Emmy and the Incredible Shrinking Rat

by Lynne Jonell

  There was a rustling from within Emmy’s bathroom and a small gray rodent came hurrying out, his hair spiky with gel. “Professor,” the Rat cried breathlessly, clutching a bit of paper in his paw. “Is it time?”

  “It’s almost time for the program, if that’s what you mean,” said the professor, looking at his watch. “Emmy, shall we go? Let’s show those people downstairs a real, live child—someone who should not be abandoned.”

  “But what about me?” The Rat jumped up and down, waving his paper. “I’m going to sing! I’ve got it all ready!”

  The professor looked at him keenly. “I didn’t know you wanted to be part of the program, Raston. I did bring the Universal Rodent Translator, but I was just going to let the chinchilla say a few words. That always impresses everyone.”

  The Rat looked appalled. “The chinchilla? You can’t be serious!”

  “I admit, he’s not the brightest bulb in the light fixture—”

  “He’s as dumb as toast,” said the Rat earnestly. “Look, it’s all written down, it rhymes and everything, I spent hours—”

  Professor Capybara tucked Raston into his breast pocket. “Come along then, Emmy,” he said. “The program is about to start.”

  “But are you really going to let Raston sing?”

  “Of course. Who could resist a singing rat?”

  Professor Capybara moved briskly down the stairs and through the tiled hall. Surprised, Emmy noticed that people stepped aside as they approached, courteously letting them pass.

  Snatches of conversation flew over her head as before. But there wasn’t quite so much shrieking. The laughter was gentler, somehow. And the comments didn’t seem nearly so mean.

  “So how are your kids doing? Abby’s about to graduate, isn’t that right?”

  “… and the profits have been so good this year, I want to give employee bonuses.”

  “Sure, we made a small donation to S.P.A.N.K.—but I spent thirty times that on a dress for tonight. What was I thinking?”

  They were at the platform. Emmy looked around, perplexed.

  “Say, where are our kids tonight?” A dark-haired man set down his drink, frowning, and turned to a woman wearing a dress of silver beads.

  She stared at him, her eyes wide. “John! I just realized—I have no idea!”

  “Testing, testing,” said the professor, tapping a microphone that was affixed to a tall wooden stand. He spoke quietly to Emmy’s mother. The musicians put down their bows as Mrs. Addison stepped to the wooden lectern and laid down a sheet of paper.

  “Darlings,” she trilled. “Thank you so much for coming tonight to this fund-raiser for the”—she looked down at the paper—“for the Society for the Protection of Abandoned and Neglected Kids. My daughter, Emmy, is here to remind us of the real children we are trying to help.”

  Emmy stepped up on a little box and leaned over the lectern. “Hello,” she said shyly, into the microphone.

  “And as a further treat, we have here a surprise visit from the very distinguished Maxwell Capybara, world-renowned professor of rodentology, who has come with something very unusual for us tonight. Professor?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Addison. Some years ago, I retired to do further research into the wonderful and amazing abilities of rodents. And here tonight, for the benefit of abandoned and neglected children everywhere, you are about to witness the world premiere of one of the most amazing rodents it has been my privilege to know. Please give your closest attention to the astounding, the extraordinary, the incredible shrinking Raston Rat!”

  The lights dimmed. A spotlight shone as the professor affixed a small metal box to the microphone’s head, lifted Raston from his pocket, and set him on top of the lectern.

  The Rat pulled out his paper, somewhat crumpled, and cleared his throat. He blinked in the bright light, looked out over the crowd—and froze.

  There was a profound silence. From a ceiling vent overhead came a small restless shuffling.

  “Sing!” Emmy hissed, poking him lightly in the back.

  The Rat blushed from his ears to his tail, took a deep, chest-swelling breath, and sang. To the tune of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” he sang, with all the power his lungs possessed:

  Oh, say have you seen

  The kiddies forlorn

  Who have truckloads of toys

  But still need our pity?

  Though they’ve got gobs of cash

  Though they’re dressed, oh so fash—

  They’re all grumpy and glum

  And in short, it’s not pretty.

