Hunter Moran Hangs Out (9 page)

Gussie taps her pen on the desk. “Time to leave. Six bucks tomorrow,” she repeats as if we haven't heard.

I eye the basement door. Still no Steadman. And no Fred, of course.

“How many bags did you give out?” Zack asks Gussie.

“Excuse me?” she says, as if it's none of our business.

I think fast. “We might do an article for the school newspaper about your generosity.”

Gussie pulls a couple of bags out from under the desk and hands them to us. “Don't forget to spell my name right.
G-U-S
. . .”

“Rhymes with
fuss
,” Yulefski says, back at the desk.

Zack cuts in. “We need a list of all the people you gave bags to . . .”

“. . . so generously,” I add.

Gussie looks as if we're crazy. “Who knows?” She shrugs. “Does that make a difference in the article?”

“Probably,” Zack says.

Gussie looks irritated, or maybe disappointed. She jabs the pen through her hair nest. If there are sparrows in there she's probably stabbed one.

Yulefski reaches out to pinch Zack's arm.

“No, I mean, we'll try for a bang-up article,” Zack says. “We'll just hang around awhile so we can describe the place. Give you lots of credit.”

I nod, acting excited about the article. It's too bad Sister Appolonia canceled our newspaper last year. She said it was a disgrace, that we'd spelled fifty percent of the words wrong and the content was dismal.

“Come back tomorrow,” Gussie says. “You can look around. I'll tell you all about our good work. I'll even give you a gymnastic discount. Five dollars and ninety-five cents.”

Yulefski is eyeing the door to the basement, too. It's a thick door, metal.

It stays closed.

Is Steadman caught down there? Crying? Screaming? No one would hear him.

Gussie waves both hands at us, almost as if we're a flock of birds devouring her garden.

There's nothing we can do. We back out and stand near the door. Kids are still leaving: Becca with a bruise like an apple on her knee. And is that her partner?

He looks familiar. Messy dark hair . . .

“Alex,” Zack whispers. “The new principal's son.”

He looks worn out, wearing shorts that show his black-and-blue shins. He's bent over, trying to catch his breath.

I'm glad Zack and I go in for easier sports, climbing eight-foot toothpick trees, carrying ten-ton books around, digging up lawns.

A few more kids straggle out, then Gussie herself. She locks the door and heads for her car.

Zack, Yulefski, and I throw ourselves down in front of the cellar window, trying to peer in. “Steadman,” I whisper loudly.

Yulefski stuffs most of her fingers into her mouth, then wipes the filthy glass. Pretty disgusting, if you ask me, but she's given us a better view of the window with its bite-sized hole. “Hmm,” she says. “That reminds me of something. But what?”

We peer down into a black hole. All we can see are shadows. One of the shadows is waving his arms at us. “I can't get out!” Steadman wails. He sounds far away. He also sounds desperate.

We're desperate, too.

We crouch against the damp window, talking to Steadman, trying to make him feel better.

“I'll be here forever,” he moans.

Yulefski leans her head against the small opening. “No, just for a couple of hours.”

Steadman screams louder than the train that's pulling in on the other side of the tracks. “Hours? That's forever.”

Zack gives Yulefski an angry
zip the lip
with his finger.

“Don't worry,” I tell Steadman, “we'll bring you food, anything you like. We'll just hand it down through the window.”

Zack glares at me as if I'm almost as bad as Yulefski.

“It's dark in here!” Steadman screams.

There's no help for it. Somehow we have to get in there and rescue him.

Zack puts his mouth up close to the window. “Just count to a thousand . . .”

“Slowly,” Yulefski puts in.

“I can't even count to a hundred!” Steadman yells.

From the corner of my eye, I see a guy coming around the corner, swinging a pail and a mop. He clunks down the pail, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a bunch of keys.

In the background, I hear Steadman: “Fourteen, fifteen, seventeen . . .”

“Sixteen,” Yulefski says.

I take a breath and head for the door. “Hey, mister!” I yell.

“Twenty-eight . . .”

The man turns.

“I left some stuff in there,” I say.

