Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls (24 page)

High in the tree fort, swaying in the good ship G.F., Emmy leaned back and studied her list.
THINGS TO DO THIS SUMMER
, it read at the top. The first item, to build a tree fort, had already been crossed off. She smiled as she checked off sleepover, pool party, swings, playground. Should she count sailing? She had
watched
it twice.

There was a skittering of claws overhead as two chipmunks chased through the branches, knocking down acorns that had hung on all winter long. “Hey!” Ratty looked up from one of Emmy's old alphabet books. “Do you
mind
? We're having a lesson here.”

“Look, Rasty! ‘A' is for ‘Acorn.'” Sissy pointed to the small brown nut that had landed on the page, and laughed happily.

“It's a visual aid,” called down Buck from above.

“We're only trying to help,” added Chippy, dashing down to seize the acorn. He looked over Sissy's shoulder. “‘C' is for ‘
Cat
'? What awful things are they putting in children's books nowadays? This is terrifying! It will give them nightmares!”

The Rat glared. “I don't recall asking for advice. What is this, team teaching? Just because it's popular doesn't mean that
I'm
going to jump on the band-
wagon. There is such a thing as the
tried
and
true
, you know—solid teaching methods that have stood the test of time, unlike your here-today, gone-tomorrow fads—”

Emmy grinned and picked up her list again.

It didn't seem exactly right. It was incomplete, for one thing. Although she had checked off a number of things, she had done lots more things that had never even made it onto the list in the first place.

Such as? She sucked on her pencil. Such as riding in the back of a truck or staying up all night and not feeling sleepy. Walking through rodent tunnels, going to a party underground, dancing with a gopher—not a high point, but still. Stopping a burglary, escaping through pipes, and balancing on a telephone wire—that was new! Gluing someone's feet to the floor; wearing her favorite Barbie dress; winning a beauty contest. And, above all, rescuing eight friends.

Emmy stopped, struck by the number. Yes, there had been eight—the five tiny girls, and then Joe, Buck, and Ratty. And she had more friends than that, too—lots more, friends too furry to have made her original list, she realized with shame.

Emmy felt the ghost of a thorned whip stir within
her, but she shook the memory away. That had been days ago. She felt different now. Friends were friends, whether big or tiny, smooth or furry, and she wanted every one of them on her list.

In fact, Emmy realized with a sense of relief, keeping a list was kind of a bore. She lay on her stomach and happily ripped bits off her paper, letting the fragments spiral to the ground like last year's oak leaves.

“Hey, Emmy!” The shout came from below as Meg and Thomas ran down the path, with Joe crutching swiftly behind.

“Password?” Emmy demanded.

“Barmy Begone!” they shouted in unison.

Emmy let the rope ladder down. Meg and Thomas held it for Joe, so he could pull himself up more easily, and then they climbed, too, spilling onto the high platform.

“This is
so
cool up here,” said Meg, rummaging in the box for the spyglass.

Joe looked at his cast. “I think my ankle is healing faster than the doctor thought it would.”

“Maybe being a rat helped speed things up,” Emmy suggested. “You know, a faster metabolism and all—” She broke off, gazing at Thomas.

He was reaching out a hand to Miss Barmy's old
cane, the cane she had carved, which now served as their figurehead. He traced the small wooden faces with his finger. “We did it,” he said softly. “We rescued them.”

“Well, Emmy did it, really,” said Joe.

“But you guys rigged the line and gnawed the hole in the wall,” Emmy said.

“We all helped,” said Meg. “Even if it was just buckling a lunch box, or yanking on a fishing line …”

“Or laying pipes end to end,” said Thomas, “or kicking a ball through a window.”

“Some of us delivered messages,” said the Rat, looking fondly at his sister.

“And one of us created a lovely song,” Sissy added, smiling back.

“Everybody helped,” said Emmy. “And I've thought of the perfect thing that G.F. really stands for, except …” She hesitated. “You'll probably think it's too sappy.”

“Not Golden Fortress again,” begged Joe, on his back with his good leg waving in the air.

“Nope.” Emmy looked around shyly, and told her idea.

There was a little silence.

“That's kind of nice,” said Meg.

“Yeah, but still sappy.” Joe wiggled the sandal on the end of his foot.

“How about Gophers are Fluffy?” suggested Sissy.

“Grumpy Frogs?” This was Thomas's contribution.

“Gerbils of Flatulence?” said the Rat. “Groundhogs are Frolicsome? Glorious Flubbery?”

Emmy, laughing, leaned back against the trunk. They could call it whatever they liked. But to her, G.F. would always mean Good Friends.

It might be a little sappy—but it was the truth.

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Emmy and Ratty's
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