Road Trip (2 page)

“What did Mom say when you told her we were taking off?” Mom runs a tight ship and is very organized, but she’s a lot more flexible than a border collie, so it
makes sense that I’d have worried about Atticus’s reaction before I thought about how Mom would take it.

“I’m going to stop by Colonel Munchies on the way out of town.” He screeches around a corner and jerks the truck to a stop in the parking lot. He jumps out and says, “I’ll just call your mother while I’m grabbing supplies.”

Ah. He didn’t tell Mom.

She probably wouldn’t have been happy that we were taking a trip before we cleaned the gutters and painted the garage. So I’m pretty sure Dad’s timed the call, hoping Mom will be in the shower before she goes to work so he can leave a message. But I bet she woke up and realized we were gone and she’s been sitting at the kitchen table ever since, drumming her fingers and waiting for the phone to ring.

For a second I’m worried that Mom might put an end to our puppy rescue, or at least delay it until we get the stuff on her chore list checked off. But then I see Dad stagger out of the convenience store, loaded down with enough junk to keep us fed halfway across the continent, and he nearly drops the phone as he flashes me a thumbs-up. Nice. Dad’s good at getting people to see things from his perspective. Plus, Mom loves dogs as much as Dad and I do, so getting her to say okay to the puppy was a no-brainer. Our sudden exit was the only
wild card. Mom and I aren’t as good with the unexpected as Dad would like us to be.

Atticus makes a noise like a snort. He’s watching Dad on the phone. He cocks his head and flattens one of his ears, skeptical.

And Dad’s not so good at getting border collies to see things from his perspective.

I wasn’t paying full attention when the boss and my boy were talking before we left. They were near the truck and the only thing on my mind was getting in the front seat before they left without me. They forget sometimes and try to drive off without me. When that happens, I sulk. Sometimes I chew a sock. Not a good one, but the next time, they think twice about forgetting me.

The boss is driving too fast. He always does when he’s excited. And my boy has no idea what’s really going on. I do, though, and I’m worried.

Plus, I don’t want a dog. Getting a dog is a terrible idea. Dogs are not my favorite thing. Dogs are messy and needy.

The boy should have a dog, I suppose, because boys like dogs. But dogs are a lot of work, and I just know this one will not understand the pecking order at home.

Maybe they’ll forget about getting a dog. The boss does forget things. That’s why I always have to remind him to take me in the truck.

The Sucker Punch

Dad hops in the driver’s seat after stowing supplies in the backseat of the cab. Instead of roaring out of the parking lot to hit the highway, he turns to face me and clears his throat.

“Ben,” he says in a voice I don’t recognize and that makes me a little sick to my stomach. “I have something to tell you.”

“Uh-huh.” I nod, though I’m sure something really bad is about to be dumped on me. Good news never needs that serious tone.

“I quit my job yesterday.”

It’s funny how five little words can make you go numb all over. I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue. And, I hope, get to the good part.

“I can’t continue existing as a soulless midlevel corporate drone.” He talks like he thinks I’ll understand.

“Well, no, I guess that’s not right,” I say cautiously.

“I was suffocating behind a desk.” This is news to me, but I nod as if I get where he’s going. “I needed to get out in the real world and start working with my hands.”

“Uh-huh …”

“I’ve started my own business.”

“You did?” I struggle to remember exactly what it is Dad does for a living; weird how you never really pay attention to the things that matter, isn’t it? He’s a vice president in charge of, um … something for an insurance company. Mutual Fidelity Unlimited. I know that much because of all the pens lying around our house with the company name on them.

“Yes. Flipping houses.”

“Excuse me?” I look at the clock again: 5:47 a.m. This is a pretty big change to take in before six in the morning. Has so much news ever come my way in such a short amount of time? We’re going on a road trip and getting a new dog; Dad quit his job and is starting a new business called flipping. I’m a little dizzy and glad I’m sitting down.

“Buy low, renovate, sell high. It’s a no-brainer.”

“Oh.” I think. “You’re going to remodel houses? Like that show on TV?” That’s scary. Dad can fix or build anything, but he’s not great at finishing. I flash on our
garage, which is packed with half-completed projects. Mom and Dad have to park in the driveway.

“Not remodel. Renovate.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Civic responsibility and making the world a better place, one crummy neighborhood at a time. The plan is, I’ll go into a run-down area and buy a house in rough shape. After I renovate, not only will I provide some family a top-of-the-line new home and make a profit, but I’ll have raised the market value of the entire neighborhood at the same time.”

“What do you mean, ‘crummy neighborhood’?”

“I bought our first place over on Fifteenth and Humboldt.”

“You bought a crack house.” I know that intersection from the news: a police car crashed through a wall during a drug raid.

“
We
bought a crack house.” Dad beams. “Duffy and Son, that’s our company name. Nice, right? Oh, and for legal purposes, it’s a former
alleged
crack house.”

“Well, that makes all the difference,” I say, rolling my eyes. And wait just a minute here: “You
already
bought it?”

“I had to move fast to get it.”

“Yeah, I bet former
alleged
crack houses are very popular.” Dad always thinks everything needs to happen fast.

“I was sure you’d be more excited about this. I was counting on your support.”

Fat chance. “Does Mom know?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“She’s not happy.”

“Define ‘not happy.’ ”

“Your mother’s problem is that she’s looking at this from the wrong angle, son.”

“What’s the angle she should be looking from?” I hope he tells me something amazing enough to make the rising panic go away.

“That this is the start of a brand-new chapter in our lives.”

I feel worse. He’s delusional.

“Good chapters hardly ever start with houses where drugs have been sold,” I point out.

