Hunter Moran Saves the Universe

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  I look up. “You don’t have a camera.”

  He pokes his nose up close. The odor of chocolate is intense. “William’s cell phone,” he whispers.

  “William’s cell phone with me on top of St. Ursula’s? A picture of the bomb?”

  Steadman nods. “And one of the two of you working on Dad’s computer.”

  I’m off the bed as if I’ve been shot out of a cannon. William will blackmail Zack and me forever.

  Steadman jumps off the bed, too. He rocks back and forth on his sneakers. “There’s more, but William says he’s going to decapitate me if I touch his phone again. Who knows what that means?”

  “Did William see the pictures yet?” My mind is racing. William’s door is bolted, his windows locked.

  Steadman shrugs. He reaches high up into his pajama sleeve. With some effort, he pulls out William’s bedroom key.

  Hard to believe.

  I take the key without a word. Where is William? Downstairs? Outside? Is there enough time to …

  “William’s mixing paint in the basement,” Steadman says. “It’s a real mess down there.”

  “Sit here,” I tell him. “Don’t move. Don’t breathe.”

  “I have to breathe,” he says. “And I have to come with you. I know where he hid the phone.”

  We go down the hall to William’s room. I lean over the stairs. I can hear Zack plunking on the cello and Mom singing to Mary. I wish I knew where alpha dog Linny was, but at least William is nowhere in sight. I turn the key in the lock and we’re inside.

  I leap back against the door.

  It’s a horror, an absolute horror.

  In front of me, a tyrannosaurus is poised to chomp down on—

  Zack’s head. It really is a painting of Zack. I can tell by the ears and the teeth.

  “Great, right?” Steadman says. “William is a genius. Turn around. You’re on the other wall.”

  “No thanks,” I say. “Just get the cell phone.”

  Steadman begins to open drawers. It isn’t easy. There’s a ton of stuff jammed inside. “I can’t remember exactly where …” He tosses socks and underwear on the floor.

  Someone is clumping up the stairs.

  It’s William, all right. No one else makes that much noise. Steadman grabs the phone, tosses it to me, and vanishes under the bed.

  I slide into the closet as William opens the door. “Hey!” he bellows. “Who made this mess in here?” He’s out the door again, probably on his way to find Steadman and decapitate him.

  Sometimes Steadman is smarter than I am. He doesn’t move. But I take a step out of the closet, the cell phone in my pocket, ready to disappear down the hall.

  William turns back and catches me.

  We roll around over his underwear. We bump into walls.

  Linny screams from the hallway. “Mom, come quick. William is killing Hunter!” She stands in the doorway as Mom barrels up the stairs.

  William and I fly apart.

  “Hunter’s fault,” Linny tells Mom.

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “I know everything,” she says.

  She doesn’t know about the cell phone, or Steadman under the bed. That gives me a world of satisfaction.

  Downstairs Zack is still playing the cello, and in front of me, Mom has her hands on her hips. “Enough,” she says in a voice that sounds like Sister Appolonia. She counts in her calming-herself voice. “One, two …”

  “Sorry,” William says, but not too nicely.

  “Sorry,” I tell Mom, too, and head for the stairs.

  Behind me, Mom is saying, “I can’t bear the summers.”

  I stop. I really love the summers. Poor Mom. She should just sit outside and read a book or something.

  And then I hear her say, “Elena Wu can’t find Lester’s recipe. She always kept it in a special place.”

  Mom takes a breath and I take one, too.

  “I have to compare the new soups with his old recipe,” Mom says. “Four, five …”

  Linny shakes her head, looking reliable. “It’s probably in a book somewhere.”

  Mom frowns. “It’s a good thing I know how it should taste. At least, I think I do.”

  I rush down to the kitchen. “Never mind the symphony,” I tell Zack. “We have a new development.”

  He drops the cello on the floor and follows me out the door.

  We sink down at the side of the house. I pull out William’s phone and click on the pictures. In the first, like the ape in Raw Nature, Friday morning, seven o’clock, I’m flying from the itchy ball tree toward St. Ursula’s roof.

