Hunter Moran Digs Deep by Patricia Reilly Giff

let it be Pop.
    We tiptoe to the door. It’s not locked now and there’s a crack of light. Someone is kneeling on the floor, and in front of him is the birdhouse. It’s not Pop, I can see that right away.
    And the birdhouse isn’t in a million pieces. It’s looking great. And someone is painting. . . .
    Painting?
    We push open the door.
    William looks over his shoulder. “Not bad, right? I’m using a bright blue for the bird. I told Pop I’d finish it up for him. Good thing he didn’t know how much finishing it needed.”
    I can’t talk. I can’t even open my mouth.
    Zack says it for me. “You saved our lives.”
    â€œAgain.” William frowns at me. “All I did this week was watch out for you.”
    He adds yellow to the bird’s beak as Steadman pops up from somewhere.
    â€œYou sent that scary note to Hunter.” Steadman smirks. “I knew because it smelled like paint.”
    Paint! That was it.
    â€œI had to try to keep them out of more danger,” William says. “No one’s ever going to find that treasure.”
    â€œOf course we found it. Want to see?”
    Zack grins at me. “The painting’s as bad as most of William’s stuff.”
    William follows us out of the man cave and walksaround, studying it. “A masterpiece,” he says at last. “Wait until Mrs. Wu at the library sees this!”
    I can hardly get the words out. “Are we rich?”
    William looks at me as if I’m crazy. “Not even halfway.”
    â€œFred loves it,” Steadman says. “Soup Bone might have been his great-great-grandfather.”
    Yes. Soup Bone has the same mean look. His teeth are bared, ready to take a chunk out of someone.
    Upstairs the phone is ringing. No one answers. No one ever answers.
    â€œI’ll get it,” Steadman says, but at last Mom picks it up.
    A moment later, she calls us.
    We leave the painting and head upstairs.
    Mom stands next to the phone, bouncing K.G. over her shoulder. “I can’t believe this. It’s the best news.”
    We could use some good news. I think of poor Mom. She’ll never get motorcycle lessons; she’ll never even get to Florida, never mind Hawaii or Fiji.
    â€œSoup,” Mary says. Some first word!
    Mom sinks down at the table. “I always wanted a child with talent.”
    William again.
    But no.
    â€œThat was Sister Ramona on the phone,” Mom tells us. “She wants us to know that she’s never going to charge Hunter for drum lessons. Not even what he owes.”
    Mom smiles at me. “Sister Ramona says you don’t knowhow good you are yet. But you will. You’ll feel it inside, and you’ll be on your way.”
    And somewhere in my chest, I do feel it, the pounding of the drums, the crash of the cymbals. And maybe I’d rather have that than any treasure I could find.



Chapter 22
    In the morning, we watch Pop set the birdhouse up in the middle of the backyard. He stands back, rubbing the bald spot on his head, smiling.
    â€œYou should be proud of yourself,” Mom tells him.
    â€œWell,” he says, patting the bluebird.
    He doesn’t even notice that only a few leaves still hang on to the branches over our heads. The rest are all underfoot.
    Any minute, the wildlife committee will be here. They’re walking through town looking at all the houses.
    And there they are: Mrs. Wu, of course; Dr. Diglio, the dentist; and Sister Appolonia, dragging a package behind her. Alfred, the cemetery boss, peers over the fence.
    â€œLovely,” says Mrs. Wu when she sees the birdhouse. “Not bad at all,” says Dr. Diglio, and “Right,” says Sister Appolonia. Alfred grins.
    Mom waves at them from the back porch. “There’s something else you might want to see.”
    They turn and follow Mom through the living room and up the stairs.
    Zack raises his shoulders. I shake my head