“That’s what makes this so cool—it’s completely unexpected.”

“We can finally agree on something.”

“The future is ours, Ben. There’s no limit to what we can do with this opportunity.”

“Where’d you get the money?” The other day Mom said we couldn’t stretch the budget to afford the new laptop I want. Lately we’re eating more leftovers and she runs around turning off lights in empty rooms. She’s been trying to talk to Dad about the bills over dinner, but he puts her off. They don’t think I notice that he’s been sleeping in the guest room lately.

Dad’s phone rings. He looks down and tilts it toward me so I can see Mom’s picture and phone number on his screen. The second he hits the answer button, I hear her: “… getting ahead of yourself … wish you had told me first …”

Dad shrugs and starts to get out of the truck to take the call. Before he shuts the door, I hear him tell her, “We’ll work it out.”

I wonder if Mom’s stomach is as jumpy and tight as mine.

Okay, I never gave much thought to what Dad did for a living or whether it made him happy. Still, the fact that he quit his job and bought a crack house to fix up is a little terrifying. And kind of selfish.

I watch him pacing in the Colonel Munchies parking lot, phone to his ear. He’s doing a whole lot of listening. When he catches my eye, he makes his right hand into a beak and taps his fingers and thumb together so I understand: Mom is talking his ear off. He gestures at me to take the phone. I shake my head; no way am I getting in the middle. Even though I’m curious to hear what she has to say.

I grab a half-empty bag of red licorice from the dash, and Atticus and I share breakfast while we wait for our folks to figure this one out.

I adjust the radio to a news station. We listen to international events: same old, same old—economic sanctions,
military invasions, overthrown governments. “By comparison, our day is relatively peaceful. It’s all a matter of perspective,” I explain to Atticus. He yawns and looks unimpressed by my wisdom. “Yeah, you’re right,” I admit. “When you have to compare your day to wars and market collapses in order to find the upside, you aren’t in good shape.” We each chew another piece of licorice and watch Dad head back to the truck.

He climbs into the cab, a big phony grin pasted on. “She thinks a road trip is a great idea.”

Sure, she does: Mom likes her space when she’s mad, and I bet she’s mad enough to hope Dad stays on the road all summer.

I’m a little surprised she didn’t insist he bring me back home. Even for Dad, this business idea and sudden trip is off the rails.

“Uh, one more thing,” Dad says in the voice that makes my stomach do that alley-oop thing. I wish I hadn’t just snarfed all that licorice. I might spew it all over the inside of the windshield. Depending on what he says. “We’re going to have to live close to the bone for a while. Until the profits start flowing in.”

“And …?” This affects me how? is what I’m thinking, but that’s too selfish to say.

“We might have to cancel hockey camp next month.”

He did
not
just say that.

We’ve been talking about hockey camp since I was
five years old and got my first pair of skates. I’m finally good enough to hold my own with the other players on the A squad, and I pulled straight As all year. That was the deal: when I turn fourteen, if I get the grades, then I can go to hockey camp for six weeks.

“I know you’re bummed, and it kills me to even think I might have to let you down, but for the time being, even with your mom working and me putting everything I’ve got into the new business to make it a success, there’s a possibility I might not have the cash in time to send you.”

“Mom would never let me down like this. What did she say about hockey camp?”

“She agrees that we can’t afford it right now.”

“So neither of you care that I killed myself to get those grades. For nothing.”

No wonder Mom didn’t make me come back home. She didn’t want to face me after breaking her promise.

“You have to look at the bright side: there’s still a chance everything will work out.”

“How big a chance?”

He ignores my question. “And it’s definite that you can go next summer. You’ll be able to go
every
summer once the business starts turning the kind of profit I know it will.”

“Our deal was
this
summer.” Even I can hear how whiny I sound. Too bad; he deserves it.

“You’ll work with me. It’ll be great. No one else you know is going into business renovating houses with their dad.”

“I don’t build houses. I play hockey.”

“That’s why we’re going on this trip—to spend some quality time together, talk about the business, and get you the dog.”

“You think a dog is going to make up for missing hockey camp?”

“A dog makes up for everything.”

“Not even close.” I feel disloyal to Atticus saying that, but I’ve never felt so … resentful.

Atticus, who’s sitting between Dad and me, is looking back and forth as we speak. He can tell something bad is happening—his ears are back and he’s panting a little.

Dad’s still talking but I’ve stopped listening, I’m so mad. The ice is the only place I feel comfortable, and my teammates are the best friends I have. They’re all going to camp. The summer is going to be miserable and lonesome. Nothing to do, no one to hang out with.

Dad’s voice changes and I start listening again. “I hate to say it, Ben, but I’m a little disappointed in your attitude.”

“
You’re
disappointed?” That’s rich. My parents double-cross me and he criticizes me for being bitter.

Before I can ask him how I’m supposed to tell my
team that I’m not going to camp with them like I said, Mom calls. Again. This time he waits until he gets out of the truck and shuts the door before he answers.

This trip stinks like rotten eggs and untreated sewage and little green olives with the red things stuffed inside. The last thing I want to do is be stuck in a pickup with my dad for two days. But watching him talk to Mom on the phone, I realize I’d be more miserable at home with her, because she’s mad at Dad and worried about money and would make me paint the garage.

At least I’ll get my own border collie if I go with Dad. I’ve been wanting that—a dog that belongs just to me—for a long time. I have a list of possible names: Zamboni, Puck, Carom, Stanley …

And nothing says I have to talk to him or listen to him tell me about the business. I’ll go, but I won’t like it. No reason to be on my best behavior if hockey camp is out of the picture. And no matter how many maybes or mights he throws in, my gut tells me I’m not going.