Emmy and the Incredible Shrinking Rat (9 page)

“S
O WHAT DO YOU THINK
the chinchilla's powers actually are?” Joe, seated cross-legged on Emmy's bed, had found some action-figure clothes and was toying absently with the dog tags around his neck.

“The power to make my parents crazy? At least
I
didn't eat her filthy cookies ….” Emmy picked at her bedspread, frowning. “But I've eaten Miss Barmy's potato rolls before and nothing much happened to me.”

Joe looked up. “You're sure? You've eaten the same kind before?”

Emmy nodded. “They didn't have any effect on me. Or— Wait!” She shut her eyes, trying to concentrate. “I do remember times when I didn't exactly feel like myself. All mixed up, sort of, and I'd get really interested in—oh, I don't know—stuff I usually didn't care about. Like I remember one day I woke up and there were fifty Barbie outfits in a bag on my dresser. I remembered shopping for them, I remembered
wanting them like crazy, and then later, I couldn't figure out why. I don't even
play
with Barbies.”

The Rat cleared his throat. “Fascinating though the subject of Barbies may be, don't you think we should get back to what's really important? The rat man is still after me, you know. And we
have
to release Sissy.”

“
You're
what's important?” said Joe hotly. “What about me being the size of a chipmunk? Or the Barmster trying to turn Emmy's parents into zombies? Doesn't
that
bother you?”

Emmy jumped in quickly. “Listen, guys, it's
all
important. But we can't go chasing off, trying to rescue Sissy or anything, because we don't know enough yet.”

“You've got
that
right,” said Joe. “I've got about a million questions. Like, was it really the Rat's bite that shrank me? And if it was, how come I didn't shrink when he bit me once before?”

“How can we rescue Sissy?” added the Rat, pacing over the bedspread, his claws leaving little holes.

“I've been wondering why Miss Barmy hates me so much,” Emmy said. “And why she wants this weird power over my parents.”

“Here's another one,” said Joe. “Why does she have to keep using the chinchilla? Does it wear off?”

Emmy sat up abruptly. “Hey, I guess it must!”

“Don't sit up so fast,” cried the Rat, landing on his ear.

Emmy ignored him. “It's got to wear off, or Miss Barmy wouldn't have to keep baking more potato rolls every time my parents come home from a trip!”

“Ow!” Joe did an involuntary somersault. “Look, stop bouncing, will you?”

“Sorry.” Emmy made an effort to keep still, but she was too excited. “See, this has all happened before. My parents come home, and they're happy to see me, and everything is just like it used to be. And then pretty soon, sometimes just a few minutes later, it's like they hardly know I'm around. Only this time it took a couple of hours—”

“Because you dropped the cat on the potato buns—nice work, by the way—”

Emmy nodded. “So the rolls do their work long enough for my parents to leave town again, but by the time they get back, it's worn off. That's one thing we know for sure—the chinchilla's power doesn't last.” She hesitated, remembering with a sinking
feeling that her parents' trips had been getting longer and longer. Did that mean the chinchilla poison was building up in their systems? Might there come a time when it
wouldn't
wear off?

“Hey!” Joe looked bright eyed. “Maybe shrinking doesn't last, either!”

“I've probably got more staying power than a
chinchilla,
” the Rat muttered.

“Let's hope not,” said Emmy. “Because we still don't know how to unshrink Joe if it doesn't wear off. With any luck, Brian's found—” She stopped abruptly.

“What?” said the Rat. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Hush!” Emmy whispered fiercely. From the other side of the bedroom door came the sound of scratching and then a plaintive “
meow!
”

The Rat clawed frantically across the bedspread. “It's the Assassin!” he gasped, huddling as close to Emmy as he could get.

“No, Ratty, not the
cat
—listen! Outside—can you hear it?”

A soft night breeze swirled past the curtains. The high, rhythmic sound of spring peepers filled the
room. And then a low, throbbing rumble came distantly to their ears.

The rumble coughed, rattled, and died.

“That's Brian's truck,” said Joe, listening intently. “He's come back to pick up the chinchilla, and he's parking a block away, like the Barmster told him to. Do you suppose he's found directions for unshrinking me yet?”

“Let's find out.” Emmy grabbed her robe. “I hope you guys don't mind riding in the pockets. There's one for each of you, and they're nice and soft.”

 

They were safely down two flights of stairs when the dramatic voice of a newscaster rolled out from the den.

“And in other news today, a human tragedy is unfolding in the town of Grayson Lake—”

Emmy stopped at the doorway and listened.

“—yes, little Joe Benson was brutally abducted today in broad daylight—”

“
Little?
” protested Joe from Emmy's left pocket.

“Shhh—you're little
now,
anyway.” Emmy opened the door a crack.