He raises his shoulders in the air. “Sure.”

It's as easy as that. I follow him inside and head for the cellar door as he whistles his way down the hall and disappears around a corner.

“Hang on, Steadman,” I whisper to myself. “You're saved.”

Almost.

The cellar door is locked.

What to do? I go back down the hall. How can I ask the guy for a key?

But there's a miracle: a set of keys on Gussie's desk, just waiting to be scooped up . . .

. . . which I do in a hurry.

In my mind I can almost hear Steadman counting.

I go downstairs; it gets darker with every step. “I'm here,” I call, and fall over boxes and nets trying to reach him.

He trips over metal bats and tennis rackets. We reach out to each other in the dark.

“I thought I'd never see you again,” he tells me.

“I'd always come and get you.”

“I keep whispering that same thing to Fred,” he says. “Sometimes he can read my mind.”

I hear the mop-and-pail guy; a door slams.

What now?

The cellar door. I forgot to close it.

I grab Steadman's hand. Together we go up the stairs. I give the door a push, but it doesn't budge. Not only has the whistler closed it, he's locked it, too. We're probably in here until the morning. At least. And the only light is a thin wedge coming from under the door.

Steadman still doesn't realize what's going on. “Wait a minute,” I tell him. “I want to investigate the rest of the basement.”

“I heard something crawling around in the corner before,” Steadman says. “Probably a rat.”

“Probably a cricket,” I tell him. “You love crickets.”

Down we go, back into the dark, into the rats' domain . . . or worse. Except I can't think of anything worse.

I look up at the window; I see Zack's back and Yulefski's. “Hey!” I yell.

“That must be Hunter at the door,” Zack says. “Let's go.”

“Don't go!” I yell.

Too late.

They're gone, around to the front.

Steadman's beginning to realize that we're still trapped.

I'm beginning to realize that rats' teeth are like razors, and that I couldn't find socks to put on this morning. I'm beginning to realize I'm terrified.

Above me, someone is rattling the window. I look up and cringe. It's Bradley the Bully.

Steadman and I back up into the darkest corner. Even rats are friendlier than Bradley. What's he doing up there, anyway? He wiggles one bandaged finger into the bite-sized hole and snaps open the lock. “Leth go here,” he tells himself.

Suddenly there's a hint of summer air, there's light. The window is open; Bradley crawls in and drops. He's two inches away from us and any rats that might be scurrying around.

I put my hand over Steadman's mouth. But Bradley brushes right past us. He heads for the stairs. What a surprise he's going to get when he reaches the door.

But no surprise.

He must have a key.

The door opens, closes, and he's gone.

“What's he doing here, anyway?” Steadman asks.

“Playing basketball, or something, without paying the six bucks,” I answer.

We wait awhile; then we tiptoe up the stairs and into the hall.

We hear Bradley shooting hoops:
ba-boom, ba-boom
; we edge our way down the hall without making a sound. The whistler is asleep on a couch in the coatroom, his pail and mop propped up against the wall.

“We're out of here,” I tell Steadman.

But wait.

I back up.

“Come on, Hunter,” Steadman says. “I'm starving to death.”

I raise my hand, hardly paying attention to him. I stare at that picture of a cat taped up behind the desk. I stare at a picture of a dog.

I stare at the words
:
HUGE PRIZES
.

I pull Steadman around to the back of the desk. And I see it. I really see it.

BRING YOUR PET. TEACH HIM GYMNASTICS. ALMOST FREE. PRIZES FOR THE WINNERS, ESPECIALLY SIX DOLLARS TUITION!

I read it again and say it aloud, trying to put it together.

“Fred would be great at gymnastics,” Steadman says, still sniffling.

“You're right.” I stare at something else: a list of dogs, cats, and their names, all entered into the gymnastics contest.

I run my finger down the list. There are a bunch of Buddys, a couple of Pals, two Fluffys, and one Frederika.

Frederika?

Could it be?

But there's no time to think. I hear something. Bradley? The whistler? Rats coming up the stairs?

“Let's go,” I tell Steadman, and we run like antelopes right out the door.

