by Gary Paulsen
“It’s got a very welcoming air about it, don’t you think?” Dad and Brig run off and the rest of us drift after.
“Yeah,” I say. “The windows boarded up with plywood sheets spray-painted with large black Xs just scream ‘Come on in and set a spell.’ ”
Jacob and Charlotte crack up, but Dad can’t hear me. He grabs the padlock on the front door and gives it a shake. “Nope.” Then he heads toward the backyard, pointing to Brig to check the boards nailed across the windows.
“I’m in!” Jacob calls from the depths of the house. He’s shimmied through a hole in the back door. He twists the lock from the inside and jumps out of the way when the door falls off the frame.
“Nicely done, Jacob.” Dad and Brig high-five him. Charlotte and I tiptoe inside, stepping on a layer of trash. I can tell Charlotte shares my fear of sharp objects and wild animals. Dad is snapping pictures of the kitchen cabinets with his phone.
“This house obviously wasn’t condemned because of structural faults.” Dad looks around. “Every issue, as far as I can see, is mostly cosmetic. The foundation looks solid. Another example of someone letting a house go rather than putting in the elbow grease to make it shine.”
“This house has got a really good spirit,” Brig says to me. “Your dad taught me how to read a space, and this one has a happy soul. Can’t you feel it?”
“I’m, uh, not sure.” He looks so disappointed that I say, “Right, the energy. Yeah, it’s good.”
Charlotte hops onto a counter and studies her tablet. Before I can say anything about putting down the electronics and being present in the moment, which I hear a lot at home, Dad calls.
“Do you see what I see?” Jacob, Brig, Atticus, Conor, and I crowd the doorway.
“A built-in buffet,” Brig breathes. “In mint condition.”
Dad snaps more pictures and Brig runs his hands over the wood.
I read their minds. “It won’t fit in the van. Not with four people and the two guys. There’s no room.”
Dad looks at me, his face aglow. “If we take out the benches and stack them along one side of the van, the buffet will fit perfectly.”
“Remove the seats? With four people and two border collies?”
“Three people. You’ve been sitting in the front with me. Atticus and Conor don’t mind lying on the floor. We’ll bunch up a few tarps for the twins and Brig. They’ll think they’re sitting in beanbag chairs. It’ll all work out.”
“I’ll go get the toolbox.” Brig heads to the truck.
“And you two”—Dad points to Jacob and me—“see if you can jimmy the front door open and then grab some skids from the back of the van to make a ramp down the front steps. We’ll just ease this baby out of the wall and slide it down the stairs, and it’ll float into the van.”
Uh-huh. I think gravity has different ideas. But since (a) I’m the Perfect Son Dad Will Want to Send to Hockey School and (b) this is a project that’ll keep us here for hours, I start yanking plywood off the front door.
A curse-filled, unproductive, painful hour passes. Charlotte’s still working on her tablet in the kitchen.
I have a vision of Charlotte, Jacob, Brig, Conor, Atticus, and me lashed to the side of the Death Cone on the roof for the rest of the trip if we ever do get this monstrosity into the van.
“Well.” Charlotte dances up to us gleefully, “I did it!”
“Did what?” I rub the sweat off my face.
“Bought the house.”
“Uh, what?”
“I didn’t get why Mr. Duffy and Brig were so interested in this house, but when you said that he could tell how special it was, I finally understood.”
“You did?” She’s looking at me with a great smile, and there’s nothing I would say to make her stop looking at me that way, so I keep my mouth shut.
“I found out this house was foreclosed on and went up for auction, but no one bid. I was able to buy it for a buck!”
“You bought a whole house for a dollar? How did a kid buy a house?” And why isn’t Dad snatching up bargains like this?
“Charlotte can do anything online.” Jacob beams. “She could be a great criminal or computer hacker if she wanted to. But she only uses her powers for good. Borrrrring.”
“I didn’t buy the house for myself. I just found out it was for sale and located the perfect buyer and did the legwork for them to make the offer.” Even Dad looks astonished, so she explains, “I volunteer for a foundation that helps financially challenged homeowners buy cheap houses and fix them up. They said I should make an offer right away after I told them about the place and how sound you said it was. They’ll be here tomorrow to show the place to prospective homeowners.”
“And to think how close we were to ripping its heart out.” Brig shakes his head, a little free with the word “we,” if you ask me. “Good thing the buffet is still in place.”
“Yeah, good thing.” I stick a fresh Band-Aid on the gash on my arm. Hockey players know how to play through pain. Gonna have to ice my smashed toes tonight so I can shove my foot in my skate tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
I forgot about my plan for a while. We haven’t chewed up nearly enough time to keep us on my secret schedule. I look around frantically.