  “Wouldn’t William like to get his hands on that,” I say as Steadman slides in beside us.

  “We could sell it to Sarah Yulefski,” Zack says. “She could hang it in her living room.”

  I shudder, thinking of Sarah, but we’re on to the next shot: Zack’s rear end as he climbs into the steeple.

  The third shot is hazy. It was taken from the open door of the firehouse, but it’s definitely Lester’s huge balloon—the one he blew into town with—all ready for Tinwitty Night.

  Zack gasps. This next picture may have captured the worst scene we’ve ever witnessed. Inside a window, Diglio leans over a body. Man or woman, who knows? There’s a look of terror on its face.

  It’s like a scene from Terror in a UFO, Friday night, nine-thirty.

  We have to do something fast.

  Chapter 14

  Zack deletes the photos one by one; then we start down the street. Behind us, almost like a bomb going off, is an explosion of sound.

  Splat!

  I swivel around, ready to take cover.

  A water balloon has hit the sidewalk in front of us. William is hanging out his window.

  “Ya, ya!” I yell. “Couldn’t hit the side of a barn.”

  Zack goes further. He holds up William’s cell phone. “You nearly drowned your cell phone,” he screeches.

  William’s face turns purple. He disappears from the window.

  “He’s coming!” Steadman yells.

  Don’t we know it!

  Zack and I fly down the street, swinging Steadman between us, his feet barely touching the ground. We cross Murdock Avenue at a dead run, weaving around parked cars, looking over our shoulders.

  William runs like a cheetah. He’s half a block behind us as we cross the library lawn, hop over the NO DOGS ALLOWED sign, and open the double doors that lead inside.

  We slide to a stop when we see Mrs. Wu. No one fools around with her.

  “Good morning, boys,” she says.

  We bob our heads. “Looking for … ,” Zack says, and lets his voice trail off.

  Mrs. Wu nods and we tiptoe around the corner. It’s a great library with hidden zigzags from A to Z; we know them all.

  There’s just enough room for the three of us to squeeze into the S-T-U biographies. We sink down, leaning against the shelves, and look up at the picture of Lester Tinwitty.

  Lester has more hair on his face than a herd of buffalo.

  Outside the window is an excellent view of Vinny’s garbage and Dr. Diglio’s office.

  “Stop breathing so loud,” Zack tells me.

  “It’s not me.”

  “Not me, either.” Steadman pulls out a book, causing a massive collapse. The pile gathers speed as the books clunk off the shelf and onto our laps. One of them looks as if it’s falling apart: it’s the life story of Lester himself.

  But there’s really breathing; it comes from behind us, kind of a low snort. I can’t pay attention to that right now, though. We hear the library door open. William!

  “Hey, Mrs. Wu,” he says. “Have you seen my brothers?”

  “I do not keep track of everyone in this neighborhood, William,” she says. “And your voice is twenty decibels too loud for the reading room.”

  Zack gives me a silent high five.

  Behind us there’s that sound. A sneeze? I just have time to think that someone in the stack behi
nd us must have a cold before something explodes through the empty space and grabs my wrist.

  “Yeow!”

  It’s Fred.

  Old Lady Campbell looks up from her book. “That dog will be the death of me,” she mutters.

  He may be the death of me first, I think.

  I pull myself free, and he goes after Steadman. Before I can do one thing to save Steadman, Fred dives on top of him and they both land on the floor.

  I can hardly look.

  But wait.

  Fred is slobbering all over Steadman. Licking his face, whining.

  Steadman looks up at me. “Fred’s my best friend, you know.”

  But now I hear William’s footsteps. Zack and I grab Steadman and we’re out the back door.

  Diglio’s office is right on the other side of the alley. A huge tooth hangs from his window. The tooth is grimy, almost as if it has cavities, and a sparrow’s nest is wedged between the roots. You’d think Diglio would clean the thing up to show his interest in teeth.

  We lean against the wall and watch William go by out front. He doesn’t even look down the alley. Actually, he has the brains of a flea.

  We make our way over to Diglio’s open window, the tooth screeching above us. It almost sounds like our shopping cart.

