Hunter Moran Digs Deep

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  They slide out, filthy. Yulefski’s teeth are black. It looks as if she’s been eating the dirt. They both look a little irritable.

  “We have to search,” I begin.

  “What do you think we’ve been doing?” Zack asks, rubbing his hands. “Two steps down. All around.”

  “And something else,” Yulefski says. “Someone else was digging around in there. I nearly fell into the hole.”

  I take a breath, wave my hand, and tell them what’s what.

  We start to look. The room is filled with stuff Sister Ramona must have collected for the last fifty years. There’s a picture on the shelf. I take a look, and then another. It’s a swing band; and there’s Sister Ramona, a hundred years younger than she is now, playing the drums.

  Actually, she looks great. Hard to believe!

  Zack and Yulefski leave fingerprints on every piece of paper they touch. I flip through music books—operas, sonatas at the bottom of one stack, country and western, filling a shelf. There’s even a box filled with old Life Savers.

  This could take all night.

  And then I remember. “Sister said something,” I begin slowly.

  “Spit it out,” Zack says.

  “ ‘You don’t have to dig for this one,’ she told me, but then she closed her mouth.”

  “Like a clam,” Yulefski says.

  “Right.”

  Zack runs his hand over his face, rubs at his eyes. “If you don’t dig deep, then you have to dig high,” he says.

  “Whoever heard—”

  But the three of us look up, like puppets on strings.

  And what do we see?

  Over our heads, the light glows in a big opaque hanging lamp.

  Chapter 13

  We have to stand on something. Zack begins to move Sister Ramona’s desk. It screeches horribly.

  “If we get caught . . .” I glance toward the open Music Room door.

  “We won’t get caught,” Zack says. “We’ll just heave ourselves up there and grab on to the light.”

  “Why not?” I say, getting into it.

  “Way to go, guys.” Yulefski digs at her braces with one filthy finger.

  Zack picks up where I left off. “The table will be right below us, like a safety net. We can reach up into the lamp, take a look at the paper, memorize the clues, and stick it right back in . . .” He raises his shoulders. “Neat, right?”

  I help him screech the desk a little farther. “Nothing to it.”

  The desk stops moving. Zack shoves harder. “It’s caught somehow,” he says.

  “Man up,” I say. I move next to him and we give a gigantic shove.

  Crack.

  The leg of the desk breaks off and clatters to the floor. The desk leans to one side like a ship sinking in the middle of the ocean.

  We look at each other in desperation.

  “Keep going,” Zack says, and gives the desk a gentle push. “We’ll worry about putting this thing back together later on when we’re calmer.”

  And that’s what we do. We inch along until we’re directly under the light. “That should do it,” Zack says, looking up and squinting.

  We stop, take a breath, and we’re ready. “I’ll go up,” I say.

  Zack nods.

  “I agree,” Yulefski says. “After all, I have blisters all over my fingers.”

  “Maybe you should go home,” Zack says. “Put your hand in a sling.”

  Yulefski laughs.

  Amazing.

  Here I go. It’s not as easy as I thought. It’s like climbing backward up a slide. And worse, when I manage to get to the top, waving my arms like antennas, I’m still not high enough to grab the light fixture.

  I slide down to the floor. “We need something else,” I tell them.

  We look around. The drum would be perfect. “I’ll set it on the very edge of the desk”—I give it a rat-tat-tat with my fingers—“and climb right up.”

  “You’ll put your foot through it,” Zack says. “Bad enough we’ve ruined Sister’s desk.”

  He’s right. I know he is.

  And I have to say I’m getting fond of that drum. I snap my fingers. The answer is in front of us. Almost in front. It’s in the hallway alongside Sister Appolonia’s old bed.

  “One of those barrels,” Zack says.

  We give each other a high five, then spend the next five minutes rolling the barrel into the Music Room while Yulefski sits back and watches us. The barrel is heavy enough to be holding a body.

  We stand in front of Sister Ramona’s desk, ready to hoist it up.