“—and police have taken a local resident, Professor Cheswick Vole, into custody. Professor Vole apparently threatened the boy earlier today, accusing him of stealing a classroom pet—”

“
Cheswick?
” snickered the Rat.

The newscaster, a man with a long jaw and thick hair, kept talking as a photo of Joe was shown. Emmy pushed open the door. Her father was watching the news, reading the paper, and sending an e-mail all at once.

“Dad? Mind if I watch the news with you?”

Jim Addison grunted. “Just don't bother me, I'm busy.”

“—and Monica Blapper, our Channel 82 studio reporter, has unearthed some interesting facts about the professor.”

“That's right.” Monica Blapper patted a stray hair into place and fixed the camera with a serious gaze. “Cheswick Vole grew up right here in Grayson Lake, a boy like any other.”

A picture of some high school kids flashed on the screen, a circle highlighting a thin, small boy with glasses.

Emmy blinked. Who was that girl behind him? She looked familiar.

“—and so he left his hometown for New York to study with the famous Maxwell Capybara, world-renowned professor of rodentia. Now, tragically, he is implicated in the disappearance of Joe Benson—”

Emmy felt an impatient movement in her right pocket. “What?” she whispered, distracted.

The Rat tugged at the pocket's edge. “Let's go! We'll miss Brian!”

“We go now to the sobbing parents and Studley Jackell, on the scene. Studley, are you there?”

“Yes, Monica. Mr. and Mrs. Benson, would you like to share your heartbreak and pain with our Channel 82 viewers tonight?”

The camera switched to a close-up of the Bensons' front entryway. Studley Jackell seemed to be struggling for position as someone from inside tried to shut the door.

“Just give us a few brief words,” begged the reporter through the slowly narrowing gap. “Let it all out, Mr. and Mrs. Benson, as our viewers peek into the innermost depths of your soul ….”

Joe's father thrust his head through the Bensons' front door. “I'll give you a few words,” he roared, his face crimson. “GET OFF MY PROPERTY, YOU VULTURES!”

The door slammed. Studley Jackell turned toward the camera and dabbed at his eyes. “Well, Monica, as you can see, the parents are nearly crazed with grief—”

“You go, Dad!” murmured a voice from Emmy's left pocket.

Emmy put her finger to her lips, glancing at her father, but he was deeply absorbed in the stock market listings.

“—but even more crazed is the bizarre Professor Vole, as you can see from this video, taped by an alert bystander today in front of Grayson Lake Elementary.”

The screen was suddenly filled with the enraged face of Brian's uncle, yelling on the street as police handcuffed him, “I want my rights! I want my rat!”

“This is Studley Jackell—”

“—and Monica Blapper, wishing you a good evening from Channel 82, where We Care About You,
We Share About You, We Lay Every Detail Bare About You.”

Emmy quietly closed the door and backed into the hallway.

“Wow,” whispered Joe.

T
HE KITCHEN WAS DARK.
Emmy padded across the tiled floor, creaked open the back door, and poked her head out into the cool night air.

“Brian?” she said cautiously.

The Rat bumped against her hip as he shifted restlessly. “I can't get comfortable,” he muttered peevishly. “It's too cramped in here.”

Emmy ignored him. The night was full of sounds—the sigh of a lake breeze through the elms, the soft slap of waves on the shore. Somewhere, a door slammed. A dog barked. And then came the sound of footsteps—but they weren't Brian's, and they weren't outside.

The kitchen light flickered on. Emmy whirled. “Miss Barmy!”

The nanny, carrying a blue plastic case, blinked in the sudden light. “Well, Emmaline?” She slid the case behind the counter.

“I was just getting some fresh air—”

Miss Barmy's eyes narrowed. “Don't lie to me, Emmaline. Clearly you must have a nutritional imbalance of staggering proportions.” She paused, her lips thinning. “You dropped that cat on my potato rolls on purpose, didn't you?”

“I wanted a drink of water, too,” Emmy went on, edging sideways to the sink.

Miss Barmy took a step closer, fixing Emmy with a menacing stare. “What were you doing this afternoon by the back door?” She bent over Emmy like a hawk over its prey. “And why were you late coming home from gymnastics?”

Emmy swallowed nervously and reached for a glass.

“You're hiding something, aren't you?” Miss Barmy smiled coldly. “Come, Emmaline. Tell Nanny everything.”

Emmy, desperate, gripped the glass in both hands—and then she remembered. Miss Barmy, too, had something to hide!

“I really came down to see the truck, Miss Barmy.” Emmy opened her eyes wide. “Didn't you hear it?”

Miss Barmy paled.

“That same truck was here this afternoon.” Emmy cocked her head, frowning. “Why, I wonder?”

