Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls (21 page)

They were all grinning at her.

Relieved, Emmy grinned back. Somehow after
combining forces to capture the terrible Mrs. B, they had become good friends again without needing to say anything at all.

But of course there was still the problem of the necklace.

“And Sissy, too,” said the Rat after the jewelry-store burglary had been explained.

“She's a little better,” Emmy said earnestly. “She hasn't woken up yet, but she's not so pale.”

“I want to see for myself.” Raston sprang up.

“Maybe we shouldn't go,” Joe objected. “Maybe she needs her rest.”

Buck nodded his striped head. “And remember, we've got to find Emmy's necklace and get it back.”

“Chippy's going to put the jewels in the tiara for the beauty contest.” Emmy tapped the floor with her claws.

The fur on Buck's back stood up. “Are you telling me,” he demanded, “that my brother
knows
those jewels are stolen? That he's helping
criminals
?”

“I'm not sure,” said Emmy. “But Miss Barmy did tell him the jewels had been in her family for generations. And he believes everything she says. Maybe he's just a—what do you call it?”

“A dupe,” said Buck grimly.

“A pigeon,” added Joe.

“A patsy,” said the Rat.

“Downright stupid,” finished Buck. “And so is everyone in Rodent City. They've let themselves be blinded by a pretty rat—”

“She's kind of blotchy,” said the Rat. “I like a nice smooth gray myself.”

“—and a beauty pageant, and all those seeds and nuts she's been handing out.”

Emmy nodded. “You know those seeds that the rodents think are so rare? That you use for money? The kitchen downstairs has whole jars full. They only cost a few dollars in human money at any grocery store.”

“Let's go to Rodent City and tell them!” cried Joe. “We'll tell about the jewels, and the troubled girls, and the seeds, and everything. The Barmster won't get to run her old beauty contest after all!”

“I wonder if they'd listen,” said Buck slowly. “Everyone is so thrilled about the pageant. Even Mother has been sewing dresses. They won't want to believe us.”

“
I
have an idea!” the Rat said brightly. “Let's wait until
after
the pageant to tell them! Everyone is
so
looking forward to it … and there's going to be a
theme song
…”

Emmy hid a grin. “What? Were you asked to write one?”

“Well, yes.” The Rat lowered his eyes modestly. “And sing it, of course.”

“Of course,” said Joe.

“Don't tell me you want to be a part of that three-ring circus,” Buck said with disgust. “It's bad enough that Chippy's involved. And that everyone else in Rodent City thinks Miss Barmy is Queen Princess Biggypants.”

Joe snorted out loud.

The Rat's head shot up defensively. “It's a good song. I spent
hours
getting it to rhyme.”

“Let's hear it, Ratty!” Emmy rolled on her stomach and propped her furry cheeks on her paws.

The Rat stood up shyly, and dug a toe into the floor. “This is to the tune of ‘There She Is, Miss America,' you know.” He clasped his paws behind his back, swelled his chest, and sang:

“Listen!” said Buck suddenly. “Feel that?”

They all fell silent as a slight vibration shook the attic floor. Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and the rodents dashed beneath a shelf and waited, panting, in the shadow it cast. The door creaked open.

“Addie, dear? Where are you?” Mr. B's heavy feet shuffled past the rodents' hiding place.

A tiny, shrill cry could be faintly heard under the colander.

“I'm sorry, little girl, but you just have to stay there.” Mr. B put his hands over his ears. “I hate it when the little ones cry,” he mumbled to himself. “Jane and Addie will be so mad that the other girls got away … and the police keep asking questions …” His footsteps receded to the far end of the room. “Addie? Addie, where have you gone?”

The four rodents looked at one another and nodded. In an instant, they scampered out the open door and down the stairs. They bunched in a furry heap on the second-floor landing and listened at the apartment door that Mr. B hadn't quite shut, their sensitive ears cocked. They heard voices.

“B
UT WHERE IS HE
, Cheswick? He
promised
.”

“Now, Jane,” soothed Cheswick Vole, “I'm sure he'll turn up in time for the pageant. And if he doesn't, you can ask someone else to sing.”

Miss Barmy's claws tapped on the floor of the dollhouse. “You don't understand, Chessie. I can't have just anyone. I need a rodent with a
voice
.”

Raston grinned cheekily. Buck and Joe pretended to gag, but Emmy listened intently as the conversation continued.

“Do you have the ballots ready?” Miss Barmy sounded uneasy.

“All marked and ready, my little kumquat,” said Cheswick.

“And the mouse? The one that doesn't talk?”

“Locked up with the ballot box and a satin pillow. Don't worry, princess—the pageant will go exactly as you planned. I will take care of
everything
.”

Emmy scuttled around the baseboards to an
overstuffed chair with a skirt that went to the floor. The three rodents followed her silently, slipping under the curtain of fabric. They gathered in the dim space beneath the sagging upholstery, and put their heads close together.

