Field Trip (3 page)

Atticus:
I'm always on the boss's side. Even though he changes his mind too fast and too many times, he's usually right.

But he may have gone too far this time. Our new home might have a lot of stairs that will hurt my hips when I climb them, and small windows so there aren't nice patches of sun on the floor where I can sleep.

We should stay where we are. We could send this puppy to a new place and keep the boy who works for the boss. He's coming along nicely, settling in with the family. My boy didn't notice him until today, so he'll need some time to adjust.

And we're getting more new people now. That's good. The boss and the boy never fight in front of people. They try harder to get along when they're not alone. We should have had company last night when the boss and the real boss were talking. Well, he talked and she sat there quiet and then went for a walk. Not the good kind, where she takes us. The stompy kind without us.

Conor:
I'M GOING BUH-BYE IN THE VAN!!!!

“So, Dad, care to share deets on the twin thing?” I hope he's noticing how awesome I'm being: calm, easygoing, curious, open to new people and experiences. The perfect son to send to Brookdale Hockey Academy.

“Jacob and Charlotte Norton. Great kids. But you know that. They're in your class.”

They are? Maybe Dad is right about hockey taking over my brain, because I can't connect these names with faces. In my defense, at school I focus on getting my homework done ahead of time so I don't have it hanging over my head when I hit the ice. Distraction is not good for elite players. Neither is fatigue, so I can't stay up late hanging out with friends or doing homework. I can name every player on every Stanley Cup–winning team for the past forty years, and I know every hockey player my age and at my level in the country who might be competition or a teammate when I turn pro, but I'm not too sure who most of the kids at school are.

“Oh, sure, Jacob and Charlotte Norton,” I bluff. “So why are we picking them up?”

“They had to go to a funeral yesterday and couldn't leave with your class. I called their dad last night about a job and he was bummed that they had to miss the class trip, seeing as how Charlotte is the student council president and Jacob is the class representative to the parent-teacher association and they did most of the work to make the trip happen—the museum passes, chaperones, lesson plans connected to the museum exhibits…you know, stuff like that.”

Oh, right. Jacob and Charlotte. The kind of Super-Involved Students teachers and administrators wish they could clone. A vague picture comes to mind of people who play in the band; sing in the choir; act in the plays; join numerous teams; win state contests in essay writing, science experiments, and social studies projects; host foreign exchange students; spearhead fund-raisers for food pantries; wash cars to raise awareness of air pollution or endangered species or something; and volunteer at nursing homes, reading to old folks. Them. Snore.

Dad is still talking. “…so that's when I knew: Ben can't pass up this awesome experience because (a) it's a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and (b) the payments are nonrefundable. And Jacob and Charlotte shouldn't miss it. Ben, it was like a call from the universe—another one, like selling the house.”

This day just keeps getting better: He's hearing cosmic orders. I open the glove box and root around for licorice or jelly beans. A sugar buzz will help me cope.

“Hey, Ben.” Brig taps my shoulder. “Can you hand me the box of Red Hots your dad keeps on the dash? My breath is freaking Conor out because I just ate sardines and leftover garlic stir-fry for breakfast. I tried to share, but he didn't want any.”

“Can't have a freaked-out border collie.” I hand back the candy and gag at the stench. I try not to compare Brig's consideration of Conor's comfort level with Dad's lack of concern about the security and future of his only son. I crack the window for some fresh air, tip my head back, and close my eyes. I should learn to meditate.

A few minutes later we pull over and I see two kids standing in a driveway. They have matching backpacks and duffel bags and are wearing pressed cargo pants, brand-new hiking boots, and matching T-shirts with the name of our school on the front. They're waving and grinning, oozing enthusiasm and pep. I sigh. Here come the twintastics.

“Hi, Mr. Duffy.” The girl climbs in the back next to Brig and the border collies. She's wearing glasses and has her hair in a ponytail. “I got up early and made sugar- and fat-free power muffins for us. Bran buds, organic cranberries, protein powder, free-range eggs from the chickens I raise. For moistness, I made applesauce from the tree in our backyard instead of using shortening, which, according to current research, is lethal.”

She hands a muffin to Brig, who pulls a can out of his bag, dips two fingers in, and smears confetti frosting on the muffin. Charlotte flinches.

