Emmy and the Incredible Shrinking Rat (15 page)

E
MMY SKIPPED
down the hall and skidded into her room with a pleased sense that things were going very well, indeed.

“Oh, saaay can you seeee, by the daaawnzer lee liiight …”

Emmy approached the playroom door on tiptoe. Someone was singing in a rather husky baritone. She poked her head cautiously around the corner. The Rat was on the stage of the puppet theater, looking self-conscious.

“Lovely!” said Mrs. Bungee, clapping her paws. “I
knew
you had a special talent, Raston!”

“But I'm not a
star,
” said the Rat glumly.

“You just need an audience,” said Mrs. Bungee. She chittered loudly, and all over the playroom, rodent heads popped up.

“Come, everyone!”

Chippy left the train with a clatter of tools. The Endear Mouse and Sissy came at a run from the art
center, their paws red with fingerpaint. And Buck, who had been trying out Emmy's peashooter, bounced across the room with Joe clinging to a harness on his back. Emmy, watching with interest, wondered if they had traveled like that all the way from Rodent City—but Mrs. Bunjee was asking for quiet.

Mrs. Bunjee smiled encouragingly at the Rat. “Now, Raston, you have your audience.”

“No—I don't really think—,” said the Rat, twisting his paws.

“Come now, Raston,” Mrs. Bunjee said bracingly. “Sing! Sing from your heart!”

The Rat cleared his throat, opened his mouth—and shut it again. He looked at them helplessly. There was an uncomfortable pause.

“He's scared,” said Chippy, snickering.

“Stage fright,” Buck said, getting up as if to go. “It happens sometimes.”

Sissy's nose turned a deeper shade of pink. “My brother is
not
afraid. He's just—” She looked at Raston appealingly.

“I'm just saving my voice,” said the Rat faintly, looking at Sissy.

“Saving it? For what?” Chippy sounded skeptical.

“For—for—”

“Careful, Ratty,” warned Emmy.

“For the party tonight,” the Rat went on recklessly. “I was asked to sing at the fund-raiser for the Society for the Protection of Abandoned and Neglected Kids.”

Sissy clapped her paws in delight.

“Here we go,” murmured Joe.

“Oh, really? What are you going to sing?” Chippy challenged.

The Rat stiffened. “An … original song,” he stammered.

No one had a response to this.

“I'd invite you all,” said the Rat hurriedly, “but it wouldn't be safe. No dark corners to hide in, you know.”

Chippy's face broke into a slow grin. “I'll bet I could find one. I wouldn't miss this for the
world.
”

Mrs. Bunjee cut in. “Tell me, Raston. This song—have you finished writing it?”

The Rat cleared his throat. “Not … not quite.”

“Well, then,” Mrs. Bunjee said with decision, “we must leave you alone to write. We will find that dark corner now, before all the people come, and wait there to hear your
beautiful
song.”

“Hey, Buck, what about the air ducts?” suggested Chippy. “Couldn't we crawl straight through to the room where he's going to—uh—sing?”

“Sure, we could do that.” Buck scratched his head and looked around. “There's a ball of kite string, and we can let it out to find our way back. Emmy, would you open that vent in the wall?”

Emmy averted her eyes from the Rat's worried little face and pulled off the vent cover so the rodents could climb inside. She gave the Endear Mouse a boost up, then waved good-bye.

“Look for the room with the piano,” she called down the heat duct, and the scrabbling sound of tiny claws gradually faded away.

The Rat buried his head in his paws.

Joe, who had lagged behind, shook his head. “Too bad, Ratty, but you asked for it.”

“Oh, shut up,” the Rat snapped. “Why don't you do something useful and get me a pencil and paper?”

 

Emmy's idea required clay. She had begun to mold a piece between her palms, and Joe was heading for the air vent, when she remembered something.

“How did the pawball game go?” she whispered, glancing at the Rat who was scribbling furiously in the corner.

Joe grinned. “We won after all. I got voted Most Valuable Rodent.”

Emmy tried not to laugh. “Without a tail?”

Joe climbed into the open air duct. “No joke, Emmy, I had the greatest time. I
love
that game. I'm playing again tonight, and they actually made me a starter.”

“But I thought you were sick of playing soccer?” Emmy pulled and pressed her small sculpture, frowning in concentration. She had to get this right.

“I'm sick of being
forced
to play,” Joe said moodily. “And being screamed at from the sidelines. And having to practice all the time. Sometimes I wish I was like my little brother—pudgy and no talent at all.”

He gazed down into the dark tunnel and took hold of the kite string that led into its depths.

“I have to do it all year—fall soccer, indoor soccer, traveling team, soccer camp.” He shrugged. “I suppose I should have let Sissy grow me by now, but I
like
being small. It gives me time to be a kid.”

Emmy watched as Joe disappeared into the metal duct. She knew what he meant. She had been signed
up for ballet and gymnastics and French, basket weaving and gardening and little theater and—she couldn't even remember what else. Why did everything have to be so organized?

She gazed at the clay object she had made, satisfied, and let herself out of the room without bothering the Rat, who was chewing on his pencil with an air of concentration. She was really hungry now. She'd get something to eat, and bake the sculpture in the oven at the same time to harden it.

Emmy headed down to the kitchen. She paused halfway down the grand staircase to avoid a collision with the florists, who were filling the house with masses of flowers and what seemed to be a forest of potted palms.

“—and that's the reception room through there.” Mrs. Brecksniff, bustling as usual, passed through the foyer below, giving directions to three people at once. “We need flowers in the entryway, the hall, and in every bathroom. You can set up the bar over in that corner and let Maggie know if you need anything.”

