but which year?”
Joe wandered over the desktop, jumping from book to book to read the titles, but the Rat tugged at Brian’s sleeve. “I want to get Sissy out of her cage.”
“Eh?” Brian looked down. “Why is he squeaking at me again? I can’t understand a thing he—yeeouch!”
The Rat stepped back from Brian’s forearm with a satisfied air. “Can you understand me now, mate?”
Brian stared down at the drop of blood welling from the puncture. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Thanks. Sort of.”
“I’ll go with you,” Emmy said. She might as well be doing something instead of just sitting around watching the professor think.
The back room was as Emmy remembered it—only more so. The smells were more overpowering, the teeth of the beaver more frighteningly orange, and the cages seemed to stretch on forever.
Brian dialed the combination to Sissy’s cage and let Raston in. Emmy was touched to see the Rat patting his sleeping sister gently on the shoulder.
“Sissy? It’s me, Raston—your brother—”
“Rasty?” Cecilia sat up and threw her arms around her brother. “I knew you’d come back!”
“Dearest Sissy,” murmured the Rat, his voice breaking with emotion.
Emmy caught sight of the Endear Mouse as Brian turned away. “Wait! Can I go in there?”
Brian looked confused. “Do you know that mouse?”
“Sort of,” said Emmy, remembering how she had put out a finger and the Endear Mouse had touched it with its small, white paw.
Brian dialed another combination and opened the door. Emmy stepped off his hand and into the cage of the tiny mouse with its beautiful fawn-colored fur and serious brown eyes.
“Do you remember me?” she asked softly.
The little mouse smiled, its dark eyes lighting, and patted the floor of the cage.
“Do you—want me to sit down?” Emmy asked.
The mouse nodded and patted the floor again. It watched her expectantly.
Emmy walked over, kicking up wood shavings, and sneezed. She sat down beside the Endear Mouse, and the lovely fur, as soft and light as thistledown, brushed her arm for a moment. Its touch was strangely comforting.
Emmy had never forgotten the words printed on the tag of white pasteboard: “Endear Mouse. Makes the absent heart grown fonder.” If only she could somehow use the mouse’s powers now, she wouldn’t have to wait for the chinchilla effect to wear off. She wouldn’t be at Miss Barmy’s mercy for weeks more while her parents were off on another one of their trips.
She fidgeted, wondering if the Endear Mouse could speak. The mouse sat quietly, white paws folded. Its ears, too large for the little face, looked ready to listen.
And suddenly Emmy was ready to talk.
She told the mouse about the early days, when they had owned the bookstore on the other side of town, before her great-great-uncle William had left them all the money and the house on Grayson Lake—how her parents had loved her, then.
Emmy’s voice grew colder as she talked about Miss Barmy—how the nanny had been waiting at the door of the big house, how she had invited them in as if she owned the place, serving them tea and Grandmother Barmy’s potato rolls. Miss Barmy said she had known Great-Uncle William well, and she had been nanny to many children over the years; and she could tell just by looking at her that Emmy was a good girl.
Emmy stood up and walked to the bars of the cage, looking out. “She showed us her cane, carved with all these little faces. She said they were the faces of people she had taken care of. And all at once I got this horrible, creepy feeling. Only she was smiling, and my parents were smiling, and everybody thought everything was wonderful, so I didn’t know what to think.”
She turned and told the rest of it—how people at school barely knew she existed, how her parents had changed, and how it all—every bit of it—could be traced to Miss Barmy.
“She’s ruining my life,” Emmy said bitterly. “I’ve got to stop her. I just don’t know how.”
The Endear Mouse made a sudden movement, its face stern.
“What? What are you saying?” Emmy watched as the mouse made a fierce, stabbing gesture with its paw.
“You’re saying … I should fight?”
The mouse nodded vigorously.
“Of course, but—with a sword?” Emmy was dubious.
The mouse smacked a paw on its own forehead, then pointed to Emmy’s with the other paw.
Emmy looked at the mouse, feeling stupid. “I’m sorry, I don’t get it—”
Stepping forward, the mouse took Emmy’s face between its own two paws and pulled
it down until their foreheads touched.
All at once Emmy understood. “You’re saying we should fight her with our minds! Working together!”
The mouse broke into a wide smile, its eyes crinkling with delight.
“So you’ll help me?” Emmy cried happily.
The Endear Mouse put its paws over its chest and bowed. But its eyes, when it raised its head again, were deeply sad.
There was a noise of feet, and a swish as the curtain to the back room was pulled aside.