“Hi, Charlotte,” I jump in. “Thanks for the muffins, very…thoughtful of you.” I'd kill for something deep-fried or oozing with melted cheese, but she looks so disappointed with Brigham that I want to make her feel better. “That's Brig. He works with my dad. He's got, um, low blood sugar and will pass out if he doesn't eat frosting.” She seems skeptical, but she smiles at me. Whoa. Great smile. Didn't expect a girl like her to be so cute.

“I'm Ben—”

Brig pulls a can out of his bag and tips it in his mouth for a whipped-cream chaser.

I shudder and continue. “—and the younger border collie is Conor and the other one is Atticus.” Both of the guys are staring at her muffin and drooling. She breaks it in two pieces, giving half to each. Atticus gulps his down whole, but Conor chews, gacks, and spews chewed-up muffin on Charlotte's shirt. Before I can apologize, she whips a box of wet wipes and a stain stick out of her backpack and starts de-crumbing and un-goobering her shirt. She's not mad, though; she laughs and pets Conor, who tries to help her by licking the goo off. She's pretty mellow about dog spit. “I like your truck,” she tells me. The Death Cone becomes a little cooler in my eyes if she approves.

Jacob settles into the far backseat. Before I can say anything to him, Dad says, “Let's get started,” and throws the van in reverse. He zooms out of the driveway and, once in the street, makes a sickening lurch into forward gear. Conor, who hasn't gotten the hang of driving with Dad, crashes into the back of my seat, wagging his tail like this is a fun new game. Atticus looks as dignified as a statue, immune to petty forces like momentum and gravity. Atticus glances at Conor to make sure he's okay before, I swear, rolling his eyes and then looking out the window. Atticus spends a lot of his time pretending the rest of us aren't embarrassing him.

Conor crawls between the two front seats, poking his black-and-white snout between Dad and me, and howls in excitement. Dad gives a howl of his own, Brig barks a few times, and Jacob and Charlotte give a few shy yips, trying to fit in. Atticus sneezes in disgust. Oh, what the heck: I punch the button to make the ice cream truck song play out of the speakers.

We're officially under way.

Atticus:
The dry food blob the girl shared was horrible. But the puppy should have swallowed it. If you spew food back at people, they don't give you more. Sometimes they take you to the vet. And they don't share the next time they eat. We always get hamburgers on the road, but the puppy might not get one now. That's okay; I'll eat it.

I like bringing more people with us. The muffin girl and her boy sit behind me, and the boy who works with the boss lets me sit in my spot.

My boy can't stop looking at the girl.

Conor:
WE HAVE NEW FRIENDS!!!!! WITH TERRIBLE TREATS!!!!

“You must be Jacob,” I call to the boy in the back. “Sorry about the puppy puke.”

“No problem.” He beams. “This is the greatest day of my life. Everything that happens is perfect and exactly the way it's meant to be.”

Atticus and I look at each other. Right. In a past life, Jacob was probably super stoked about that snazzy new ship the
Titanic.

“Today is the greatest day of his life since yesterday,” Charlotte clarifies, and smiles at Jacob. I like her more all the time.

“Yesterday was pretty awesome,” Jacob agrees. “A personal best for learning new stuff. I went to Great-Aunt Pansy's funeral. Did you know that morticians insert a tube into the abdomen of a deceased body? After which a pump is attached so that the contents of the stomach and intestines can be pumped out? This also removes all of the gases from the body and prevents bloating.”

“Wow,” I say. He's not boring and dweeby at all.

“Jacob thinks every day is the best day of his life.” Charlotte looks at me and Brig. “And that no information is too gross.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. We'll see about that after he's spent some time with Brig and his bag of horrible food.

“Can I tell you something?” Jacob asks. I nod. “This is the greatest day of your life, too!”

I'm pretty sure he's wrong, but there's something about his goofy grin that makes me fake an encouraging expression. “Keep talking.”

“You're traveling with an international star in the making and a future household name in politics. Journalists will contact you in years to come to confirm that you knew us back in the day.”

I must look confused. “Charlotte's going to run the world someday, and I'm going to entertain it. We're…”

He can't think of the word, so I supply: “Twincredible!”

“Exactly! We've heard our callings at a young age; we discovered our gifts and we know how we want to spend the rest of our lives. Charlotte and I have worked like crazy to prepare for our futures.” I know about that. I punch Dad to make sure he's listening.