“You heard them,” said Emmy quietly. “They've marked the ballots for the beauty contest—
before
the voting. That means they plan to cheat.”

Raston's ears drooped. “I suppose you're going to say I shouldn't sing for them.”

Emmy shook her head. “No, I was actually thinking that you
should
.”

Buck pulled back. “
What?
”

“Just listen to her.” Joe looked around the circle. “What's your idea, Emmy?”

Emmy lowered her voice. “Miss Barmy knows that everyone in Rodent City blames me for what happened to Sissy, including you guys.”

Joe rubbed a paw over his whiskers, looking uncomfortable. “We don't blame you now,” he said, and Buck and Raston nodded quickly.

“But there's a lot she doesn't know,” Emmy went on. “She doesn't know that I was the one who stopped the burglary and helped the little girls
escape. I mean, Cheswick was locked in a lunch pail the whole time.”

“She doesn't know that Mrs. B is under the colander, or that Merry is gone,” said Buck, realization dawning. “Not yet, anyway.”

“She doesn't know that we're not still mad at you,” added Joe.

“Well, I'm still kind of mad,” said the Rat.

Emmy ignored him. “And best of all, she doesn't know who I am.”

They looked at her blankly.

“She won't recognize me,” Emmy said patiently. “I'm a rat now, see?”

They saw.

“You can be a spy!” said Raston.

“And you three can be double agents. Miss Barmy already thinks you hate me; she'll think it's natural if you switch to her side, like everyone else in Rodent City.”

“We never
hated
you,” Joe said earnestly.

Buck sat back on his haunches and nodded approval. “I like it. Miss Barmy won't be on her guard, but all the time we'll be undermining her.”

“The Underminers!” said Joe. “Cool name!”

“Can we have a secret handshake?” asked the Rat.

 

Emmy and Joe moved quickly from the chair to the hole in the baseboard. Buck watched until they disappeared behind the wall. He gave Raston the signal.

The Rat bounded up the table leg to the dollhouse. “I'm here!” he announced.

“Rasty!” Miss Barmy gave a charming little squeak. “Just the rodent I wanted!”

“I have my song all ready,” said the Rat. “Do you want to hear it?”

“I'm afraid you misunderstood,” said Cheswick stiffly. “We have the song here. It's already written.” He passed a folded sheet of paper to the Rat.

Raston's whiskers fell. “Oh, really,” he said without enthusiasm.

“Let's hear it, Raston! Let's hear your marvelous voice!” Miss Barmy crooned.

“Well …” The Rat weakened. “I'll try.” He hummed a note, looked down at the paper, and began:

The Rat hesitated, glanced up, and went on:

There was a muffled sound of clapping. “Lovely! Lovely!” cried Miss Barmy. “Don't you think so, Cheswick?”

“Well, I wrote it, after all,” said Cheswick.

The Rat stared down at the paper in his paw. “But this seems to assume that Miss Barmy will be the winner.”

“But of course!” cried Cheswick gallantly. “Don't
you
think she'll win?”

“Uh—sure, maybe.” The Rat scratched his head. “But shouldn't we have a song that could work for someone else, just in case?”

“Certainly,” said Cheswick. “By all means. Just make sure to practice
this
one.”

There was an awkward silence.

“You'd better go put on your tuxedo,” said Miss Barmy, with a winning smile.

 

Buck waited until everyone had left. Then he bounded to the kitchen, leaped onto the counter, and scrambled into the cupboard. What he found left him gasping. Not just jars of seeds and nuts, but a whole
box
of peanut-butter cups!

He made numerous trips between the kitchen cupboard and an underground storage room in the tunnel to Rodent City. Then, on his last visit, he stopped abruptly at the kitchen door, his head cocked. There was an odd ringing sound overhead—
wang
-wang-
wang
-wang—as if something round and metal had been cast aside and was spinning fast, and faster. Suddenly it rattled to a final stillness.

Buck tucked his carrying pouch under the upholstered chair. He scampered out to the landing and up thirteen steps. He peeked around the edge of the attic door.

Mr. B was on the chair, looking down in fascination at his miniature wife. “I'm afraid you're stuck, Addie dear. At least until the glue wears off your feet.”

A tiny, shrill whine, like that of a furious mosquito, rose from the small figure and went on for some time.

“Eh?” Mr. B cupped a hand to his ear. “I can't hear so well as I used to, Addie. But never mind,” he continued, “I'll take good care of you. I'm used to taking care of little dollies.” He got up, beaming, his white hair surrounding his soft, gentle face like a puff of cloud. “I'll just see what I can find … Why, look here! A nice little bed for you!” He pottered happily among the shelves, chuckling to himself, as the thin, reedy whisper of his wife's voice persisted. It had a distant, almost pleasant sound, like wind in the rushes.

“You know, I kind of
like
her small,” he said to no one in particular.

