Field Trip (2 page)

Atticus:
I don't want my boy to go away. He's too young, and I like my people bunched together so I can keep an eye on them. No one ever gets in trouble when I'm around, but when they go off in separate directions or try to keep secrets from me, things get weird. They don't seem to realize that; that's why I always try to keep my people close by.

As long as I can remember, it's been the boss and the real boss who smells like flowers and my boy and me. And now this falling-over puppy. My people need to spend more time together. Everyone is always coming and going and missing each other. My boy talks to me about everything, and he tries to explain things to the puppy, but he still needs to talk to the bosses. And they should listen better. Like I do.

They need to spend more time at home. I'm tired of taking care of this puppy. They wanted him, not me. The boss could stop messing the place up, too; it's always loud and dirty, and everything smells wrong.

Conor:
I LOVE THE SHINY FLOOR! IT MAKES ME FLY!

Dad drags me out of bed at five in the morning—his favorite time of the day to bring me up to speed on family disasters. He bounds down to the kitchen and as soon as I've staggered to the table, tells me that after careful consideration last night, he and Mom have decided not to let me try out for the new academy.

I brace myself against the counter and watch Dad pet Atticus, who glances at me and looks away quickly, horrified by the bomb Dad just dropped.

I struggle to control my quavering voice. “You can't do that to me.”

“Sure I can; I'm your father and I have your best interests at heart.”

“How long are you going to play that lame ‘I'm the dad' card?”

“Can't see an end to it. Works like a charm.”

“But you're wrong! You just don't get it. I'm fourteen, and these are crucial years for me. Every minute at the rink makes a difference. Don't you understand the importance of training with players and coaches who'll push me to be better every time I take the ice?”

I'm sweating and my hands are shaking, but Dad's sitting at the kitchen table calmly scratching the itch Atticus can't reach behind his right ear—arthritis in his hips has stiffened his back legs. Is Dad even listening to me or is he just waiting for me to stop talking? I press on.

“Any serious coach will tell you that turning down this kind of experience will trash the rest of my career and hold me back from any real momentum. Do you
want
to sentence me to a life of hockey mediocrity? Worst-case scenario? My game falls apart, my spirit is broken, and I walk away from the sport and…and…and I'm a bum living under an overpass!”

Dad tilts his head. “I think you're exaggerating.”

“Barely.”

“You've missed a ton of school this year for travel tournaments and clinics and camps and— Oh, hey, do you know anything about the letter Mom and I found under the kitchen table from the vice principal?”

I shrug. Dad raises an eyebrow. I should have known Conor wouldn't destroy the evidence. He's just a puppy, still learning; Atticus would have made sure there wasn't a scrap left.

“A good education,” Dad is lecturing me now, “has to be your first priority, not shots on goal. Mom and I want you to explore opportunities, broaden your interests, attend a school with girls so you can go on dates, make friends who still have all their teeth.

“That's why I woke you up so early. Since you're going to be focusing less on skating from now on, you should go on your class field trip after all. It won't kill you to miss a few days of practice. Sure, the rest of the class left yesterday, but I'll drive you myself; we'll catch up to them in no time. We hit the road in a few minutes.”

“What?” First he takes away my dream and then he makes me go on a nerdy field trip?

“It's going to be another amazing Dad and Ben On the Road Adventure.”

I slump against the counter. What is it with Dad's new habit of springing catastrophic news at dawn and immediately dragging me on the road? He did it last summer when he ripped away hockey camp because he quit his job and started flipping houses. Then he whisked me away on a road trip. The good part was that we saved Conor, a rescue puppy in need of a home. And we met some great people. And had fun.

“ARFARFARFARFARF!” Conor chases his stuffed lamb across the floor. He's the best thing to happen to this family in a long time, and I have to confess that our trip to get him didn't start out too well, either.

“Are we at least rescuing another puppy on the way?” I ask.

“You never know.” Dad tries to sound mysterious, but I can tell he hadn't thought about a puppy until I mentioned it. He turns away and starts scrolling on his phone, searching for a puppy bribe.

Conor was promised to me last summer, but he took one look at Mom and fell in love. He's all hers. And Atticus has always belonged to Dad. Atticus and Conor like me just fine, but I get the feeling they think I'm a useful servant, not the reason they get up in the morning. I need a border collie of my own. I deserve one who loves me best.

A new puppy isn't going to make me forget about going to the academy, and I cringe at the idea of catching up with the field trip. But it'll take a while to reach the class snoozefest. Anything can happen between then and now.

The thought of a new puppy is enough to lift my crummy mood a little.

I catch Atticus's eye; he looks at Dad and then at Conor before turning back to me and wagging his tail to remind me what a great time we had on the last trip.

As usual, he has a point.

Atticus:
The boss has a good plan. Road trips are fun, and the boss and my boy will be together in the truck, talking, and then everything will work out in the end. Like it always does.

The boss also has a bad plan. Another puppy. I can barely stand this one—he's not coming around like I thought he would.

