Free Hunter Moran Hangs Out by Patricia Reilly Giff Page B

KEEP FIT is one, with a photo of someone with muscles like Bradley the Bully. There’s an advertisement for perfume that looks vaguely familiar, and cutouts of dogs, cats, and something that looks like a walrus. JOIN THE CONTEST, GYMNASTIC PETS. HUGE PRIZES .
    â€œRegister tomorrow,” Gussie says, snapping a piece of gum. “Six bucks.”
    â€œI have only a buck twenty-six so far,” Yulefski says. “And the one-seventy-four worm money.”
    Zack nudges me that it’s our worm money. We’ll never see any of it again.
    â€œWe were wondering about bags,” I say, hoping Gussie won’t notice that Yulefski is inchworming herself across the floor to peer into the gym.
    Yulefski takes a final hop to check out possible kidnappers on the balance beam or the basketball court, or doing sky-high jumps on the trampoline.
    How obvious is that? She’s like that evil spy from outer space on
Deadly Worlds
, Thursday morning, seven o’clock.
    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.
    â€œHow many bags did you give out?” Zack asks Gussie.
    â€œExcuse 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
. . .”
    â€œRhymes with
fuss
,” Yulefski says, back at the desk.
    Zack cuts in. “We need a list of all the people you gave bags to . . .”
    â€œ. . . so generously,” I add.
    Gussie looks as if we’re crazy. “Who knows?” She shrugs. “Does that make a difference in the article?”
    â€œProbably,” 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.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œCome 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 . . .
    â€œAlex,” 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