Field Trip (9 page)

Atticus and Conor are trying to nudge Puck away from me in the backseat as we head home, Brig at the wheel. They think he belongs to them. But he barks, they back off, and he settles on my lap. I'd expect him to fall asleep—that's what puppies usually do—but he's keeping an eye on everyone in the van. He. Is. Awesome.

I suddenly realize I'm not obsessing about hockey. I can't remember the last time I wasn't stressing about injuries or running plays in my head or hoping my stick holds together for another game or plotting my next career move. It's kind of…relaxing. I'm enjoying the peace of mind, and I'm kind of dizzy because the sun lights up the little baby hairs near Charlotte's temple. “Things don't get better than this.” I didn't mean to say that out loud, but a warm puppy on your lap is like truth serum.

“Brace yourself, Ben.” Dad looks up from his phone.

“Huh?”

“Things are about to get better. Way better.”

Brig high-fives him in the passenger seat. Jacob and Charlotte look back and grin. Everyone's in on something. Of course, I've been zoning out with the puppy, lost in my new Zen state, so it's possible they've been talking since we got in the van and I didn't hear a word.

“Ever since last summer, when I had to let you down about going to hockey camp, Mom and I have been working with your coach to pull together a summer training camp at our rink. Here.” He hands me his phone so I can read what's on his screen.

My head almost explodes as I take it in.

“Twelve weeks of intensive training.” I look up. “Real live NHL training staff and even a few retired pros!”

“You sound happy.” Dad smiles.

“It's only twenty times better than the hockey camp I missed.”

“I told you I'd make it up to you. I just needed a little time.”

“I didn't think you and Mom cared about hockey or realized how good I am.”

“We always knew. And I could see that you were one of the standouts in the scrimmage yesterday.”

“You saw? I thought you stayed in the van. Actually…I freaked out that you might have left me there because of what a creep I'd been.”

“I saw every second. A blur most of the time, but I knew: you were the one with the puck.”

“We were way up high in the bleachers,” Charlotte says. Charlotte saw me on the ice, too. If she didn't know about hockey before, I'm sure she's studied up on it since then and gets how killer I am on the ice. I hope.

“Way up high where the heat vents are.” Jacob shivers.

“We sent Mom a video, so she saw, too.” Brig waves his phone at me.

Mom, he called her. I take a moment to think about that. I don't feel jealous, so I tell him, “When I turn pro, I'll make sure you can get house tickets to every game. At cost.”

“Frozen butts forever!” Brig yells.

Conor has to pee, so we stop at a rest area. Charlotte, Jacob, and I buy bottles of water; Brig chooses flaming hot corn chips, sour gummies, and malted milk balls.

The three of us exchange a look. Charlotte speaks for us: “I haven't wanted to be rude, but I have to ask—how can you stomach that crap you eat?”

“ 'Cause I'd be hurling,” Jacob tells him. “You've downed some pretty gross combos.”

“I was always hungry growing up,” Brig says. “Never enough food. Soda crackers and oatmeal, mostly, maybe some stuff in dented cans, whatever Mom could afford, whatever my dad didn't eat first.”

Wow. Charlotte, Jacob, and I look at each other sadly.

Brig's eyes go dark and I get why he's so nuts about Dad, why he's always munching.

“Well, our dad doesn't roll like that,” I tell him. “He always has our best interests at heart.” Was it just two days ago he told me that and I rolled my eyes?

“He got some bad news before we left,” Brig says. “He has to have the Calhoun place drywalled by Tuesday or the electricians won't be available. He's been trying to scramble a crew the past two days, but no one's available on such short notice.”

Dad taught me how to put up drywall last summer. It's not hard once you know what you're doing.

“Even if we had five guys, we might not make it in time,” Brig says.

“How about if you had twenty guys?”

“We could knock up those walls in a day or two if they were hard workers.”

“They are.” I rub my hands together like a cartoon character hatching an evil plot. “I need you to drive us somewhere without telling Dad, okay?”

Brig looks startled, but when I give him the address, he smiles and relaxes. “I'm in.”

I hold my phone out so Charlotte and Jacob can see the text I'm starting to write, and they grin. “We're in, too,” Charlotte says.

We climb back into the van. Brig drives and eats, and Dad dozes off with the guys. Charlotte, Jacob, and I send texts all the way home.

Except we head for the Calhoun place.

My hockey team and Mom are standing on the sidewalk.

Dad looks up with a start. “What?”

“Let's get to work,” I tell him. “The guys are here to get the drywalling done pronto.”

“You can't be serious.”

“It's the least we can do; you set up hockey camp.”

“And student government volunteers will be here soon to help paint and haul trash,” Charlotte says.

“And when you're ready, the drama club and my track team are going to help you pack and move from the old house to the new one.” Jacob high-fives Mom.

“Even though we're done with the field trip, the field trip's not done with us,” Charlotte says. “We are on fire!”

“It's like I wrote in my field trip proposal”—Jacob grins—“ ‘Planning for appropriate follow-up activities is essential and will facilitate student learning and multiply the value of hands-on experiences outside the classroom.' ”

“You nailed it,” I tell him.

After Mom hugs us all and shows Dad and me pictures of the new place—and Dad groans at all the work—she straps on her safety goggles and heads to the basement to start pounding drywall into place next to us.

“This might be the best trip we've ever taken, Ben.” Dad and I watch my defensive line turn bare studs into walls. They work so fast it feels like we're in the middle of a time-lapse video.

“Like you say, everything always works out in the end. You always forget to mention the messy middle part, though.”

“I don't forget. I'm smart enough not to talk about it because I'm waiting for the good part.”

He can stop waiting; it's here.