A footstep scraped outside. Miss Barmy jumped.

Emmy tried for a serious, worried expression. “Who could be coming to the back door at this time of night? I'd better get my dad.”

The nanny looked suddenly sick. “No, that won't be necessary, Emmaline—”

There was a knock—three soft, insistent raps.

Miss Barmy's hand descended on Emmy's shoulder and propelled her across the kitchen floor, out into the hall, and halfway up the stairs. “We'll say no more about it, Emmaline. Now run up to bed.”

The nanny gave Emmy a last little shove, hurried down the steps, and shut the door of the kitchen behind her with a solid click.

“Mean old witch,” said the Rat.

Emmy looked thoughtfully at the drinking glass, still in her hand. She had seen something in a movie once …. Would it work? She tiptoed down the stairs.

“What are you going to do?” asked Joe, poking his head out of her pocket.

“Shhh,” Emmy whispered, slipping into the linen closet beside the kitchen. She closed the door behind her, and in the darkness she set the open end of the glass against the wall and pressed her ear to the bottom.

“You didn't bring the full order!” Miss Barmy's voice came clearly through the glass.

“I … I'm sorry, I'll tell my uncle.” Brian's voice was fainter, as if he was turned away. There was a slight scraping noise, and a soft chittering that could have been the chinchilla.

“But why isn't Cheswick attending to this personally?” There was a tapping sound, as of an impatient foot.

There was a pause. “He's in jail, ma'am. Would you like to sign this receipt?”

“The fool! He's going to ruin everything I've worked for!”

Brian cleared his throat. “He should be out soon; maybe even tonight. The lawyer is working on it—”

“Give Cheswick a message for me, young man.” Miss Barmy's voice was menacing. “The chinchilla was good enough for tonight, but I need the school order—the usual—by
tomorrow
. Whenever he comes
back—anytime, I don't care if it's in the middle of the night—have him call me. Do you understand?”

“Call you. Middle of the night. Yes, ma'am,” said Brian, his voice fading.

The back door slammed. Miss Barmy and her cane stumped past the closet, up two flights of stairs, and down a hallway before Emmy cracked open the closet door.

“We still have to talk to Brian,” said Joe worriedly.

“Right.” Emmy stared up the stairs. “But how about when Miss Barmy's asleep? Say, midnight?”

 

The clock in the hall struck twelve.

“Wake
up
, Ratty!” Emmy reached into the dollhouse and shook the plump gray body.

“I tried shaking already,” said Joe, rummaging through a pile of doll's clothes by the soft glow of the nightlight.

The Rat, sprawled across a four-poster bed, snored gently. His hind leg was tangled in a blue flowered comforter, and a thin line of drool showed at the corner of his mouth.

“We can't leave him here alone.” Emmy gazed at the Rat with a mixture of fondness and irritation.
“He'd scare Mrs. Brecksniff, or get caught by the cat, or bite someone.”

“Yeah, and they might shrink or they might not,” said Joe, pulling out a blue sweatshirt. “Criminy, this is small.”

“That one's for Ken's little brother; try this.” Emmy pulled out a green army sweater with G.I. Joe insignia. “What do you mean, they might not shrink? Oh wait, that's right—”

“The first time he bit me, nothing happened, remember?” Joe thrust his head blindly into the sweater. “The other day, when I fed him a carrot—”

Emmy laughed. “And he told you off yesterday after school and you couldn't believe he could talk.”

“Hey! That's it!” Joe's face emerged from the neckhole, flushed and triumphant. “First time he bites you, you can understand Rat speech—”

Emmy gasped. “That's why I could understand him all year … he bit me on the first day of school! And the second time the Rat bites you, you shrink—”

“And the third time? What happens the third time he bites you?”

Emmy stared at Joe. “I don't think I want to know.”

Joe grinned. “Maybe you disappear!”

“What, you think that's funny?” Emmy was appalled.

“I don't mean gone for good, I just mean invisible. Face it, Emmy, that would be
so
cool.”

“Maybe—as long as you knew how to get visible again.” Her voice was muffled as she pulled on a sweatshirt.

“And get back to normal size. I sure hope Brian's found out how to unshrink me.”

“He's got to have some instructions somewhere, for all those rats. Here, I'm just going to put the Rat in, bed and all.”

“Put some toys in, too, to keep him busy when he wakes up. But
I'm
not riding in that thing. It still stinks.”

“Where, then? In my pocket?” Emmy scooped a handful of doll's toys and a tiny red wagon into her backpack and carefully placed the Rat on top, tucking the comforter around him.

“No, I'll ride in your sweatshirt hood. Just pull the drawstring tight, so I don't fall out.”