  They’ve got no time to play

  ’Cause they’re scheduled all day

  And when they get home

  Everyone is away.

  Oh, who are these abandoned,

  Neglected children, sad and lone?

  My dear S.P.A.N.K.ers, one and all—

  They just might be your own!

  There was a pause. From the vent overhead came an enthusiastic squeak. And then the room erupted in a thunder of applause.

  The dark-haired man put his arm around his wife, and together they turned toward the door. “Sorry—excuse us—we have to find our children,” Emmy heard as they walked rapidly out.

  There was a sound of sniffling. All around the room, eyes were dabbed and noses were honked. Emmy looked at her parents, standing together and staring. And then the professor was at her side, tucking Raston into his pocket.

  “One of the best appeals I’ve ever heard,” he said, chuckling to himself as he led Emmy out of the room, “and certainly the most creative. Raston, you’re a star.”

  Emmy looked over her shoulder at the partygoers as she followed the professor up the stairs. “They’re all so different now,” she marveled. “I still can’t believe you imprinted all those tarts and handed them around.”

  “It wasn’t in the original plan,” the professor admitted, “but when I listened a moment to the talk at the party, I couldn’t resist. Somebody had to wake up those people.”

  “What do you mean?” The Rat poked his head out of the professor’s pocket. “I did that with my song, didn’t I?”

  Professor Capybara nodded. “Yes, indeed. But they wouldn’t have bothered to listen if the tarts hadn’t prepared the way. Brian and I didn’t go near your parents, of course,” he added hastily, looking at Emmy. “But to all the rest of them—all those shallow, bragging, vulgar folk—we gave the chinchilla tarts. All at once, the things they thought were important became petty and small. And the things they didn’t care much about were suddenly worth the whole world.”

  Emmy smiled.

  “So you mean—,” said the Rat, light dawning.

  The professor chuckled deep in his chest. “That’s right! Suddenly, money meant nothing to them, except for the good it could do. They no longer cared about trying to make people envy them—they thought about making people feel valued. And their children, who they had neglected and forgotten and left to the care of strangers—”

  “Became the most important people in the world!” finished the Rat triumphantly.

  “It may not last, of course,” said the professor, sighing, “at least not for most of them. But it’s a nice change, don’t you think?”

  Emmy nodded fervently as she mounted the last flight of stairs. “Speaking of change, Professor, Miss Barmy isn’t going to stay nice for long. Would you try very hard tomorrow to find a rat potion that will stop her for good?”

  “Yes, I certainly shall.” Professor Capybara puffed slightly as he reached the third-floor hall. “But the chart, as you know, is smudged and faint in some very crucial places; and my notes are completely mixed up. I don’t even have a blood sample to analyze.”

  “A blood sample? From Miss Barmy?”

  “Yes. That’s where the charascope is so useful, you see. It shows me all of her weak points.”

  A door opened at the end of the hall. Miss Barmy shuffled toward the bathroom wearing a fluffy white robe and bunny slippers.
>
  “Why, hello!” she cried gaily, moving to Emmy with her hands outstretched. “I’m so glad to see you!”

  Emmy smiled back, feeling a painful twist somewhere inside of her. So this is what Miss Barmy could have been like … warm and lovely and welcoming. She shook her head suddenly, to clear it. Miss Barmy was not like this, but for the moment, Emmy could take advantage of it.

  “Miss Barmy,” she said gently, “I need a few blood samples for a science project. Would you … could you—”

  “Of course,” said Miss Barmy. “Take as much as you like.”

  “I’ll get my notes organized first thing tomorrow.” The professor, on his knees in Emmy’s room, was peering down the heat vent. Brian, still in his waiter’s jacket, rubbed his bearded chin as a skittering sound of many small feet echoed in the wall.

  Joe and the rodents tumbled out of the heat vent, already cheering.

  “Hooray for Raston!”

  “Ratty forever!”

  “Oh, Rasty,” cried Sissy, “you’re a poet and I didn’t even know it!”

  The Rat was surrounded by a hugging, congratulating mob. He swayed under the press, his mouth open in a foolish, ecstatic grin, his ears twitching at each compliment. Emmy watched, trying not to laugh.

