Field Trip (6 page)

Jacob finally emerges from the makeup trailer, Conor trotting behind him. I only know it's Jacob by his suit; his face is covered in zombie makeup. The makeup people worked on Conor, too; his fur is matted with mud. They run over to us.

“I only have a minute before we start shooting. I wanted to get some quick pictures with you while I'm in makeup.”

We stagger to our feet, brush dust off our butts, and straighten our clothes.

Atticus always acts like he hates having his picture taken, but I notice that he's not pulling his face away when Jacob adjusts the angle of his nose and tells him, “That's it! That's your best side. Remember, now: always have them shoot you from the right.”

Atticus snorts, but I make a mental note to take his picture later and see if he turns his right cheek to me, because I get the feeling Jacob has found Atticus's inner camera hog.

“Places, people. Scene twenty-six, invasion of the undead. Three-minute warning,” booms over the sound system.

“I told you this was going to be the best day ever! But I didn't even tell you the best part!” Jacob is about to burst. “I have a speaking role: ‘Oh my gosh, he ate her face!' I'll be in the credits! Screaming Zombie Number Eight.”

We all cheer and follow Jacob and Conor on to the set. Atticus cuts away, trots over to the AD, and sits next to her. “He's more of a behind-the-scenes guy,” I tell Charlotte.

“Of course; Atticus's personality is better suited to production rather than talent.” She watches Atticus study the activity around him and beams. “Like me. Jacob and Conor are the hams; we're the brains.”

As Dad, Brig, Charlotte, and I are being directed to lie on the ground in various postures indicating a violent end, I try not to grin. A night of filming will put me on track to the tryouts. I know, I know—I'm acting shady. But then they have Charlotte lie so her head is resting on my chest. Her cheek rests on my sternum, and her hair smells amazing. I hope this shoot lasts all night long.

It's like Dad always says: sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to hand over a good idea to the universe and see what happens.

So far, so good.

Atticus:
Well, it's about time.

Just when I was trying to figure out how to leave him at the next rest stop, that puppy shows what he's made of.

I'm not convinced he knew what he was doing, but sometimes I wonder if there's more to him than he lets on. I hope so, because I'm going to need some help with my boy and the boss.

My boy has something on his mind. His eyes get dark and his mouth gets tight. And I don't like the way he glances at the boss and then the map or his phone real quick. I can't tell what he's thinking, but it's not good. My boy will need my help.

The boss notices my boy's face get dark; then he gets extra cheerful and fiddles with his phone. The boy didn't see the boss on the phone when everyone else was lying on the ground, pretending to be dead. But I see everything. I can tell the boss will need my help, too.

They'd be lost without me.

Conor:
I DID GOOD TODAY!!!!!!

One of the great things about hockey is that rinks usually open at five or five-thirty in the morning. Figure skaters and hockey players grow accustomed to being up and ready to function at what normal people call an ungodly hour, but normies have a hard time focusing at that time of the day.

Which is exactly what I'm counting on.

I turn in my seat and look at everyone.

After the shoot ended, Brig got his hands on a king-size cup of coffee at a gas station and dropped a glob of that chocolate-hazelnut spread in it to melt. He's overcaffeinating and oversugaring himself to stay alert as he drives. I'm getting used to Brig, if not his food, and I'm not going to freak out about him taking my place in the family until I get off the ice.

Charlotte's asleep on the floor between two benches, so I can't see her, but I can hear her breathe and I even think that's adorable. I might be falling for her, but I can't think about how to handle that until after tryouts.

Jacob is still sleeping on the far back bench. I get the feeling we could be buddies, unless he's the kind of guy who holds a grudge about being tricked into a secret plan. Still, I can't let this opportunity slip through my fingers because I might want to be friends with some guy.

Dad and Conor are fast asleep on one of the benches. Dad's going to be disappointed in me for scheming to take us off course and manipulating the situation for my own benefit. But I am destined to go to this hockey academy.

Atticus is staring at me from his seat near the order window. We nod at each other even though I'm pretty sure he knows I'm up to no good. I wonder if I should jettison the sneaky plan so no one ever realizes how calculating and self-involved I am.

I slap both of my cheeks briskly. Snap out of it. Pull it together. Take action. I have a plan; it'll all work out.

We're about thirty or forty minutes from the rink and I need to start getting dressed. Luckily, I have a lot of experience pulling on hockey gear in moving vehicles. Most people couldn't do it.

I pull on one long-sleeved and one short-sleeved shirt. Since I know I'll be super nervous, I skip the long underwear—don't want to sweat myself dehydrated during tryouts. I also put on a jock and a cup, which are never skip-worthy. Ever. Even though they're super tricky to put on in a moving vehicle four feet from a girl. I pull on lightweight track pants as fast as I can.

I'm the kind of skater who doesn't wear socks—I like the feel of my sweat softening the leather of my skates and molding to the soles of my feet. It's an acquired taste. And it's a smell like the depths of hell. Even I think hockey skates are about the worst smell ever. So I pull on my team socks, which are really striped, footless tubes, over my shin guards, which I've strapped to my lower legs, and secure them with hockey tape wrapped around my thighs. I wrap more tape under my knees to help keep the shin guards in place.

Then come the hockey pants and belt; I'm not a suspenders kind of guy, although some old-school players swear by them.

I'm sweating buckets already and cursing our abundance of gear. This is always the moment where I second-guess my love of hockey. For a fast sport that makes greased lightning look sluggish, dressing for it takes forever. I bet even Mark Messier had trouble gearing up from time to time.

I won't put on my skates, elbow and shoulder pads, jersey, helmet, or gloves until I'm inside the rink and ready to take the ice with my stick. I'm so edgy, though, that I pop my mouth guard in. I look goofy, but at least I won't crack a molar grinding my teeth from stress.