Emmy slipped down the stairs and out the back door as silently as she could. “Drat you, Muffy!” The cat was already through her legs and behind the hedge.

Emmy stepped out across the lawn. The moon was high, but the shadows it cast were so dark they looked solid. The grass, wet with dew, made her socks soggy around her ankles, and Emmy breathed in the fragrant, cool air. It was oddly exciting to be out so late, with no adult knowing where she was or what she was doing.

She groped along the footpath with one hand outstretched, and then her feet found the solid asphalt of the street. Up the hill, and a left turn on Main: it was the same path she took every day to school, only wonderful and mysterious by night.

“Are we there yet?” Joe's voice sounded faint from inside her hood. “I'm suffocating in here. Let me out, will you?”

They were almost at the alley. Emmy carefully shrugged off her backpack with the sleeping Rat still inside and set it on the sidewalk. Then she sat down
on the front steps of the art gallery and gently slid down until the hood of her sweatshirt rested on the top step.

Joe clambered out and breathed deeply, stretching to his full four inches of height. “This brick looks a lot smoother from higher up,” he muttered, stumbling on the uneven surface.

Emmy, hot from her walk, pulled off her sweatshirt, dropped it by the backpack, and leaned back on her elbows. The moon shone on the roof of the school across the road and etched the playground equipment with silver light. Emmy wondered where the soccer games were played, the rodent games that Ratty had watched with such longing from his cage.

Joe leaned on her shoulder, staring at the schoolyard. “It looks lonely, like nobody ever played there, or had any fun at recess.”

“I never did,” said Emmy.

“You never had fun at recess? Why not?”

Emmy shrugged. “It's hard to have much fun by yourself.” She tossed a bit of gravel onto the street. “At my old school I had friends just like
anybody else. And it's not like the kids here are mean to me. It's just that they don't seem to see me at all.”

“Well …” Joe's voice was thoughtful. “I didn't notice you myself for a long time. And then all of a sudden I did. And—it was weird, the way even Mr. Herbifore kept forgetting your name. I mean, you were so
good
and all. Mostly teachers pay a lot of attention to the good kids.”

“He remembered my name today, though. And that girl who sits in front of me actually said something to me, for once.”

“Yeah, well, the Barmster hasn't been around for a while, poisoning everybody's minds against you.”

Emmy sat up straight. “What did you say?”

Joe sounded confused. “It was just a joke. I didn't mean she really poisoned us. I mean, all the treats she brought us were wrapped, and straight from the store.”

“She actually came to the school? With treats?”

Joe stared at her. “Weren't you there? She'd come maybe twice a month with a basket of treats, and
this scented candle that smelled sort of weird, during—”

“During silent reading,” Emmy finished, seeing again in her mind's eye the pink envelope on Mr. Herbifore's desk containing the mysterious note written in Miss Barmy's elegant script. Now it made sense.

“I never knew,” Emmy said bitterly, “because twice a month Miss Barmy made me go see that nutty Dr. Leander and talk about my so-called problems. And all the while it was because she wanted to come to my class behind my back.”

Joe gave a low whistle. “So she wanted you out of the way while she messed with our heads. Maybe another chinchilla print in the cookies, or maybe something funny in that smelly candle …”

“And it made me practically invisible to everyone in that whole class.”

Joe chewed on his fingernail. “But I don't get it. Why wouldn't she want you to have any friends?”

“Because she's mean, that's why.” Emmy was boiling.

“Well, yeah, but she's got to have another reason,
or why would she go to all the bother? She can be mean to you in lots of ways.”

“I don't know.” Emmy put her chin in her hands and glared down at the sidewalk. “I'm tired of trying to figure things out, and I'm sick of that disgusting Miss Barm—”

She stopped abruptly, gazing at the thin, oblong patch of light that stretched for a few inches along the sidewalk. It came from a crumbly sort of hole at the base of the steps. “Look,” she whispered, pointing.

Joe flopped down on his stomach to peer over the top step. “So? Someone must have left the light on in the gallery basement, and there's a crack in the foundation.”

Emmy squatted on the sidewalk, staring at the tiny glow. It hadn't been there before, she was almost sure. She reached out a tentative finger—and whipped around, knocking over her backpack. Something warm and furry had brushed her arm.

“
Muffy!
You scared me to death!”

The cat rubbed up against her, purring in a self-satisfied way. And then the Rat screamed.

“Where am I? I smell a cat!
Mommy!
”

“Oh, gosh …” Emmy reached inside the backpack to comfort him. “Ratty, it's just Muffy, I'll protect you—”

“The big hand!
The big hand!
I'll
bite
you, I will—”

“Ratty!
No!
” Emmy yanked her hand away, but the sudden, sharp pain in her finger told her it was too late. She had been bitten—twice.