  “And so Raston finally gets what he’s been craving all along,” said the professor, smiling.

  Brian cleared his throat. “And when will the other rodents get what they want?” he asked unhappily.

  Emmy glanced at him in surprise. “What’s the matter?”

  Brian looked away. “It’s the rats,” he muttered. “Ever since Raston bit me, I can understand everything they say. And they want to get out!” he added emphatically, raising his eyes. “They can’t stand it in those cages!”

  “Soon,” said the professor earnestly. “But you know the police searched the Antique Rat today, looking for clues, trying to find Joe. They saw all the rats in their cages, and if they come back and suddenly all the rats are gone, it will seem even more suspicious.”

  Brian slumped in his chair.

  “Once Joe grows and returns to his parents, then we can set them free. But it’s not safe yet.”

  “I talked to Uncle Cheswick.” Brian wound the tip of his beard around a finger. “If you just let him grow, he promises to never let Miss Barmy use the rodents again.”

  Emmy and the professor exchanged glances.

  “Why do you care so much about Cheswick Vole?” asked the professor gently.

  “He’s my uncle,” said Brian with dignity, “and he took me out of the orphanage.” He got to his feet. “I’ll go put the chinchilla in the truck. But what about the other potions we let Miss Barmy have—the Oil of Beaver and the Extract of Gerbil? Now that she’s nicer, we could ask for them back—”

  There was a sudden clatter as the vent cover dropped from the professor’s hands.

  “What did you say?” Professor Capybara’s face had turned pale. “You gave her Extract of Gerbil? Not—triple distilled?”

  “We thought it was safe enough,” said Emmy anxiously. “It just makes you more mature. What’s wrong, Professor?”

  He gripped her arm. “It makes you more mature, all right,” he said hoarsely. “It makes you age—” He paused, his grip loosening.

  “Professor! Wake up!” Emmy shook him violently.

  Professor Capybara’s eyes popped open like a puppet’s. “It makes you age … by a factor of three …” he said in a thick, drowsy voice and sagged heavily to the floor, already snoring.

  Emmy stared at the rumpled heap that was the professor. “If that’s true,” she said slowly, “then Miss Barmy couldn’t have meant it for herself.”

  Brian looked at Emmy in horror. “But if Miss Barmy gave it to you—”

  Emmy shuddered lightly, as if touched by a chill breeze.

  “—you’d be over thirty years old,” Brian whispered.

  The attempt to get the Extract of Gerbil from Miss Barmy had been unsuccessful. Her door was locked, and all their knocking had failed to rouse her.

  The professor woke at last, but he was still so upset he kept falling asleep again. Emmy helped Brian get him into the truck.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Brian, his worried eyes on her face. “I’ve got Miss Barmy’s blood sample right here. Tomorrow I’ll help the professor go through all his notes, and look at that chart in a good light, and … and I’ll keep him calm. We’ll figure something out for sure.”

  Emmy nodded. Her teeth were chattering slightly in the cool night air.

  “Besides,” Brian went on with an attempt at a smile, “Miss Barmy’s going to stay nice for days, right? And why would she want to make you into a grown-up anyway? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Emmy rubbed the goose pimples on her arms. She’d always thought it would be wonderful to be a grown-up—but not all at once. Not if she had to miss everything in between.

  Brian slammed the truck door and leaned out through the open window, still looking unhappy. “I’d feel better if your parents cared enough to listen to you a little. Could you get them to take you along when they leave town? Keep you out of Miss Barmy’s way?”

  Emmy shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “They wouldn’t have to care a lot,” he went on, thinking aloud. “I mean, at the orphanage there wasn’t anybody who loved me the way a parent would, but some of the staff were fond of me. Emmy, if your parents were even just fond of you, they might listen enough to keep you safe.”

  On her way up to bed, Emmy stopped at her parents’ room.

  “Mom?” She hesitated in the doorway. “Are you going to stay home for a while, or are you planning another trip soon?”

