Hunter Moran Digs Deep (4 page)

Yulefski flips through the book, pages whirring. She doesn't bother to ask what we're talking about. “Poem,” she mutters. “I thought I saw . . .”

And there it is. She holds up the page and reads a few lines. “Lester writes a poem for his granddaughter, Josephina, someone to find the treasure for Soup Bone.”

She looks up, then reads the poem:

“It's under the school, I'm sure of it,” Yulefski says, running her hand over the book as if it's actually Tinwitty's treasure.

“But how do we get under the school?” Zack asks.

“That's the problem,” Yulefski says.

Wait a minute. Here come Mom and Pop, arm in arm, taking a walk. Pop home from work? Already?

Zack reads my mind. “It's Sunday,” he whispers. “Pop doesn't work all day.”

We have no time to think about treasure. Pop thinks we're emptying the backyard of a thousand falling leaves.

What to do?

Where to go?

In front of us is Tinwitty's soup pot, up on a stand.

Never mind. We dive in.

It's disgusting, filled with old leaves; a couple of ice cream cups float in a puddle of water. We sit there, feet wet, trying to figure out how soon we can get out of there.

After school on Monday, Zack and I blow up about a hundred balloons for Fred's party. William is drawing a fake tattoo on his arm, while Linny and her friend Becca drag tables and chairs around in the yard, whispering to each other . . . as if we care about their private stuff.

The tattoo finished, completely smudged, William paints something across his wrist—who knows what . . . a cougar, maybe. But I can't concentrate on that, I have hardly any breath left from that balloon blowing, or from rushing to rescue K.G., screaming from her crib upstairs.

I run up to grab her. “Hey, Killer Godzilla,” I say, carrying her down to see what's going on. She needs a diaper change desperately, but I'm ignoring that.

If we can figure things out, if we end up being rich, I'll hire someone. All he'll have to do is change diapers, dozens of them every few minutes.

And the party begins. Half the neighborhood is here to sing around Mom's lopsided cake:
“Happy birthday, dear
Fred, happy birthday to you.”
Sarah Yulefski is the loudest, her chocolate-milk mustache quivering.

Fred wears a pirate party hat that looks like a third ear, exactly like the ears of Alfred, the cemetery boss. Already Fred is chomping down on one of his presents, a greasy bone from William.

Yulefski keeps tilting her head, glancing toward the back of the yard. Sheesh. She wants to tell me something, probably about a diamond ring.

Do I want to hear?

Bad enough Zack and I have to waste the afternoon at Fred's party, when we should be hot on the trail of the treasure.

Sarah pokes my arm. “News,” she whispers urgently.

I take a pretzel off the table and nibble at one end as I stare up at the leaves blowing around. If only they'd sail out front and across the street.

Yulefski gives me a pinch. “More about the treasure,” she whispers.

“We'd better listen,” Zack says, reminding me that she probably read all of
The Fascinating History of Newfield
last night.

We follow her to the back of the yard. But what's this? Bradley is sneaking along in back of us, listening.

We stop dead. Yulefski puts her hands on her hips. “Get lost, Bradley,” she says, not a fearful bone in her body today.

We watch Bradley pull the leaves off the lowest tree
branch and tear them into pieces. “I have partners, you know,” he says. “Watch out!”

He turns back to the party table as a shiver runs through my bones. Could they be his two brothers? They're both partners in bullying?

“I've solved one problem,” Sarah says, herding us into a corner of the fence.

Sure.

“I know how to get under the school.”

A relief. We don't have to think about pneumatic drills and hard hats.

“There's a coal chute, built by Lester himself.”

What is she talking about, anyway?

But just then, the wind blasts through the yard and balloons float above our heads.

Fred takes a bite of one. It explodes, and he takes off under the fence, going a hundred miles an hour.

“Get him,” Steadman yells, “he's spoiling his own birthday party!”

“Don't move. Stay right there,” I tell Steadman. “We're on his case.”

Zack gives out a piercing whistle that can be heard all the way to the town round and Lester Tinwitty's soup pot. But Fred doesn't stop.

Zack and I chase after him, yelling, “Sit! Stay!”

And behind us, with a mound of cookie dough ice
cream in his mouth, William shouts a garbled “Give me your paw,” Fred's only trick.

As if that would stop him.

I throw myself over the fence into the churchyard, leaving one sneaker behind.

Zack is right in back of me. We crash through the dried-up fountain that's filled with crumpled leaves and circle the bird-gunked statue of St. Egbert.

Ahead of us is the open schoolyard gate. And ahead of us, for one brief second, is Fred's skinny brown tail.

And then he's gone.

Completely gone.

I lean against the brick wall of the school, one bare foot in the air. Next to me, Zack is furious. “That dog is almost as much trouble as Linny,” he mutters.

I look around, ready to yell, “Give me your paw!” I'm that desperate.

We circle the school one more time. And then . . .

Zack's eyes open wide. He raises one finger to point.

What does he see?

Nothing but a brick wall. And behind the bushes, a little graffiti.
SCHOOL SUCS
. No doubt it was written by Bradley the Bully. I think about his brothers. Bigger. Stronger. Bigger bullies.

When Sister Appolonia sees it, she'll have him wash down the wall. She's the only one I know who's tougher than he is.

But then I see what Zack's looking at. Hidden behind a pile of crumpled leaves, a few sticks and stones, there's a half-open door, not even kid-sized, it's that small. “It's like Snow White and the Eight or Nine Dwarfs,” Zack says.

“You mean What's-Her-Face in Wonderland,” I say.

But then it comes to me. Coal chute. That's what Yulefski was talking about.