“I couldn't agree with you more. Sounds, oh, I don't know, Really Super Familiar, don't you think, Dad? A serious lifetime goal at fourteen?” I'm happy to see Dad shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“Tell me, Jacob,” Dad suddenly says in that fake-cheerful voice he uses when he's trying to get something he wants but also seem like a nice guy doing it, “what kind of extracurriculars are you and your sister involved in, and aren't you in all the high-level classes?”

I zone out and glare at the passing road signs as Jacob talks. Our school has that many teams and clubs? Dial it back, buddy.

“Impressive,” I lie when Jacob is finished with his list, “but don't you worry that you're the jack-of-all-trades, master of none?” I heard someone say that to Dad at a job site once and, from the way he screwed up his mouth, I could tell it wasn't a good thing.

“Oh, no. See, at our age, it's all about exposure to a variety of options and taking advantage of as many opportunities as we can,” Charlotte says.

“Now, doesn't that sound Really Super Familiar, Ben?” Dad smirks.

I glance back in the mirror on my visor; Charlotte and Jacob are leaning forward in their seats, eyes glowing. Brig is asleep, I think; it's me against…everybody.

“Ben wants to transfer to a new school, if you can even call it a school,” Dad says sadly, as if I told him I'm going to join an expedition to pillage the Amazon rain forest. “It's a new hockey academy. He'll concentrate on power plays and become well educated in blade sharpening and stick handling. He'll never go to a school dance, his only friends will be puck jockeys, he won't learn calculus or read Shakespeare, and he'll have a frequent-flyer card at the emergency room, probably learn to give himself stitches with black thread and a sewing needle.”

“But, Dad! You haven't been listening to everything I've been saying! You're missing the big picture I have in mind. The hockey academy is only the first step. Plus, they teach how to avoid injuries. If I do well there the next four years—and it
is
a real school with normal high school subjects—I'm bound to be recruited by some awesome college. I won't go professional until after I have a diploma. I have it all worked out.”

The man who quit his job and cashed in his retirement fund to buy a crack house to renovate, and who just unloaded our house, looks at me and shakes his head. Like crazy self-determination doesn't run in the family.

“You make some good points,” Charlotte says.

“Who?” Dad and I ask at the same time.

“Both of you.”

“But I have the more compelling argument,” Dad sits up. “I'm the dad, and what I say goes.”

“Unquestioned patriarchal authority is one of the least effective, not to mention most unpopular, forms of leadership.” Charlotte is brisk. “It's not a valid way to participate in a healthy family. The keystone of democracy is everyone's right to freely express their opinions, avoiding an abuse of power by autocratic rulers.”

Charlotte winks at me. I turn to Dad. “Sounds to me like ‘because I say so' is an assault on basic human rights.” He sighs.

“Plus, it's no way to have the best day ever,” Jacob adds. “I've always found that people who insist on getting their way despite the good ideas of others don't last long in sports. Or on the stage. Or in committee work. It's better to compromise.”

“You compromise at work, Mr. Duffy.” Guess Brig wasn't sleeping. “You're always respectful about asking my opinion on the job.”

Charlotte and I lean way out across Brig and Atticus and bump fists. This trip has taken a big step in the right direction.

I stretch, sit back, and watch the scenery whiz by.

“But,” Charlotte says, “there is something to be said for the judgment and experience of an elder, whose duty is to place his or her wisdom and knowledge at the service of the greater good.”

Say what? My head snaps around.

Dad sits up a little straighter in the driver's seat.

“And every team I've ever been on only has one coach,” Jacob says.

Dad grins.

“And I've never known Mr. Duffy to screw up,” Brig offers. “Well, I mean, we screw up all the time, but he always figures out how to fix it.”

I sigh and look out the window.

Brig dips a beef jerky stick in the can of frosting to scrape out the last bit, singing along to the song on the radio. Charlotte starts reading a book as she scratches a blissed-out Conor's tummy. Atticus is peering out the window, ready to lead us back home when Dad gets us lost. Jacob fiddles with the busted soft-serve machine on the van wall.

Charlotte looks up from her book and smiles at me. My stomach flips and I smile back.

I'm not going to say this out loud, because it's the kind of thing Dad would never let me forget, but I suspect he might have some kind of magnetism that attracts interesting people.

It's kinda cool.

And at least I'm in good company while I try to figure out how to salvage my life.