Field Trip (4 page)

Atticus:
I'm the only one who seems to know that the boss is never going to catch up to the field trip like he says. He's already turned around three times. I don't think anyone has noticed. They're too busy talking to pay attention.

Conor:
Snore.

Everyone's fallen asleep in the back. Hockey players are practically bionic, so I'm wide-awake. But bored. Dad might not read maps, but I do. I'm tracing the route we seem to be on when a town catches my attention.

I can't immediately tell why the name rings a bell. I'm absentmindedly shuffling an old puck in my hand when it hits me: the name on the letter from the academy. Tryouts are at that town's rink. I reach for my phone and look it up. Yup. Tryouts. Tomorrow.

I wonder…

We're going to pass right through the town where the recruiters will be looking for my kind of talent. Dad's not the only one who gets signs from the universe. Whatever has been whispering to Dad has a message for me, too.
Ben, try out.

If I can show Dad how impressed the admissions people are by my skills, he can't say no. He hasn't seen me play in a while, so he's not up to speed on how awesome I am. And words won't work—our last conversation proved that. I have to show him.

I just have to figure out how get us to the rink tomorrow on the sly, because if I ask him to take me, he'll shut me down.

I need a distraction that'll keep us busy for the rest of the day so we can show up at the right time tomorrow.

Something will come up; it always does. All I have to do is keep my eyes open and think positive thoughts.

Dad hits the brakes with a sickening jolt.

“What was that for?” I'm not proud of the way my voice cracks, but no one seems to notice. And Charlotte was switching seats with Brig when she was thrown forward. She reaches out to grab my shoulder to steady herself. My skin tingles under her hand.

“Look over there.” Dad's tone is reverent, hushed. We all look where he's pointing.

“What are we looking at?” Jacob asks.

“I don't see anything.” Charlotte tries to nudge Atticus aside so she can get a better view.

“I'll get the petty cash box,” Brig breathes, as thrilled as Dad.

“What's happening?” Jacob asks.

“Dad spotted an estate sale.” Just the time-suck I was hoping for. Score!

“What's that?”

“It's what fancy people call a garage sale for suckers like Dad. Some people can't resist buying bargain crap from other people's houses.”

Dad unbuckles his seat belt and opens the van door, in a trance, heading toward the yard full of junk with a glassy-eyed stare. I climb out, crossing my fingers that he'll spend hours looking around.

Brig jogs ahead, a cigar box of money under his arm. Charlotte and Jacob follow me and the guys. I glance down—Atticus is depressed because he hates shopping, but Conor prances. He lacks the boredom gene. Everything is fun for him. And maybe he agrees with Dad that some million-dollar treasure can be snapped up for seventy-five cents.

I see Jacob's and Charlotte's perplexed expressions. “Dad's always looking for stuff for his flip houses. Just watch—he's going to get all jazzed about buying a mason jar full of nuts and bolts for a quarter, or he's going to find a like-new toilet.” We all cringe at the thought of sharing the back of the van with that.

We stand on the curb with the guys, watching Dad and Brig cruise the card tables.

“I don't get it,” Charlotte finally says.

“Lucky you. I don't tell many people this, but Dad also Dumpster dives. He knows the schedule for all the neighborhood's garbage and recycling pickup days, and he drives up and down streets looking for odds and ends he can fix up or use. ‘One man's trash is another man's treasure,' Dad always says.”

“We're never going to catch up with the field trip, are we?” Charlotte sounds more curious than disappointed.

“Well…follow-through isn't Dad's strong suit.” Dad won't forget about the puppy though, right? Nah, puppies and field trips are two completely different things. One you can live without just fine, but not even Dad can space out about a puppy.

“Okay by me,” Jacob says. “I'm kind of bored with the field trip from all the planning. We'll make our own educational experience, an independent study. I'll get back to you with a plan.”

“No, you won't.” Charlotte shakes her head. “I'm more organized. I'll figure out an alternative.”

“You're organized, but I'm creative.”

I jump in. “Why don't you both think about it and we'll talk about it later.” Or never.

Conor chases a squirrel into the yard next door.

I whistle to call him back to my side. “That place is condemned.” I point to the bright orange notification on the front door. “They're probably going to knock it down.”

“What do you mean ‘knock it down'?” Brig is standing nearby sorting scrap wood. “You mean that a space that's sheltered families, witnessed generations of laughter and tears, births and deaths, is going to be destroyed?” He sinks to the curb, like the news is too much to take.

Brig is panting and wild-eyed and raking his fingers through his hair. It's kind of scary. Our goalie, Dooter, looked like that during last year's regionals. Of course, his tibia was poking through his shin.

Jacob pats Brig's shoulder and Charlotte speaks to him softly. I dig in his backpack and come up with a can of squirtable cheese and some oatmeal raisin cookies. After a couple of cookie sandwiches, Brig calms down.

“I just feel so awful for the house,” he mumbles through a mouthful.

“Well, sure…” I'm not sure how to comfort someone who gets so upset about drywall and shingles.

Dad, who didn't seem to notice when he ripped my soul to pieces earlier, spots Brig's distress. To be fair, Atticus alerted him.

“What's going on?” Dad looks at me suspiciously.

I throw my hands out in the “I'm innocent” gesture.

Conor crawls onto Brig's lap. Atticus solemnly puts a paw on Brig's knee, the silent message being
Pull yourself together, man. We're in public.