“This place is filthy and disgusting,” I announce. “Dad always says that first impressions are crucial.” Dad pats my shoulder. “We should make a few simple repairs before the foundation people show up. Even for a dollar, this place looks overpriced.”
Brig lights up. “Dibs on repairing those doors, Dad. I mean, Mr. Duffy.”
Dad? How’d Brig and Dad get so tight? I shoot a quick look out the front door to make sure the truck still reads DUFFY & SON and not DUFFY & SONS or maybe even DUFFY & BRIG.
“Grab some trash bags and work gloves, Ben,” Dad tells me. “You and Charlotte start picking up all the garbage. Jacob and I will take the plywood off the windows.”
“The former owners ate a ton of fast food.” Charlotte looks around. I take a second to ask the universe not to find bugs or rats. I’m only brave in the face of physical danger; gross things freak me out. Screaming because a cockroach skitters across my feet won’t make Charlotte think I’m awesome.
“I move like greased lightning,” I warn her. “The blur you’ll see—that’ll be me.” We grab gloves and face masks from Dad’s supplies and get to work.
I didn’t expect that picking up rotten pizza boxes and moldy fried chicken buckets would be such a great way to get to know a girl. I wish she played hockey because we work together so well. Jacob wasn’t kidding when he said Charlotte was competitive; she could go one on one with the toughest guy in my league. We race each other to sweep the house clean of garbage. We don’t even have to talk; we just hustle. She is the coolest girl ever.
Dad and Brig crawl into the attic. Charlotte and I wash windows. Jacob sweeps. We tighten door hinges, nail down loose floorboards, dump bleach in the toilets. I’m sweating like a pig and covered in a thick layer of crud. Charlotte just gets prettier and prettier; her hair comes out of her ponytail and her cheeks get pink.
“Aha!” Jacob comes out of the kitchen, waving Charlotte’s tablet. “My sister isn’t the only one who can do an online search. I called the local television station and they’re going to do a feel-good piece about how the house was saved and will be a fresh start for a family in need!”
Charlotte pretends to be annoyed with him for trying to one-up her, but I can see the smile she tries to hide. “Jacob thinks good deeds are nothing without publicity.”
“All this work should be a secret?” he asks. “Look around—we did an amazing job.”
The way Charlotte throws her arm around my shoulders as we study our efforts almost makes up for the little stab of jealousy I feel when I hear Dad tell Brig “Good job.” He doesn’t say a word to me.
Brig seems to be replacing me. On the bright side, Brig will keep Dad company when I’m away at boarding school. But I will never co
mp Brig on tickets when I make it to the NHL.
I feel a lot better when I look around. Dad was right; elbow grease was what was needed. And Brig was right; the house does seem welcoming. We close the door behind us.
“Let’s roll.” Dad hurries us to the truck. “We have a field trip to catch up to, and we got off schedule.” Jacob, Charlotte, and I roll our eyes. Even Brig says under his breath, “Not. Gonna. Happen.” I feel another sting of jealousy that he knows Dad that well.
As we walk to the van, I swear the house sighs. I glance back and tell the house, “You’ll see; it’ll all work out.”
Then I cross my fingers that my plan will turn out as good as the house.
Atticus: I’m not happy that the boss left me in the van with the puppy when they stopped to get something to eat after we left the dirty house.
I don’t bark and scratch at the windows and look pathetic when I’m left behind, like some people I know. I lie down on the seat and pretend to sleep because I have to be alert. You never know what might happen; strangers might try to touch the boss’s van, and that’s not going to happen while I’m around.
I have to growl at the puppy, because he tried to head-butt the door open and follow the boss. And he chewed on one of the seats until the stuffing came out.
But then my boy and the boss brought food and shared with me and the puppy. So did the muffin girl and the muffin girl’s boy. I never eat any food from the boy who works with the boss.
Conor: I CAN HIGH-FIVE NOW!!!!!! Atticus fell asleep and was embarrassed when he woke up, but I kept watch. That’s why I acted like I was trying to get out of the van—so he could do a good job and growl at me.
The Major Motion Picture and the Second Distraction
After we finished with the house, we grabbed something to eat, and by the time we left the restaurant, it was starting to get dark. It’s all I can do not to cheer—a whole day wasted. Yay, me! Bobby Orr would be proud to share the ice with me. Motel, here we come.
“I feel like driving all night,” Dad announces.
Say what?
“There’s something magical about journeying on the open road under a starry sky.” Dad looks around. “Heck, I might even write a country song while I drive! House flipper, songwriter—I like it.”