“Emmy?” Brian stopped before the cage and peered in, his nose astonishingly huge to Emmy’s eyes. “I think you should come. The professor’s having some trouble.”
Professor Capybara looked up anxiously, surrounded by papers yellowed with age and covered with neat, precise handwriting. “I can’t seem to find anything, my dear. Cheswick must have been messing about with my notes—they’re all out of order, and I just can’t remember—” He blinked rapidly, looking upset.
“Stay calm, Professor,” said Emmy, patting his shoulder in her best imitation of Mrs. Bunjee. “Doesn’t Ratty’s sister have something to do with the unshrinking part? I mean, her tag said—”
“Yes, yes—we know that much already.” The professor flipped through the scattered pages in a helpless manner. “The question is how, exactly, does she do it?”
Sissy scampered up the desk leg behind Raston. “How do I do what?” She waved shyly at Joe and Emmy.
“Why don’t you try some experiments?” Emmy suggested. “Eat something with her paw print in it, maybe.”
“I’ve got some leftovers from lunch,” Brian said, pulling out a brown bag.
“Psst—Emmy,” said Joe, beckoning from behind a large book.
“Hang on.” Emmy watched as Sissy stepped on a peanut-butter sandwich, imprinting her foot in the soft, white center. The professor ate it hurriedly.
“Is it working? Am I growing yet?” he asked, looking down at his arms and legs. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.” He scribbled awkwardly with a pencil stub, as large as a baseball bat in his hands.
Emmy sighed internally. Professor Capybara might be a brilliant rodentologist, but he seemed a little dense sometimes. “Brian could take notes for you, Professor,” she said politely. “He’s big enough to hold the pencil, you see.”
“Why, of course! What a splendid idea, my dear!”
Emmy walked across the desk blotter to Joe. “What’s up?”
“Look—it’s Cheswick Vole’s old high school yearbook. Check out the hair!”
Emmy leaned over the glossy page with sudden interest. “Hey, that’s the picture they showed on TV.”
Joe nodded, studying the group photo. “Old Cheswick could have used a weight-lifting class. That boy was the classic ninety-eight-pound weakling.”
Emmy knelt on the page for a closer look—and took in a sudden breath.
“What?”
Emmy pointed, her hand wavering slightly.
“But, Emmy, it’s just the names of the kids. Cheswick Vole, Priscilla Addison, Peter Peebles, Jane Barm—”
They stared at each other.
“Wow,” said Joe, turning back to the photo. “She could have been a model.”
Emmy nodded. Jane Barmy, at seventeen, was beautiful, but her face already seemed hard and a little mean. “She looks like the type who pinches when the teacher’s back is turned,” Emmy said with quiet scorn.
There was a grunt of pain from the professor, who was holding his finger. Cecilia, looking embarrassed, was wiping blood off her front teeth.
“What do you think? Am I growing?” the professor asked eagerly.
The Rat shook his head. He and Sissy stood in the circle of lamplight, their fur tipped with gold. Brian, still in his pajamas, made a notation on a pad of paper.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence, and Emmy glanced at it. Almost two in the morning, and no solution in sight. At this rate, she’d still be chipmunk-size when Maggie called her for breakfast.
She suppressed an internal quiver of impatience. She had thought the professor would know exactly how to fix things, but it wasn’t working out that way at all.
Well, she would just have a look at those notes herself. She walked around to the other side of the pile, picked up the nearest paper, and read: “Genetic mutations from two RATZ intercrosses (HRRY × RT and RAT × FZZY).”
Emmy swallowed hard and reached for another paper. “Intergenic rodent recombination in phage T12,” she read. “‘Mutagenicity of mouselike compounds.’ ‘Snoozer Bacteriophage SNZ.’ Well, that’s helpful,” she muttered, letting the papers fall.
“Emmy,” said Joe abruptly. “Look here.”
He had turned the pages of the yearbook back to the beginning. There, under the Bs, was Jane Barmy’s senior picture—surrounded by little hearts drawn with a red marker.
Emmy looked at Joe in disbelief. Cheswick Vole loved Jane Barmy?
“That’s why he lets her use any rat she wants,” Joe said, grinning. “At least the ones he’s figured out how to use.”
“And he never charges her anything,” said Emmy sourly.
“Of course not. He’s in loooove!” Joe pretended to swoon.
Emmy turned away. How anyone, even Cheswick Vole, could love someone as poisonous as Miss Barmy, she didn’t know. Who cared if Miss Barmy was good-looking? She was as ugly as could be on the inside.