  Her mother looked up languidly from her dressing table and dipped two fingers in a jar of cold cream. “Oh, another trip, naturally, though what I’ll do in Alaska I can’t imagine. I’m not sloshing about with any big clammy fish, I can tell you that.” She applied the cream to her face with a careful, circular motion.

  “You could take me with you,” said Emmy, wandering over to the chest of drawers. She poked at a tube of wrinkle remover and gazed idly at the bottles of nail polish cluttering the surface, along with her mother’s silver brush and comb set.

  Her mother looked blank. “Take you with us? Whatever for?”

  “Well, while Dad’s fishing, you and I could do something together.” Emmy thought rapidly. “Shopping, maybe?”

  “Shopping? In Alaska?” Kathy Addison gave a tinkling laugh. “What would we buy? A stuffed moose?”

  Emmy said nothing. She was staring at the dresser top. Her mother’s brush was on the left, her father’s on the right …

  Kathy Addison waved airily. “Don’t talk nonsense, of course you can’t come. We’ll be going straight to Rome from there. I’m simply dying to see Count Zippoli and his dancing ferrets—”

  I’m not going to use the Endear Mouse anyway, Emmy told herself, looking at the strands of her parents’ hair tangled in the brushes.

  “—and don’t you have school, or something? You’re in what grade now? Fourth? Sixth?”

  But just in case, Emmy thought.

  “—and then we’ve been invited to the Transylvanian Vampire’s Ball, and that’s hardly an event for children—”

  It’s silly to take them, Emmy said to herself, even as her hand quietly extracted one hair from each brush and folded them in a tissue. It’s not like I’ll ever really use them. I’ll probably forget I even have them in my pocket.

  EMMY WAS EATING BREAKFAST in the kitchen when the news came on.

  “Don’t tell me they haven’t found that boy yet,” said Maggie, her eyes troubled. “He’s been missing, what—two days now?”

  Emmy nodded, her eyes never leaving the screen. Studley Jackell was having better luck this time—Joe’s parents weren’t trying to shut the door in his face. Mrs. Benson, pale and thin, was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Mr. Benson stood squarely in front of the microphone, looking grim and determin
ed.

  “And so young Joe Benson is still missing,” said Studley Jackell, his voice deep and booming, “and his parents are still wondering, worrying, watching, waiting—”

  “He’s eleven,” interrupted Mr. Benson, leaning into the microphone, “about four feet ten inches tall with thick blond hair, wearing a blue soccer jersey—”

  “That’s right,” said Studley, grabbing the microphone. “Joe Benson was an outstanding soccer player with hopes for the national junior team. His loss means bad news for Grayson Lake’s tournament hopes—”

  “What does that matter?” Mr. Benson’s face darkened. “I don’t care if Joe never plays soccer again. I just want my son back, safe at home.”

  “And so do we all,” intoned Studley Jackell, smoothing back his hair and blocking Mr. Benson from the microphone in one practiced motion. “Monica, do the police have any leads?”

  “Well, Studley, the police released Cheswick Vole since they had no real evidence to connect him to the disappearance of Joe Benson. But we have just been told that the police want him for questioning again—and he is nowhere to be found.”

  “It’s a real mystery, isn’t it, Monica.”

  “It certainly is, Studley. But there’s nothing mysterious about the way Ron Ronson’s Used Cars and Trucks saves you money!”

  Maggie snapped off the TV. “I can’t bear it,” she said. “Those poor parents. And that poor boy.”

  “I bet Joe will turn up safe,” said Emmy, pouring milk on her cereal. “He’s probably having a great time somewhere and just forgot to go home.”

  “I shall pray for it,” said Maggie simply, measuring coffee into a pot.

  Emmy finished her cereal quickly. Joe would want to hear what was on the news, especially the part about how his father didn’t care if he ever played soccer again.

  She would take Ratty and Sissy with her, she thought, rinsing her bowl. They would pick up Joe at Rodent City and then go to see Brian and the professor. A magnifying glass would help them read the fine print on the chart, and maybe make some sense out of the smudged spots, too. With all of them working on the problem, surely they could come up with something that would keep her parents from flying to Alaska tonight.