We head for home and slide into the kitchen. Mom is upstairs with K.G. and Mary. Too bad she doesn't just relax and come down for dinner. Nana's Pineapple Chicken isn't half-bad.

“Your father's gone to Acme Hardware Store,” Nana says. “He's given up on the lawn. He wants to build a porch out back, but his boards and nails are missing.”

Zack gulps. I stare down at my plate. I root around, pushing the weedy greens to one side, and take a mouthful of pineapple. I chew slowly. I have to concentrate.

Zack isn't concentrating. He's wolfing down the chicken as if he hasn't had a meal in a week. “Let's go, Hunter,” he says.

“What about all those books in the living room?” Linny says.

“We're building a ladder with them,” Zack tells her. “Right to the ceiling.”

Linny rolls her eyes at Nana. “I'll probably have to take them back to the library myself.”

“Good work, Linny,” Zack says.

I follow him out the door, with Steadman behind us.

That's all we need.

“Listen, Steadman,” Zack says. “You have to guard the house. Keep watching in case something comes up about Fred.”

Steadman's lips go out about a mile. “What could come up?”

I lean forward, trying to think. “Suppose the kidnapper walks by with him?”

Steadman leans forward.

“Keep an eye on the living room window,” I say.

Steadman nods. “I'll do it.”

Across the street in Werewolf Woods, Zack and I sink down and lean against one of the toothpick trees. Zack chews on a blade of grass. I chew on my nails.

“So who is it?” Zack asks.

“Someone who belongs to the gym. Someone who wants to enter Fred in the contest,” Yulefski says from the next tree.

“Someone who knows how good Fred is at jumping and rolling around,” Zack adds.

I have no nails left to chew. “Someone who needs six bucks to stay in the gym.”

We look at each other. That's not William. William has tons of money.

Zack slaps his forehead. “Becca.”

“Becca,” Yulefski echoes.

I begin to shake my head. Isn't Becca afraid of Fred? Maybe not as afraid as she wants us to think.

I close my eyes. I rest my head against the tree. That's it! Becca. I see it in my mind: Becca bent over, pulling Fred along in the bag. Becca wearing a hat so no one will recognize her.

“What a weasel she is,” Yulefski says.

Zack and I get to our feet. We have to go over to Becca's house right away. We march down the block, Yulefski right behind us. We dash across Murdock Avenue and end up at Becca's front path.

“Becca!” Zack yells.

“We want to talk to you!” I shout.

Yulefski adds an ear-piercing whistle.

But what do I see? Becca going out her back door, pulling a bag along behind her.

“Wait!” we all call together.

She doesn't wait. Does she even hear us? She slams the bag over her cyclone fence into the next yard. Poor Fred, his brains must be scrambled.

Next Becca throws herself over the fence. She's heading for Suicide Hill. We climb over her fence a moment later. The top edges are sharp enough to amputate our fingers.

Becca runs like a cheetah; so does Yulefski. Zack and I huff and puff behind them. We have no breath to yell at her. Becca's bag jostles from one side to the other.

And there's Suicide Hill, looming up in front of us.

Becca stops. She reaches into the bag. She holds it upside down.

Oh, Fred.

What falls out is definitely not Fred. It's a skateboard.

She's probably killed him already with her rough treatment!

“Hold it right there, Becca!” Yulefski yells.

Becca doesn't hold it. With the bag floating out behind her, she skates down Suicide Hill.

We race after her, the cement coming up to meet our sneakers. We'll never get to the end alive. We'll have to be buried on the front lawn. It's a good thing there's plenty of room under the gravestone.

Zack falls first, and I'm right after him. We roll over and over, cement messing up our hands, our knees, our faces.

But Becca sails on, with Yulefski right behind her, catching up, ready to grab her. “Where's the body?” Yulefski shouts, and spins her around.

We get to our feet.

“Body?” Becca yells, clutching her hair. “Someone's dead? Who is it?” She sinks down in the weeds next to the hill. “Probably Sister Appolonia. She's the oldest person I know.”

Zack makes a Jell-O face. “Maybe Becca's not the kidnapper,” I say.