“Please, no!” Cecilia’s voice rose. “I’ve nipped your finger and stomped on your food and everything else you could think of. I couldn’t bear to claw your face! There is a limit!”
“But—” began the professor.
“Anyway, how do you know I’m the one who can unshrink you?” she pleaded. “Maybe it’s Raston who can do it!”
The professor shook his head. “Raston shrinks, you enlarge. That’s why you’re a pair. You did it to a cat once, in the laboratory. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember that cat,” said Cecilia gloomily. “Sensitive—always getting its feelings hurt. But I have no idea how I made it grow.”
“Don’t you think you could have scratched it,” the professor said persuasively, “by accident?”
Cecilia looked thoughtful. “Maybe.”
“Well, then. One more try?”
Cecilia sighed and swiped his cheek with a quick claw.
“Ow!” Professor Capybara dabbed at the cut with his hanky, looking anxiously down at his body. “Am I growing yet? Can you see me growing? Anyone?”
They all waited. And waited.
“I knew it,” said Cecilia unhappily. “Now you’re bleeding again.” Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed the professor on the cheek she had scratched. And then, all of a sudden, she tumbled backward, because—
“Ouch!” the professor said, astonished, as he bumped his head on the ceiling. He climbed down off the table, laughing and excited. “My dear, dear Cecilia! How very clever of you! And it makes sense, yes indeed. A kiss is the opposite of a bite, you might say!” He pulled Brian from the chair and improvised a polka, dancing with short, awkward leaps. “Hooray for Cecilia! Hooray for science and the experimental method! Hoo—hoora—”
The professor wavered, buckled, and went down in a heap.
Brian backed away, appalled.
“Criminy,” said Joe. “Not again.”
“But he wasn’t even mad—he was happy!” Inwardly fuming, Emmy climbed down the drawer pulls, hand over hand, and ran up to the professor’s large and hairy ear. “Wake up, Professor! We still need you to help us figure out the potions—and what to do with the rats—and Miss Barmy—”
She stopped. Footsteps sounded outside the shop, and there was a rattling of keys.
Brian spun around. “Quick! Hide!”
He dragged Professor Capybara behind a large, locked cabinet, then sprawled in the chair again, shutting his eyes. Joe took refuge behind the stack of yearbooks. The rodents swarmed down the desk to the floor, running with Emmy to a
shadowy corner.
The door creaked open. A man entered.
He was small and shabby, with thinning brown hair and trousers belted high. He dropped his keys into his pocket and looked up. “Brian!” Cheswick Vole rasped, sounding suspicious. “What are you doing up?”
“Huh?” Brian jolted upright and shook his head as if to clear it. “I’ve got a message for you, Uncle. From that Barmy lady.”
Cheswick’s eyes brightened. “Jane sent me a message?”
Brian nodded. “She said to call her as soon as you got back, day or night, it didn’t matter.”
Cheswick cracked his knuckles one after the other, smiling dreamily. “She needs me! She misses me!” He picked up the phone on the desk and began to dial.
The Rat and Sissy clung to each other as Cheswick’s feet came nearer. Emmy patted their furry backs while her eyes watched Cheswick’s every move. She couldn’t afford to panic—she had to think.
“Go to bed, boy,” Cheswick snapped. “This is a private conversation.”
Brian moved slowly in the direction of the stairs.
“Jane? Jane, it’s Chessie …”
A voice squawked loudly. The happy glow faded from Cheswick’s face.
“I’m sorry—but you said ‘the usual’—”
There was a pause, then more squawking.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Cheswick said hurriedly. “I’ll get it ready right away. You can come anytime, anytime at all …” He looked at the receiver. A dial tone droned loudly into the silence.
“Well …” Cheswick set the phone down and wiped his palms on his trousers. “Let’s see. Extract of Gerbil, triple distilled, and Scent of Shrew. I think I have those bottles already made up.”
He shuffled over to the tall cabinet, fumbling with his keys, and unlocked the door. The clink of bottles followed, and then, faintly, the sound of a snore.
Cheswick’s back stiffened. He put a vial back in its place and peered around the edge of the cabinet. His face turned the color of putty.
“Professor? Boss?” he whispered.
Professor Capybara’s chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm. A slight whistling sound exuded from his nose.
Cheswick smiled slowly: a big, bony smile. He moved his hand delicately among the bottles in the cabinet, selected one, and measured out three drops. He bent over the professor.