Brig sniffs, wiping his nose on Conor's fur. “That beautiful house, relegated to the scrap heap because it got a little old, a little run-down. It's tragic how we're becoming a disposable society.”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” Dad says. In the game of crazy poker, Dad will always see your hysteria and raise you an exaggeration.

Atticus and I catch each other's eyes and sigh. We've heard Dad's speech. Atticus lies down and pretends to take a nap. I look at Charlotte and Jacob and shake my head, silently warning them. Brig looks at Dad like he's waiting for the Rapture.

“I save old houses because I believe it's vital to protect the past. I restore venerable beauties who've seen better days to their former glories, protecting and defending the memories that live within those walls.” This is the point in his speech where Dad pauses, as if choked up, and takes a deep breath. If you haven't heard it a million times, it's effective. Brig bites his lip and blinks hard. Charlotte and Jacob listen politely as Dad winds up. “I know this: it's not just a house, it's a home.”

Brig stands and throws his arms around Dad. “It's a beautiful thing, what we do. Rock on.” He turns to fist-bump me. “We have the best dad!”

“ ‘We'?” And you lack boundaries, I think, but force a smile.

“Brig thinks he's family,” Jacob whispers to me. “Let me know if you need any pointers on sibling rivalry. Charlotte and I have been competing since we were born.”

“Before we were born,” she says. “I'm seven minutes older, and I've been ahead of you since you were a two-celled organism developing in my shadow.”

She pulls her tablet out of her bag, starting to swipe and type furiously.

“Let's get a better look at that house.” Dad studies the front door.

“Why not?” I ask. “Luckily, my tetanus booster is up to date.” If I weren't trying to run the clock out today, there's no way I'd encourage Dad to break into a padlocked house full of rusty nails and feral, rabid animals just to check out the crown molding and doorframes he'd like to pry out and reuse.

“It's got a very welcoming air about it, don't you think?” Dad and Brig run off and the rest of us drift after.

“Yeah,” I say. “The windows boarded up with plywood sheets spray-painted with large black Xs just scream ‘Come on in and set a spell.' ”

Jacob and Charlotte crack up, but Dad can't hear me. He grabs the padlock on the front door and gives it a shake. “Nope.” Then he heads toward the backyard, pointing to Brig to check the boards nailed across the windows.

“I'm in!” Jacob calls from the depths of the house. He's shimmied through a hole in the back door. He twists the lock from the inside and jumps out of the way when the door falls off the frame.

“Nicely done, Jacob.” Dad and Brig high-five him. Charlotte and I tiptoe inside, stepping on a layer of trash. I can tell Charlotte shares my fear of sharp objects and wild animals. Dad is snapping pictures of the kitchen cabinets with his phone.

“This house obviously wasn't condemned because of structural faults.” Dad looks around. “Every issue, as far as I can see, is mostly cosmetic. The foundation looks solid. Another example of someone letting a house go rather than putting in the elbow grease to make it shine.”

“This house has got a really good spirit,” Brig says to me. “Your dad taught me how to read a space, and this one has a happy soul. Can't you feel it?”

“I'm, uh, not sure.” He looks so disappointed that I say, “Right, the energy. Yeah, it's good.”

Charlotte hops onto a counter and studies her tablet. Before I can say anything about putting down the electronics and being present in the moment, which I hear a lot at home, Dad calls.

“Do you see what I see?” Jacob, Brig, Atticus, Conor, and I crowd the doorway.

“A built-in buffet,” Brig breathes. “In mint condition.”

Dad snaps more pictures and Brig runs his hands over the wood.

I read their minds. “It won't fit in the van. Not with four people and the two guys. There's no room.”

Dad looks at me, his face aglow. “If we take out the benches and stack them along one side of the van, the buffet will fit perfectly.”

“Remove the seats? With four people and two border collies?”

“Three people. You've been sitting in the front with me. Atticus and Conor don't mind lying on the floor. We'll bunch up a few tarps for the twins and Brig. They'll think they're sitting in beanbag chairs. It'll all work out.”

“I'll go get the toolbox.” Brig heads to the truck.

“And you two”—Dad points to Jacob and me—“see if you can jimmy the front door open and then grab some skids from the back of the van to make a ramp down the front steps. We'll just ease this baby out of the wall and slide it down the stairs, and it'll float into the van.”

Uh-huh. I think gravity has different ideas. But since (a) I'm the Perfect Son Dad Will Want to Send to Hockey School and (b) this is a project that'll keep us here for hours, I start yanking plywood off the front door.

A curse-filled, unproductive, painful hour passes. Charlotte's still working on her tablet in the kitchen.

I have a vision of Charlotte, Jacob, Brig, Conor, Atticus, and me lashed to the side of the Death Cone on the roof for the rest of the trip if we ever do get this monstrosity into the van.

“Well.” Charlotte dances up to us gleefully, “I did it!”

“Did what?” I rub the sweat off my face.

“Bought the house.”

“Uh, what?”

“I didn't get why Mr. Duffy and Brig were so interested in this house, but when you said that he could tell how special it was, I finally understood.”

“You did?” She's looking at me with a great smile, and there's nothing I would say to make her stop looking at me that way, so I keep my mouth shut.

“I found out this house was foreclosed on and went up for auction, but no one bid. I was able to buy it for a buck!”