Just in time. I see the signs for the rink, and as casually as I can manage, I spit out the mouth guard so I can tell Brig, “Take the next exit.”

He glances over, does a double take—somehow he didn't noticed me gearing up eighteen inches away—and sends the van into a sickening swerve.

“It's a surprise; I'll explain to you and everyone in the back in a few minutes.” I try to grin, but my mouth is so dry my top lip sticks to my mouth guard and I give more of a sick grimace.

“Uh-huh.” His voice is flat. He should be thrilled I'm clearing the way for him to take over my place in the company. And the family. I feel a stab of jealousy.

Focus. Rid the mind of distractions.

I direct Brig to the rink and ask him to slow way down as he nears the front door. “Don't stop; I'll jump out and use my duffel to break my fall while you keep driving. Just circle the lot so the sensation of the van stopping won't wake anyone. I'll let you know when to stop.”

He just stares out the windshield. After I've taken care of the registration details and am ready to get my skate on, I'll come back out and wave at Brig to park the van. And that's when I'll wake them all up and break the news to Dad.

I'm getting good at planning. Now I'm picturing Dad leaping onto the ice and sweeping me up in a big bear hug after I've flipped a puck into the goal past two big defensemen bearing down on me. I imagine a parade with confetti, and T-shirts with my name on them, and endorsement deals, especially for those protein bars and electrolyte water drinks I like. But that all comes after Dad says I was right about hockey school and assures me he totally understands, appreciates, and forgives my underhanded way of getting here.

Brig slows the van to the correct speed as we pull up to the rink. I tumble out, precisely as planned, on my pads and duffel, and roll to my feet. Man, where are random passersby with video cameras when you need them?

I sail into the rink and spot the sign-up table. My name is on their master list of invitees. I'm given a numbered sticker to put on my jersey and assigned to a scrimmage group. My age takes the ice in twenty minutes, so I put on the rest of my gear, except for my skates, which I leave loosened and ready to slip into next to my stick by the door to the ice. If you can't tighten and tie your skates in under a minute, you've got no business calling yourself a hockey player.

I'm ready to head outside to flag down Brig.

He sees me waving at him and slams on the brakes. Well, no need to worry about waking everyone; the way they were hurtled through the air did that nicely. I count to ten and head to the back of the van.

Dad, the guys, Jacob, and Charlotte look groggy. And, when they see me in full hockey attire, surprised. Dad and Atticus look disappointed.

“So, um, great news!” I say, adopting Dad's technique of fake cheer. “You all get to watch me try out for the hockey academy!”

I had planned to say more, but Dad and Atticus look away from me, and my mind goes blank.

“So…anyway…I'm up in a few minutes….Hope you'll come in and, uh, cheer me on.”

Silence.

I turn and trudge back to the rink. This isn't how I pictured this moment, and I sure never imagined the sinking feeling of…shame.

Then I start to get mad. This is all I want, all I've ever wanted, and Dad's ruining it for me. Again. First he yanked me out of camp last year after promising I could go, and now…I start to stomp a little harder.

Dad quits jobs and sells houses and reneges on promises and never asks anyone ahead of time if they're on board with his plans, and
he's
making
me
feel like a louse for doing what I need to do to protect the only thing I've ever worked for?

I jam my feet into my skates and yank the laces so hard as I tie my boots that I practically stop the blood flow to my toes. I stamp my feet a few times and slip my gloves on before pounding each fist in the other palm over and over. I'm mad now, really mad, and that's good.

I hear the whistle and I skate to my position.

The puck drops and the twenty minutes of our scrimmage whiz by. I can feel my blades shredding the ice, hear the thwack of the puck as it connects with my stick, taste the icy air I drag into my lungs past my minty mouth guard, see the black-and-white shirts of the refs as they zoom next to me along the boards. I can smell the fear of teammates and opponents who try to get between me and the puck.

I'm not usually a puck hog, but this morning I am on fire. Every player who's ever gone past the peewee leagues knows what it looks like when a fellow player is in the zone. You know better than to mess with it or water it down with thoughts of teamwork and good sportsmanship; you just get out of his way and let the magic happen.

All too soon, the final whistle sounds and the scrimmage is over. I realize I'm standing at center ice, clutching my stick and panting like a wild animal. Alone. Dad's not sliding across the rink to lift me off my feet in a bear hug. Charlotte's not cheering from the stands. Jacob and Brig aren't hollering for me. The quiet hurts my ears.

So…no celebration. No bonding. No victory lap. I called this wrong.

I stare at the puck between my skates. The cold of the ice zings through me from the bottom of my feet to the top of my sweat-soaked head and I start shaking. I've shivered from cold before, but this is different. I stagger off the ice and head to the locker room.

No one speaks to me and I don't speak to anyone as I shuck my gear and let the hot water of the shower rinse away all my sweat. Guilt and dread stick around.

I towel off, get dressed, and shove my gear into my hockey bag, heading to the lobby. I don't see anyone from the van.

An official from the academy hurries over to me and hands me a stack of papers: the judges' comments on my performance. The reason I snuck here in the first place. The key to my future. I thank her and hurry out of the rink without catching anyone's eye or glancing at the papers. I can't wait to get away.

I thought I just wanted to go to the academy; I didn't realize until now that I wanted Dad's approval and support, too.

I scour the parking lot.

No van.

I drop my bag and try to catch my breath. This feels exactly like getting the wind knocked out of you by a high-sticking wingman.

I can't make my brain work, can't even begin to figure out how I'll get home from here or make things right with Dad. My eyes burn.

As I stare vacantly at the parking lot, a team bus pulls away. Behind it is a ratty van with a gigantic ice cream cone on top.

Dad is still here, waiting for me. I swipe at my eyes, grab my bag, and trudge to the van.