My boy and the boss and the real boss, the one who smells like flowers, like this puppy. At first I thought he had potential. But he's making us look bad, with all his barking and rolling around. It's loud. Undignified. He trips over his own paws. I pretend I don't notice and look away.

I might be too old to raise two puppies. Puppies are a lot of work.

But anything can happen once the boss gets on the road; he could forget about the puppy. He does forget things.

Conor:
A PUPPY! I've always wanted a puppy! Puppies are easy, not like Atticus, who is crabby and just likes to sleep in the sun. I'M GOING TO GET A PUPPY!

As I'm grabbing some clothes for the trip, I do some deep breathing exercises I use when game pressure is on. I regroup: how to swing things back in my favor? It's third period, Duffy; the score's tied one-all. You've got one last chance to take control of the game.

Less hockey? We'll see about that. I'll figure out how to show Dad how badly I want this and convince him what a great deal the academy is.

Wait!
That's
what this is all about. Dad's just testing me—he's making me
earn
the academy. He wants to make sure I've thought this through. If I prove myself on the road and I don't moan and I'm a team player about the field trip, he'll be so impressed he'll let me try out. Yeah! Dad's not the only one who thinks everything will work out in the end.

My brain is starting to whir. Always have a Plan B—Dad taught me that. I'm feeling better already. Gordie Howe would never let a setback like this get the best of him; neither will I.

I shove my dog-eared Wayne Gretzky autobiography and my team playbook into my bag. Out of habit, I grab my hockey bag, too. Feels weird to go anywhere without it.

I head back to the kitchen with a bounce in my step. I'll get some studying done in the truck, a visual aid to impress Dad.

“Oh, uh, Ben,” Dad says in a voice I've only heard once before: when he told me he'd bought us a crack house in a really dicey area to fix up. I try to catch his eye. He's not looking at me. “I have some, uh, news.”

“More?” I brace myself for the second time this morning.

“It's good—don't look so worried. It's great, actually. It may well be the best thing that ever happened to this family!”

Wow. This is bad. Really bad.

“I sold another house. One I wasn't even trying to sell: I'm
that
good! Ha ha ha.”

At Dad's fake laugh, I close my eyes. This will be genuinely hideous.

“I sold
our
house!”

“You
what
?” If I weren't gripping the countertop, I'd keel over.

“I was as surprised as you are.”

“Oh. You accidentally sold our house. Sure, happens all the time. You read about it in the newspaper, see stories on the news.” I roll my eyes.

Atticus and Conor slink to the kitchen door and stand with their backs to us, probably hoping one or the other will suddenly sprout hands so they can work the doorknob and escape.

“I know. Crazy, right?” Dad's sticking with cheerful. “I sank a ton of money into that old place on Calhoun and Harriet. More than I expected. I needed money fast to keep the project on track.”

“So you sold our family home. Right out from underneath us. Without consulting us.” I just want to be clear.

“Yeah!” Dad nods, glad that I get it. “The good news is that I turned such a profit it would have been criminal to let the offer go. The buyer came to me, like the universe was helping me take the business to the next level. Plus, now I can get the Calhoun place up to code and make it a masterpiece. The profit we're going to see on that place, Ben…”

“What about us? Where are we going to live? When do we move? What did Mom say? Does she even know?”

“Of course she knows.”

“And…?”

“She's going to hammer out some details while we're gone.” Dad nods happily.

“Details. You mean like packing everything we own and, oh, finding us a new place to live?”

“Yup! I'm not good with the particulars. I'm a big-picture guy.” Dad's foot is tapping under his chair and he's drumming his fingers on the tabletop, antsy to get going now that he's dumped the news. “She was up half the night looking for the new Casa Duffy online.”

Traitor. I glare at the ceiling and Mom still asleep upstairs. “She used to worry about the way you run the business,” I remind him.

“That was before she started doing the bookkeeping. Now she's behind me a hundred percent!”

Atticus barks at me. Sounds like “Go.” Conor's still staring at the back door, willing it to open.

At least some of us are excited to hit the road.

I shuffle out to the pickup, two border collies hot on my heels. Atticus and Conor go everywhere with us—if we try to escape, they aren't above tripping us to remind us to bring them along. I feel bad for sheep when I see how ruthlessly border collies herd their people.

“Not the pickup, Ben,” Dad calls as he locks the back door. “We're taking the company car.”

No. Freaking. Way.

The company car…Dad told us he was going to buy a van for next to nothing at a sheriff's auction. Mom and I thought that made sense. But then he brought home an old ice cream van with a ginormous chipped fiberglass swirl cone cemented to the roof. It used to be pink-and-white stripes but has turned a deadly gray. Dad's crazy about the cone and all the space on the inside. He said no one else saw the fun of driving around underneath an oversized plastic ice cream cone. I am one of those people.

So I throw my duffel in the back of the van as hard as I can because not only do I have to prove myself and make him let me go to hockey school, but now I have to do it underneath the Death Cone.

