by Gary Paulsen
“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!!!!
The Two Points of View
“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.
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.
The Plot and the First Diversion
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.