  Room one is empty, so we move to room two. The window is wide open; dusty blinds rattle in the breeze.

  I reach up to steady them in their back-and-forthing. And there’s Diglio in a white coat, his four strands of hair combed over his shiny head.

  Who is that in his chair? Impossible to see without poking our heads all the way in the window.

  Zack sifts through his pocket to find a couple of crumbs and sits Steadman down in front of them. “Just watch,” he says. “A herd of ants will be along any minute.”

  Steadman bends down, his nose almost touching the cement. He looks hypnotized.

  That Zack is a genius.

  The two of us sink down against the hot brick wall to listen.

  “Where does it hurt?” Diglio asks, in a false I feel your pain voice.

  The answer is garbled. No wonder. It’s hard to speak clearly when Diglio’s thick fingers are stretching your lips like rubber bands.

  The garble sounds familiar, but it’s very noisy around here. Two guys come down the alley, both of them chewing on gyros, shedding lettuce and tomatoes behind them.

  It’s very distracting.

  I inch up to look in the window again. There’s a tray of torture instruments, and over the sink is a photograph. I steady the blinds and poke my head in. It’s a good thing Diglio’s turned the other way.

  And look at that photo!

  It’s Diglio grinning, showing off every single one of his teeth, front to back. Is he saluting someone? Yes. The other guy in the picture looks familiar. Very familiar.

  I sink down. I can’t believe it. It’s the president of the United States.

  The president is a spy?

  I lean my head against the bricks. What next!

  Diglio hums as the garble turns to a moan. After a long moment, he stops and the victim says something that sounds like “I don’t like to kill anything.”

  “Sometimes it just can’t be helped,” Diglio says. “That’s what I tell myself every time I chop off a head.”

  Zack covers his eyes. “The whole world is going crazy,” he says.

  The victim goes on. “Cutting them up is the hard part. Their small bodies. Hardly anything is left after—”

  “Worrisome,” Diglio says.

  We lean closer. He said that about my teeth one time, throwing in a lecture about flossing.

  But then his phone rings. “Excuse me,” he says, and heads toward the other room.

  Zack’s eyes are as big as Frisbees. “Where do you think they do all this chopping and cutting?”

  Diglio’s cellar probably looks like a butcher shop.

  We crawl along outside to room one to see what Diglio is up to now. Luckily, Steadman is immersed in an ant parade.

  Diglio closes the door and reaches into a drawer for a phone. Why does he keep it hidden away? Why is it red? And why, most of all, is he whispering?

  Zack and I go up on tiptoes, our chins resting on the sill. Just before Zack knocks over a jar of instruments on the sill, Diglio says, “I’m counting on you, but there isn’t much time. Get everything ready. Olyushka.”

  The crash is spectacular. Diglio jumps a foot and turns. In the other room, the victim screams.

  Zack and I grab Steadman again. We run like madmen down the block toward home.

  Chapter 15

  Mom barbecues outside, a relief because soup entries are bubbling all over the stove, one worse than the other.

  Pop chews thoughtfully. “Lester’s soup kettle has to be cleaned out,” he says.

  I know what’s coming.

  “Get your boots, guys.” Pop points to Zack and me.

  “What about William?” I say.

  “William is helping out in his own way,” Mom tells us.

  Moments later, Zack and I clump down to the town round. The grandstand is one-third graffiti, but creeping around the edges is a blinding purple paint. An orange solar system explodes over the bleachers.

  “Guess who’s painting the grandstand,” Zack says.

  There’s something else to look at. In the same orange are huge letters: H.M. ♥ S.Y.

  Me and Sarah Yulefski? Horrible.

  William’s getting back at me. I look away quickly. If only I could change my name.

  Zack and I trot up the steps to the soup kettle. I see we’re not alone. Coming down the path are Dr. Diglio and his killer-high-heels wife. He sees me, too, but looks away. It’s almost as if he knows that I can almost see into his evil mind. Mrs. Diglio waves. She’s afraid of nothing.