“Umph.” A pile of tarps on one of the seats groans and moves as my gear lands. I jump back. Atticus growls and slides between the van and me; Conor yelps and runs in circles around me—he hasn't figured out the appropriate response to possible danger.

“Oh, hey, Brig,” Dad says, glancing past me at the sleepy-faced guy crawling out of the van. He could be anywhere from seventeen to, um, twenty-four? “Did we wake you?”

Atticus and Conor bark and jump on the guy, greeting him like an old friend. He's got shaggy hair and is wearing baggy work pants and hiking boots and a ratty tee that reads
DUFFY AND SON.
We have company shirts now? He's super skinny but strong; even both guys throwing themselves at him doesn't take him off his feet.

“Yeah, thanks. Not a bad wake-up call. My alarm clock is too loud and always makes the cone on the roof vibrate.” Brig rubs his eyes, stretches, and yawns. “Hey, buddy,” he says to Atticus and Conor as they scramble to get him to pet them. Even Atticus is all over him. Shockingly out of character.

“Some info would be nice,” I say to Dad. Are we going to be fighting for sleeping space in our vehicles now that we have no home?

“This is Brig.”

“Uh-huh…?”

“My apprentice.”

“Really.” I hope sarcasm is a sustainable natural resource, because I'd hate to run out. I can see that bitter derision is going to be my default response to everything Dad shares from now on.

“Apprentice, assistant, paid intern, associate, craftsman, what have you. Duffy and Son is an up-and-coming business with multiple employees.” Dad beams.

“Hey, nice to meet you.” Brig stops petting my border collies long enough to shake my hand. “Mr. Duffy told me all about you. I'm Brigham Hancock.”

“Good to meet you, Brig. Do you always sleep in Dad's van?”

“Ever since I started working for him.”

“Why?”

“So that I'm never late for work. I love my job, and I'd hate to disappoint Mr. Duffy. I'm on call for him twenty-four/seven.”

“Did you know this, Dad?” He's looking at a map. Why, I have no idea; it's not like he uses them. I don't even know why he owns any. It's like a killer whale buying ballet slippers—they're just never going to come in handy.

“I know Brig loves working for me. I didn't know he was sleeping in the van.”

Geez. This day is so weird.

“You don't usually need the van so early,” Brig says.

“Getting my boy to his class field trip, taking his mind off a bad idea, maybe getting a puppy. Who knows? The day is young.”

“Your dad is teaching me the business. And how to multitask.” Brig gazes at Dad with admiration.

“Yeah, Dad's super good at doing more than one thing at a time.” Look at how he left me homeless and destroyed my career. Is it really less than an hour since I was asleep, with a fixed address and a great future ahead of me?

Atticus growls at Conor, and Conor falls off the seat in the van.

“Well, let's go,” Brig says. “The guys are restless.” He climbs back into the van and shoves the pile of junk he was sleeping on off the seat, urging Conor away from Atticus and showing Atticus that his space is his again. Atticus is territorial and likes to sit next to the sliding window where kids used to buy Bomb Pops and Fudgsicles and Dream Bars. Dad added removable seats and a couple of shelves and ceiling hooks for his tools and gear, but he left the order window and the freezer and all the other equipment in place. I wouldn't be surprised if he starts selling frozen treats just because he can. He'd think it was awesome.

Brig and the border collies look expectantly at Dad and me:
Go!

“Brig's coming, too?” I ask Dad as we climb into the front seats.

Dad turns the key in the ignition. “We're kind of taking his bedroom with us, and if I'm not around, there's no work, so why not? Look how much fun we had last year when we took on passengers. It's a good thing we ignore that rule about not picking up strangers.” He nods, proud of our family's eagerness to flout the basic standards of safety.

“Mr. Duffy picked me up when I was hitchhiking,” Brig tells me. “Convinced me not to run away, said I should stick around, work for him, make something of my life. But I'm sure you know the whole story.”

I didn't know you existed until ten minutes ago, I think, but I nod.

“He's like the dad I never had.” Brig smiles.

Hunh. Well, I'm sure you're like the son he never had, too, if you love working for him so much you sleep in the van. “That's…nice,” I finally say.

The Duffys belong to a national rescue group that fosters border collies; did Dad join one for runaway teens, too? He has a thing for strays.

“Brig coming along is a good omen, Ben. Can't you feel it?” Dad asks.

I feel resentment, anxiety, and the hot, slobbery breath of Conor on the back of my neck.

When Dad, Atticus, and I set out to rescue Conor last summer, it was just the three of us, and I was super ticked-off at him. But on the way to the shelter we picked up a teen hoodlum, a cranky mechanic, and a runaway waitress. By the time we got home, we'd become a weird little road family, and Dad and I were getting along great. I can tell by the way Dad's smiling at Brig and the dogs in the rearview mirror that he thinks the same thing is going to happen this time. I guess he's never heard that lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place. I almost feel a little bad for him.

“Well, it's not like we don't have room for more people.” I sigh.

Dad slaps his thigh. “I almost forgot! We have to make a quick stop and pick up the twins.”

Of course we do. We need a set of twins.

All righty then.