  I glance around. Actually, we’ve gotten the room into a bit of a mess. The desk leans on three legs, a piece of the tile floor has somehow cracked, and the barrel seems to be trailing dirt along behind it.

  There’s no help for it.

  As soon as we get the money, we’ll buy Sister Ramona a new desk. It’ll be terrific, with a leather top and six legs. We’ll throw in a new floor, too.

  We try to heave the barrel onto the desk. It seems as if it’s stuck to the floor. It probably weighs about two hundred pounds.

  We sink down, leaning against the wall. What to do?

  “It’ll have to be the drum,” Zack says. “You’ll have to stand on the rim, and”—he holds his hands up to both sides of his head—“be careful.”

  The drum is lighter; it rolls along without a problem. Up and up, on top of the desk, Zack holding it steady, while I take off my shoes, just in case.

  And then I climb, perching myself on the rim, and reach up gingerly. Almost there.

  I stand on tiptoes, teetering, and grab the edge of the light. It swings, I swing. And then, with one hand, I reach inside. I come out with a handful of dried bugs and dust.

  No paper. Not even a scrap.

  I hop off the rim and slide down the desk.

  We sit there, defeated, shoulders slumped. I take a breath. “We’d better clean up this mess.”

  We roll the drum back into place, which seems to take forever. Then we drag the three-legged desk back to the front of the room.

  “All set,” Zack says as he props the leg beneath it.

  Except for the barrel.

  We begin to heave it across the room. But it doesn’t want to be heaved.

  “It’s coming apart,” Zack says.

  We look behind us. Not only is there a pile of dirt, but the whole bottom has come off.

  Zack grabs my shoulder. “Look.”

  I look. It’s not dirt; it’s grass seed. Tons of grass seed.

  But that’s not what Zack is staring at. It’s not what I’m staring at, either. Mixed in with grass seed are torn—up papers, old, yellow . . .

  “Yee-ha,” says Zack.

  We pick through the seed. We dump the barrel on its side so we don’t miss anything. We spread each piece of paper out carefully, almost as if we’re seeding a lawn.

  Four, five, maybe six pieces of paper. A fascinating part of Newfield’s history. All we have to do is put it all together, sweep up the grass seed, and we’re on our way to the big bucks.

  We hear someone coming.

  Zack springs into action. With superhuman strength he drags the three-legged desk against the door.

  I turn out the lights.

  We don’t even breathe as someone rattles the door. We wait to hear the key in the lock.

  But no.

  So it isn’t Sister Ramona. It’s someone else who’s coming our way.

  Sister Appolonia.

  Chapter 14

  You can’t stop Sister Appolonia. She shoves hard, so hard we jump back, before we can be trampled by the runaway desk, which falls to pieces in front of us.

  Sister stands in the doorway, the hall light streaming over her shoulder. She reaches in and flips on the light. Behind her is Bradley the Bully, face red.

  “Don’t move, young man,” she tells him. “You’ve done enough damage for one day.” She mutters to herself. “Digging in the old sunflower garden, making a com
plete mess.”

  Sunflowers. Another S.

  But Bradley is shaking his head. “It wasn’t me.”

  Then who? One of the brothers?

  In the next second, I’ve crunched the papers into my pocket. At the same time, I’m thinking about what’s going to happen to us.

  Next to me, Yulefski grabs my arm. This is probably the first time in her life she’s been in trouble.

  Zack is backed up against the wall.

  “I can’t believe my eyes,” Sister Appolonia roars, her hands on her hips. She steps over a desk leg and leans against a cabinet. “Explain!”

  We’re silent. We don’t even breathe.

  Sister kicks out at a piece of sheet music on the floor. “Well?”

  We talk at once. Zack sounds like Alvin the Chipmunk. “Helping Sister Ramona straighten up?”

  Yulefski sounds as if she’ll faint any second. “Hunter and I are seeing each other. Kind of. I came to . . .” Her voice trails off.

  It might have been better if she had fainted.

  I stare down at the desk.

  “Ruined,” Sister Appolonia said. “Fifty years that desk has stood in the same spot.”