Emmy, waiting on the stairs, looked again at the portrait of the old gentleman in the pinstriped suit. He
did
look familiar …

“Mrs. Brecksniff?”

“Eh?” The housekeeper looked up, her face red and hot. “You're supposed to stay in bed, according to—” She stopped, and her face grew darker. “Well, you don't look sick to me,” she finished, with her hands on her hips.

“I'm not.” Emmy looked down at her calmly. “I don't know why she wants me to stay in my room, but I feel fine.”

“She has her own reasons, no doubt,” said Mrs. Brecksniff explosively, “but they make no sense to me, and I don't intend to worry about it anymore, and that's flat!”

Emmy nodded. It was the same sort of feeling she'd had when she first opened the Rat's schoolroom cage. She had felt it, too, when she had turned down the dark and dangerous alley—and again when she had sneaked out of the house at midnight. It was the feeling that she wasn't going to let Miss Barmy control her anymore. That she, Emmy, had something to say about her own life.

“Mrs. Brecksniff,” Emmy said again, turning back to the portrait. “Who is this man? Do you know?”

Mrs. Brecksniff trod heavily up the stairs, breathing hard, and stopped just below Emmy. “Why,” she said, “that's old William Addison. He was your father's great-uncle, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Emmy, “and my great-great-uncle, but did I ever meet him?”

“I doubt it. He wasn't much for family ties. Why, Jane Barmy and I were both his first cousins twice removed, but he never took notice of that. He was a widower, you know, and then once his daughter died, the only thing he took comfort in was his books.”

Emmy considered the picture again. “He looks sad,” she said quietly. “All his money didn't make him happy, either.”

Mrs. Brecksniff lifted her hand, hesitated a moment, and then patted Emmy awkwardly on the shoulder. “Don't pay any attention to what Miss Barmy says. You're a good girl, Emmy. Maggie and I both know it, though we don't often tell you.”

A warm feeling blossomed somewhere beneath Emmy's collarbone. She had had friends in this house all along.

There was a slight sound of skittering in the ceiling. Mrs. Brecksniff looked up with a frown. “Oh no—I'll have to call the exterminator again.”

“I think it was just Maggie,” said Emmy quickly as the housemaid came clattering down the stairs with a tray of tea things.

“Oh, Emmy, Miss Barmy is … indisposed,” Maggie said, stopping. “She told me that she has arranged for a replacement nanny, a gentleman.”

Emmy thought it best to look surprised.

Maggie shrugged. “She said that he would look after you during the party, and tell you when to go to the microphone, and so forth.”

“What's wrong with Miss Barmy?” Emmy asked innocently.

Maggie giggled and glanced at Mrs. Brecksniff, who looked as if she were trying to keep a straight face.

“Gas,” Mrs. Brecksniff said.

“Very bad gas,” added Maggie.

“You might even say lethal,” said the housekeeper, snorting. “Oh, dear me, there's the caterer at the door, and it's not even five o'clock!”

The Rat put his pencil down with a click. He was surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper, and he looked hot and tired. Emmy, finishing up the sandwich she had brought to her room, crushed the Rat's peanut-butter-cup wrapper and threw it in the wastebasket.

“Ratty.”

The Rat frowned. “Hush.”

“Ratty, you don't have to sing.”

The Rat shut his eyes. “Quiet,” he said, waving her away. “I'm getting something—it's coming—”

Emmy shook her head. How did he think he was going to do it? Did he really imagine someone was just going to announce that a singing rodent was on the program and give him a microphone?

The Rat lifted his head suddenly. “I've got it!” he cried. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him, sharpened the pencil with his teeth, and began scribbling madly.

It was time to dress for the party. Emmy sighed as she looked in the mirror, wishing that someone would help her do her hair. It was hard to get the ribbons straight by herself.

Oh, well, it didn't matter. She was probably
supposed
to look like a neglected child tonight.

 

Emmy stared over the banister. She couldn't see the professor anywhere.

The large entry hall below was full of people, the women giving little shrieks of recognition, the men slapping backs and shaking hands. The air was perfumed with flowers and the hot scent of candles, and from the large reception room Emmy could hear strings—cellos, violins, the music like a warm pulse through the crowd.

Where were her parents? Emmy scanned the heads of those below. Of course it would probably be weeks before the chinchilla effect wore off naturally, but it was hard not to hope that this time would be different.

Emmy walked among elbows and chests, starched white shirtfronts, low-cut evening gowns and jewelry that dazzled the eye. The guests were all talking at once, and as Emmy moved through the crowd, fragments of their conversation came to her in spurts, like the voices on a radio when someone keeps turning the dial.

“It's fabulous, the latest thing, you've absolutely
got
to buy one—”

“… so I dropped a hundred grand on a '53 Aston Martin DB35, completely rebuilt—”

“… and did you hear the latest about Caroline? She actually—oh,
hello,
Caroline! Love the dress! Have you lost
weight
?”

Emmy threaded her way through narrow gaps between bodies and surged with the crowd past the double doors to the reception hall. At one end was a raised platform where a string quartet played valiantly against the tide of voices.

She waded to the platform and stepped up, standing on tiptoe for a better view. There was her father, by the door, talking loudly with a drink in his hand. She caught the word “Alaska.”

“It took him three
hours
to do my hair, I thought I'd go
mad,
but of course he's worth every penny …”

It was her mother's voice, behind her. Emmy, feeling very low, didn't bother to turn around.

A side door swung open. Professor Capybara, sporting a red spotted bow tie, emerged from the kitchen and moved easily among the crowd, smiling, talking, gesturing. He was followed by
a young and bearded waiter who carried a tray of pastries.

Emmy jumped down from the platform and moved purposefully toward him as the torrent of conversation swirled and eddied above her head.