  And there’s Sarah Yulefski standing on the other side of the town round staring at the H.M. ♥ S.Y. sign. It’s almost too much to bear.

  Zack and I take a huge detour around the other side of the soup kettle, go up the stairs, and look into it. The kettle is almost as big as Pop. We slide the massive cover back inch by inch, both of us pushing. “It sounds like a tomb being opened,” Zack says, and I shiver.

  We throw in a bucket, a broom, and old rags that look like my last year’s underwear. We don’t bother with the little rope ladder. We hang on to the rim, then let go, throwing ourselves in, too. We land in candy wrappers, paper plates, and a possum tail, left over from last year’s winning entry. Zack tosses it up and over the edge of the kettle.

  I look up as a plane from Sturgis Air Force Base soars overhead. Then, with our feet, we swab around, almost like ice skating. We’ve discovered an echo and treat ourselves to a couple of bloodcurdling screams.

  We try doomsday voices next: “Diglio, you’re done for, hooodie-hoohoo.” We keep our doomsday voices low. He may have X-ray ears.

  It’s time to finish up and get out of there. But above my head, there’s a shadow. The pot cover slides over the top until it’s completely black inside. “Hey!” I yell. We’re trapped like a pair of chickens on the way to become cacciatore.

  I don’t know which of us screams louder. It makes the whole thing worse. Our voices twirl around, but they’re going nowhere; the cover must be six inches thick. And we don’t even have the rope ladder in here with us.

  “Don’t worry,” Zack says at the end of his fortieth yell. “Mom and Pop will take their walk, right around the kettle. We’ll be out in no time.”

  I think of Pop, how strong he is, how smart.

  “Right.” I cross my fingers. They’ll never hear us.

  We settle back, our heads against the side. It’s hot in here, very hot. I fan myself with both hands.

  Something else is happening underneath the pot. We hear clicking and clacking and a thump.

  For a moment, we’re entirely quiet. Then Zack says, “How did Lester heat the soup, anyway?”

  Another thump.

  “Someone must have
lit a fire underneath.” I try to sound calm. But I know exactly what he’s thinking. Could someone light a fire underneath us? Forget calm. “Yeoooooooow!” I yell.

  Zack stamps on the bottom of the pot. “We’re in here!” His voice echoes: “In heeeeeeerrrrre.”

  I lean closer to him, even though I can’t see an inch in front of me. I do see his eyes, though. Huge. “We can’t wait for Mom and Pop,” I say. “We’ll be bacon before they get here.”

  “If you stand on my shoulders,” Zack says, “maybe you can push the cover off.”

  And that’s what we do. I climb up on Zack. It works better that way because I’m a quarter-inch taller than he is. We slide across the bottom of the pot. Pop would be thrilled. We’re cleaning the pot as we’re saving our lives.

  We’re also screaming again, especially Zack. “You’re breaking my shoulder bones!” he yells.

  I don’t answer. My arms are up over my head. For a moment, my fingertips graze the cover. “Hold still, will you, Zack?”

  “My toes are burning.” He stamps his feet.

  “It’s your imagination,” I say, even though I’m not so sure about that.

  I lunge up, thinking of Sister Appolonia, her glasses glinting. “Anything is possible, Hunter Moran. Set your mind to it.” My mind is on it, but I need another half-inch.

  We careen back and forth. Zack is losing his balance, I can feel it. “Hold on!” he yells.

  I hold on, but it doesn’t do any good. We’re like a ship in a typhoon.

  And then—

  Clunk!

  I’m tossed off Zack’s shoulders and hit the side of the pot. “I’m dead!” I yell.

  “Not yet,” Zack says. He’s breathing, so I must be breathing, too.

  “Here’s what we’re going to try next,” he says. “I’m going to stand on your shoulders.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “But this time, we’re both going to stand on tiptoes.”

  I hear him pulling off his shirt. “I’m fighting for our lives,” he says, and wraps the shirt around my shoulders like a cushion.

  And I really need it. His feet are large and clunky. I lean against the side of the pot, up on my toes like a ballet dancer. And then we’re both sliding, falling, landing on the bottom of the pot.