  “I never liked that desk,” a voice says from the hallway. “It’s totally ugly, and it belonged to Dr. Diglio’s father, the first dentist in town. He loved to use the drill, singing his heart out while the rest of the town suffered.”

  I look out the door. There stands Sister Ramona. She has somehow just saved us.

  Sister Ramona sighs. “We’re going to put it back together next week, after Here’s to Wildlife is over.”

  Sheesh.

  One problem after another.

  “Good idea.” Sister Appolonia clumps upstairs, Bradley the Bully following along behind.

  Sister Ramona motions to us to leave the Music Room ahead of her. We walk past, heads down, and I feel something pull at my pocket.

  I stiffen, then keep going. If only I had pushed the papers farther down. But no, they were hanging out like old flags. All Sister Ramona had to do was give a little tug, and they were back in her hands.

  All that, the climbing, the swinging, the grabbing, and our clues are gone. If only I’d stopped to take a look, a quick glance.

  Lots of if onlys.

  We reach the outside doors and pull them open. “Good going, Hunter,” Yulefski says. “Now you’ve set us back”—she shoves her hair out of her eyes—“for who knows how long.”

  Zack doesn’t say anything. He gives me a little grin. He knows I feel terrible. He’s a great guy. My best friend.

  And then Yulefski surprises me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you’ve done the best you can.”

  It’s up to me to say my best wasn’t so hot.

  I don’t say it, though. Instead, Yulefski peels off toward her house, and Zack and I go home for dinner.

  Chapter 15

  Supper is over. K.G. is tucked in her crib; so is Mary, gurgling to herself. I comfort myself with some green Skittles and go down the hall. Steadman’s floor is covered with pieces of paper. Each one has a huge letter written in neon green.

  Steadman looks up from a book on his lap. It must have about a thousand pages. “Fred keeps falling asleep on the letters,” he says. “I have to whisper them in his ear.”

  If I tried that, Fred would bite my head off.

  I pass William’s room next and take a peek.

  He’s in there, walking around on his bed, dabbing spots of brown on an orange blob. He leans over to close the door before I can see the rest.

  I keep going downstairs. “Looking for Zack,” I say.

  “He’s down in the basement,” Linny says. “Too bad he doesn’t do something like cleaning up after himself.” She waves her hand at the kitchen table. “You can always see where he’s been. Crumbs all over the place.”

  She stares at the ceiling, whispering to herself. “Downhill skiing, chairlifts . . .”

  She’s losing it.

  I take the stairs two at a time to see what Zack is up to.

  “In the man cave,” he calls to me.

  It’s a good thing Pop isn’t home. The birdhouse pieces are spread out on the floor. Zack sits there staring at them, a wooden bird wing in his hand.

  “It’s a problem,” he says. “No doubt about it.” He bites his lip. “We’ll have to manage it, though, now that we’re poor again.”

  I bend over, searching for the other wing. All I see is the poor bird’s head. I crouch down next to Zack.

  “I wish someone would listen to me,” a voice says behind us.

  Steadman, sneaking around. He leans in closer as I look around for pieces of the wooden bird.

  “What’s on the gravestone, again?” Zack asks, as he glues the head to a lump that might be the bird’s body.

  Steadman laughs. “Never mind those clues.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a red Skittle.

  I’m too defeated to ask where he got it from.

  In the meantime, Mom is calling. “Will someone go upstairs and pat K.G. a few times?”

  I stand up. “I’ll go.”

  “I’ll work on the bird,” Zack says.

  “Right. No one listens to me,” Steadman says, following me upstairs.

  I slide into the babies’ room to sit between the two cribs.

  “Say Hun-ter,” I tell Mary about forty times over K.G.’s screams.

  Mary looks at me as if I’m crazy.

  I lean over to pat K.G. “Listen, Killer.” I grin at her. “This is it.”

  I pat her four -hundred -ninety times, and at last she closes her eyes.

  Steadman is lying on the floor, whispering “Toot-toot” to himself.

  “Where did you get the Skittle?” I ask.