Mrs. Bunjee was delighted to see Joe. “My, you make a handsome rodent! And you can help me, too. Would you please deliver this to the Antique Rat? It's for Cecilia, in case she feels better.”

“Sure,” said Joe. “What is it?”

Mrs. Bunjee peeled back a corner of the soft, squashy package to reveal a soft bathrobe of a beautiful royal blue. “I ran across this in the pile of clothes that Chippy brought—you know, the ones that Emmy donated—and I made a few alterations. Perhaps she'll be glad to have it.”

“Has she woken up yet?” Joe asked.

Mrs. Bunjee shook her head. “The last messenger said she was still asleep. But that's good, you know. There's nothing so healing as sleep.”

She leaned forward to look past Joe. “And who is your pretty little friend?”

Emmy shrank back.

“Oh,” said Joe, “this is—uh—what did you say your name was? I don't know her very well,” he added in an aside.

“Mm—Olivia,” said Emmy in a panic, saying the first name that occurred to her.

“Molivia? What an interesting name, dear. And where are you from? I haven't seen you around.”

“She's new,” said Joe, on his way out the door. “And
very
shy. I wouldn't ask her a lot of questions.”

“I won't, then.” Mrs. Bunjee appraised Emmy from ears to tail. “But I can see that we'll have to hurry to prepare you for the beauty contest.”

“M-me?” stammered Emmy.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Bunjee, “you may be shy, but you're also one of the loveliest rats I've ever seen. And we
need
you in the pageant.” She bustled about in the piles of finery that were left from the day's frantic sewing. “Here's just the thing. It was too small for the rat that ordered it, but it will be exactly right for you.”

She lifted a soft, silky dress of the palest pink, with long flowing sleeves and trailing satin ribbons, and held it up to Emmy. “Look in the mirror, Molivia.”

Emmy looked. She saw a small, worried-looking rat of dove gray, with tidy white paws and a furry white bib under her throat that encircled her shoulders. On her forehead was a soft white star, and in front of her was a dress she had always loved on Barbie.

“Why do you need me in the beauty contest?” she
asked, fascinated by her reflection. She had always been small for her age, but beyond that, it was hard to find any resemblance to the girl she had been.

“There's something fishy about this pageant.” Mrs. Bunjee lowered her voice. “I don't know what it is, but I'd like someone to win besides Jane Barmy! And you might be just the rat to do it.”

 

Emmy stood in the wings of the stage and waited for her turn to go on. Unlike the other rodents around her, she wasn't at all nervous. She didn't care in the least whether she won or not—she had another goal.

It had surprised her, though, when she was chosen as one of the top twenty contestants.

She hadn't thought her answer to the question “What is your greatest wish?” was that good. Everyone else had said “world peace.” Emmy had thought of that, too, but remembered that the wishing mouse had said, “World peace is for everyone. Pick something for
you
,” and so she said, “I wish Sissy would get well soon.” The judges wiped their eyes with their handkerchiefs and gave her the best score.

It had surprised her even more when she made the top ten.

She hadn't expected to succeed in the talent contest. The only thing she could think of to do was tap-dancing. She was just a beginner, but it was a skill that no one else in Rodent City seemed to have, and it wowed them. She even got a higher score than Miss Barmy, whose ability to bat her eyelashes 240 times in a minute was nothing short of remarkable.

And now that she was among the top five contestants (after the evening-gown competition), she was beyond surprise. The best thing was that she had a perfect opportunity to observe Miss Barmy. Unlike Emmy, Jane Barmy seemed to be getting more and more anxious as time went on.

“What's Buckram Bunjee doing now?” the piebald rat muttered, biting her claws. “
I
didn't tell him to pass out refreshments.”

Emmy glanced at Buck, who was quietly moving among the audience, passing a gunnysack pouch from row to row. Where he had been, rodent cheeks bunched and rodent jaws moved in a steady, rhythmic chewing.

“Maybe he's just getting into the spirit of the pageant,” Emmy ventured, secure in her identity as Molivia. “Giving back to the community, you know.”

Miss Barmy gave her a look of intense dislike.

“Who do you think will win Miss Congeniality?” asked Emmy brightly.

Buck moved to the stage, wiped some excess chocolate from his mouth, and picked up a sheaf of papers.

“And now,” said Cheswick Vole into the microphone, “a little musical interlude as our judges mark their ballots. Ladies and gentlerats, Gerry and his Swinging Gerbils!”

The band swung into a brassy number. Miss Barmy clutched at Cheswick as he walked offstage. “Chessie! Buck Bunjee has the ballots!”

Emmy drifted back behind the curtain, where she could hear without being seen. She pretended to adjust her sash.

Cheswick straightened his red bow tie, which had been bumped askew by Miss Barmy's eager paws. “Of course, my little sugar lump. I asked him to pass them out.” He lowered his voice. “It looks better if I'm not the only one handling them.”

“But Buck's never liked me! He'll be suspicious!”