Zack nods. “Pop told me about that once. In the olden days, they heated the school with lumps of coal. A truck came in and dumped them down—”

We hear a yip.

Fred's yip.

I open the door farther, stick my head in. Down in the darkness, I see a pair of eyes.

Fred's eyes.

“Here, boy,” I say, snapping my fingers.

Boy doesn't here.

“It's too slippery for him to climb back up,” Zack says.

I know it. There's only one thing to do.

We have to slide down there.

I try not to think about how we'll get up again.

I poke in my head. It just fits. Suppose I get stuck? I'll be wedged in here forever, breathing dust, dirt, and sticky cobwebs.

Think positively, Sister Appolonia would say. All right. My neck's no problem. It's skinny as a pretzel.

But here come my shoulders. Squeeze, I tell them.

At that moment, Zack grabs my two feet, stones embedded in one of them, and gives me a gigantic push.

Then . . .

Yeow.

I'm not stuck; I'm hurtling down into the darkness, like that rocket on TV. Last Sunday, it headed toward extinction as it crashed into a giant metropolis.

Steadman screamed through the whole thing.

I'm screaming now, too.

Something is crushing me, coming fast.

It's Zack behind me, hurtling to extinction as well. I just hope Fred gets out of the way.

Too bad my mouth is wide open. Something has just passed my teeth, down my throat. It's one of those huge black spiders, I know it is.

We reach the bottom, but we don't stop. We barrel across the dirt floor, heads banging, stones digging into us, arms scraping against cement walls.

I take a breath.

Wait a minute.

I pat the dirt floor next to me.

Could it be?

Yes, Fred has led us to the treasure's burial ground.

Then it hits me. What about snakes? What about rattlers, cobras, pythons, all guarding the treasure?

Far above us is a huge sound. The wind—I hope it's the wind and not Bradley—has slammed the door shut.

We're in total darkness, with hardly any room to move. And who knows what venomous things are moving around us?

The birthday party seems miles away.

Linny will be furious; we're supposed to give out the party favors, stale puppy biscuits and rolled-up liver dog treats wrapped in blue cellophane so the guests don't see what they're getting.

Zack and I drag ourselves up against the wall and sit there, just breathing. “Letting the dirt settle,” Zack mutters, trying for a laugh.

I'm not laughing. No one will look for us until dinner.

By bedtime, William will have moved into our room with all his junk. It's bigger than his, after all. He'll be painting most of the night, probably more of those green lumps.

And by tomorrow, Pop will realize that we haven't picked up one leaf. He'll be furious. And wait until he goes down to his man cave and spots his birdhouse in a million pieces. I can see him holding his head, whispering, “There goes Here's to Wildlife.”

Maybe he won't even come to our funeral.

But poor Mom. She'll feel terrible.

If I ever get out of here, I'm going to do something really great for her. As soon as I get the big bucks, of course.

But what about the dog? I try for a whistle, but my mouth is dry.

“Hey, Fred.” I hear the irritation in my voice. It's all his fault.

Fred doesn't call back.

Is he still alive? If not, Steadman will never forgive us.

“Fred!” I yell again. “Get over here!”

From under my feet there's a growl, and then a sharp bite to my ankle. Fred. Please let it be Fred who's doing the biting and not a rattler.

“It's Fred,” Zack says, reading my mind. “Acting like a killer.”

My voice is suddenly muffled. Something is covering my mouth.

Zack's filthy hand.

I can hardly breathe.

Then I hear a voice I recognize. It's Sister Ramona, the first-grade teacher. She's older than Sister Appolonia by about fifty years, and a nervous wreck.

No wonder. She gives drum lessons after school every afternoon. The sound probably drives her crazy.
Bang, bang, boom!

“Who's there?” she quavers.

Where is she?

Now I see a rim of light. Is it coming from underneath a door?

Whew! We're not trapped in here forever.

Sister Ramona is talking to someone. “Thieves, robbers,” she says, her voice rising. “Killers. They've said so themselves. One of them is named Fred.”

Sister may be almost as old as Lester Tinwitty, but there's nothing wrong with her ears.

Someone answers her. Zack presses his hand harder on my mouth.

I recognize that voice, too.

“It's your imagination,” says Sister Appolonia. “Just lock the door anyway. If robbers are in there, they'll run out of air in no time. They'll be buried for the next millennium, maybe two.”

Sister Appolonia doesn't have an ounce of pity.

“Good idea, Apple,” Sister Ramona says.

Apple?

Zack begins to laugh.

Hysterical, but we're going to strangle ourselves to death any minute. I take tiny breaths, saving myself for another minute or two.

But maybe we're buried here for the next millennium . . .

Maybe two.

And Lester Tinwitty's treasure may be right here with us.

The rim of light disappears. The footsteps fade away into the distance.

“When we're rich,” Zack says, “I'm never going to get myself into a mess like this again.”

“Me, neither.”

We don't mention that this may be our tomb, that we'll never get out.

Fred is digging into my other ankle now. It's definitely Fred. I recognize the growl that goes with every bite.

How late is it, anyway? The party must be long over.

Dinner, too.

It's probably the middle of the night. Mom will be coming to look for us, stumbling along in the dark, with a flashlight and no battery.

Next to me, Zack scootches around, moving an inch at a time, his elbow in my neck.

“What?” I say.

“I'm looking for the door.”

You can't beat Zack for brains, but I don't want to remind him that the door is locked.

“Before we run out of oxygen,” he manages.

Beneath me, Fred sounds as if he's frothing at the mouth. He does that when he's annoyed. He wants to get out of here as much as we do.