  “I deserve it,” he says. “If someone would only pay attention to me . . .”

  “I’m paying attention.”

  “I knew the treasure wasn’t under the school.” He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a handful of my candy, the colors running into each other.

  “Want one?” he says, and grins. “You didn’t pay attention to one of the clues.”

  I reach for a Skittle absently. Mary is watching us from her crib.

  “Hear the sound,” Steadman says. He stands and goes to the door.

  “That’s the clue in the Tinwitty book,” I call after him.

  “Toot-toot.” He glances back at me, squinting a little. “Sound!” he yells. “Train station.”

  My eyes widen. Could it be?

  I clatter down to the man cave. “Remember the S on the gravestone? Remember the arrow?”

  Zack nods.

  “It might just be the train station.”

  Zack’s eyes widen.

  Linny calls down. “Teacher Conference Day is tomorrow. Maybe you’ll finally get to those leaves.”

  How could we have forgotten?

  Tomorrow isn’t leaf day, though.

  I whisper to Zack. “Hear the sound.”

  It must be the train station.

  “We’re going to be rich.”

  “You know it, Hunter,” Zack says.

  Chapter 16

  It’s pouring rain. “Too bad,” I tell Pop, glancing at the streaming window. I shrug helplessly. “We were thinking about raking leaves today.”

  Pop looks at us suspiciously.

  “We’ll have to get at those babies as soon as it stops,” I say to make him feel better. But from the look of things, the occasional lightning flashes, the rumble of thunder, it’s not going to stop this morning. If we’re lucky, it will be with us all day.

  “What we can do, Pop,” Zack says, “is walk you to the train. We’ll hold up the umbrella.”

  “That couldn’t be better.” Mom smiles. She’s never suspicious.

  “Good idea,” Steadman says. “I’ll come, too.”

  Sheesh.

  But then I grin at Mary. “Hun-ter,” I say, dragging the word out. “Say Hun-ter.”

 
Mary puts a Cheerio in her mouth and grins back. Is she ever going to talk? I stop to blow out my cheeks at K.G., who gives me a wet smile.

  Zack grabs an umbrella and pokes William as we pass. Then we wait for Pop on the back porch. I shoot open the umbrella, even though it’s hardly worth it. The spokes hang out all over the place, and Fred has chewed massive holes in the rest of it.

  Pop doesn’t notice as we head for the station. He’s too busy looking back at the leaves plastered to his lawn as we jump up and down, holding the umbrella over his head.

  Halfway there, we see Bradley the Bully, leaning up against the telephone pole. And is that Becca, Linny’s best friend, with him? Linny would have a fit.

  No time for that. We run the last half-block, jumping over puddles and listening to the train steaming in.

  “Hurry,” Pop pants. “I can’t miss this one more time.”

  He dives into the station, and we toss him the umbrella.

  “Thanks, guys,” he calls back. He hops onto the train a millisecond before it whooshes out, the umbrella still captured in the door.

  Whew. He’s gone. We sink down on a wet bench, free to investigate. No leaves. No problem. We stare across the tracks at a dilapidated train car on a siding. It’s been there for years, and somewhere in back of it, maybe, is a place to dig.

  But how to get there? Impossible.

  And here comes Fred, galloping along, with Steadman right behind him.

  Fred dives onto my lap, and Steadman squeezes in between Zack and me. They’re both soaking wet and muddy. But never mind, we’re soaking wet and muddy, too.

  “Here we are,” Steadman says, as if we hadn’t noticed.

  I have to grin at him. He’s a great kid after all.

  Pop’s train rounds a curve out of town and lets out a siren wail.

  “There’s the clue,” says Steadman. He points toward the siding. “The treasure’s probably over there.”

  I nod. “Don’t even think we can cross the tracks to get to it.”

  Steadman points. Up, not down.

  “The railroad bridge . . . ?” I begin, my head back. “Wires and cables, workmen always hanging out up there.”

  “Not in the rain,” Steadman says. “They’re probably inside having coffee. Skittles, maybe.”