Hunter Moran Digs Deep by Patricia Reilly Giff Page B

tow.

Chapter 2
    Saturday-night supper is always gross. I have to say that Mom’s not the best cook in the world, not even the best in Newfield. I manage to swallow a piece of gray meat the size of a pinhead, and hide the rest under a piece of bread.
    Lucky Steadman. He’s feeding his dinner to the dog. And what else? He’s got a book in his hand, whispering something.
    â€œWhat?” Linny asks.
    â€œI’m teaching Fred to read.”
    â€œSorry, Steadman,” she says. “Dogs can’t read.”
    Steadman’s lip goes out a mile. “Fred will. He’s great at the pictures already.”
    Zack deposits his meat in his napkin. He looks at me and we both grin. Steadman can’t read a word yet, but he’s teaching the dog!
    I swallow another piece of meat. “Great, Mom,” I say, and push back my chair. Upstairs, I detour into my bedroom and toss back about six Skittles, all red, a great dessert. I do it secretly. If Linny or William finds that bag, it’s curtains for my stash.
    I put a couple of yellow ones in my pocket for Zack, then go down the hall, still chewing. I jump up a couple of times, trying to reach the ceiling. No go.
    William’s in his bedroom, painting. He’s sick of last summer’s dinosaurs and worlds colliding. Who knows what horror he’s thinking of now? The wall is covered with what looks like a bunch of crooked cereal boxes; drips of paint rush toward the floor.
    Pop will have a fit when he sees this mess. But William is in luck. This is Pop’s busiest time at the office. He’s hardly ever home.
    Next I pass the babies’ room and peer in at the two cribs, Mary in one, singing to herself. I tiptoe in. Waking baby K.G. in the other crib would be a serious mistake.
    I whisper to Mary: “
Hun-ter
. Say
Hun-ter
.”
    Mary doesn’t talk yet. But I’m determined
Hunter
will be her first word.
    And there goes K.G. sounding off, her face as purple as an eggplant. I give her a little whistle. She cuts the screech and treats me to a damp smile.
    And that’s when everything begins to go wrong.
    Zack sneaks up behind me and taps my shoulder. “Got you last!” he yells, and dives down the stairs, two at a time.
    It’s something we do.
    I speed after him, through the living room, into the hall, and down the basement steps.
    We sail over Pop’s tools that are spread around all overthe place, and dash into the private room he calls his man cave.
    I’m one step behind Zack, ready to get him last.
    â€œWatch out!” Zack screams.
    My arms windmill, my feet slide. “Yeow!”
    In front of us is Pop’s special project, a huge thing twice our size. It’s almost finished, and he’s covered it with an old plaid blanket.
    Zack tries to stop. I try, too.
    No good.
    Definitely no good.
    We smash into each other, and into the huge thing, which Pop is going to enter in Newfield’s contest, Here’s to Wildlife, next Saturday.
    The crash is spectacular. Wood splinters. The blanket sinks around it.
    Zack’s eyes are as large as a pizza. “There goes the wildlife entry.”
    I can’t even swallow.
    â€œWhat’s going on down there?” Mom calls from the top of the stairs.
    â€œNothing.” Our voices sound as if we’re being strangled.
    â€œYou’re not in your father’s man cave, are you?”
    â€œWe’re not allowed in there,” Zack says, gulping a little.
    We’d give each other a high five for telling the truth, but we’re in a desperate situation here. We sit on the floor, leaning sink down against the rough cement wall.
    â€œThis is the end of us,” I say.
    Zack reaches out with his foot and shoves a wooden bird tail under the blanket. “Pop told me the supplies cost him a hundred dollars.”
    I lift the edge of the blanket and drop it quickly. I lean my head back against the wall. “Nothing left of it. Even