No.
Nooooooo.
Nononononono.
We have to spend the night nearby or we’ll overshoot the rink and tryouts.
I look out the window for a flea market or salvage yard. I’ve also got to figure out a way to get Dad out of the driver’s seat. He can’t notice the detour we need to take to get to the ice that holds my future.
I look at Dad singing and pounding on the steering wheel to the beat of the song blasting out of the radio. He’s already made three or four course corrections since we got on the road this morning because he forgets about things like watching for his exit and highway numbers. He thinks he’s got a much better sense of direction than he really does.
If only I could seize control of the wheel. But I haven’t even taken driver’s ed yet.
“So, Brig, got your license?” I cross my fingers. Dad’s singing so loud he can’t hear me over himself and the radio. Jacob is fiddling with the soft-serve machine, and Charlotte’s reading and petting the border collies. I drag my eyes away from her. Focus, Ben.
“Sure.” I gag as Brig mixes packets of honey and ketchup in a cup and then dunks pretzel rods.
“Does Dad let you drive the van?”
“Sure. Especially on garbage days, when I drive and he looks for stuff to rescue.”
“Good times, I bet. Hey, don’t you think it would be a great idea to alternate driving with Dad? Give him a break?”
“Sure. I’ll ask to switch now.”
“Wait!” I grab his arm. This has to be a spontaneous event, a stealth attack.
Luckily, in addition to the aimlessness of Dad’s driving, Conor needs a lot of pee breaks. That will be the perfect opportunity to switch drivers.
“Dad!” I holler over the music. “Conor has to pee. Keep an eye out for the next rest area.”
Conor raises his head from his nap and looks at me, surprised. I can see the thought run through his mind: I have to pee? I feel bad lying to a puppy, so I rummage through my pockets, hoping there’s a spare dog cookie to use as a bribe and an apology for using his weak bladder this way. He crunches happily. I love that border collies don’t hold a grudge. Or tell on you.
A few minutes pass before Dad finds a gas station and Conor dutifully pees on the side of the road. I slip him another cookie. Atticus stares at me in disapproval because he can read my mind sometimes. “I don’t care what you think. I’m doing it anyway.” Atticus makes a noise that sounds like “hmh.” Even though he doesn’t speak, Atticus usually gets the last word. I try to give him a cookie, but he turns up his nose; Atticus cannot be bribed.
“Hey, Dad,” I say oh-so-casually as we happen to be standing near the driver’s door. “I could hear your phone buzzing with messages and emails all day. I know you’re too conscientious a driver to check your phone when your eyes should be on the road, but it must be killing you to miss all that business.” I pause to let that sink in. “How about Brig drives the next shift and you can sit in the back and answer some of those calls and messages? Maybe get some shut-eye?”
Dad leaps at the suggestion and Brig climbs into the driver’s seat. I sit next to him, map in hand.
No one notices that I direct him to get back on the freeway, headed in the same direction we came from.
I shake off the guilt; soon I’ll be enrolled in hockey academy and Dad will be ashamed of himself for putting me in such an awkward position.
I just hope I can keep everyone in the dark and time the drive right. And score a walk-on tryout. And dazzle the recruiters before Dad can shove me back into the van.
First things first: I need a good, lengthy distraction.
Another one.
“STOP. THIS. VAN!” Jacob bellows from the seat next to the order window. He’s hanging out the window waving and hollering, and all I can see from the front seat are his legs kicking and feet flailing inside the van. It’s freaking me out, like maybe we’ve lost a tire or are about to drive straight into a fiery inferno.
Even Dad looks alarmed. “Brig! Pull over!”
“What is it? What happened? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” We bombard Jacob, and Atticus and Conor bark their heads off.
“Look!” Jacob’s hand is shaking as he points across the highway.
It’s a bunch of semis and trailers and—what is that? Gigantic silver umbrellas and miles of black cable all over the ground. No blazing fire or space alien landings. What is he so upset about?
“It’s a movie set. They’re setting up for an overnight shoot,” he whispers. “Look: lights and generators and camera track and the mike boom. All I want in my whole entire life is to be in a movie. I just know I was born for it and that everything in my life has been leading to this moment. We’ve got to go over. Movie sets always need extras. I don’t care if we just stand around and watch. Good thing I always carry my headshots; maybe I’ll run into someone from casting.”
Brilliant.
Jacob digs in his backpack and, sure enough, comes up with a stack of eight-by-ten glossy photographs. He thrusts them into Charlotte’s hands and kicks off his hiking boots. “Avert your gaze,” he instructs us. No one does, of course, and we watch as he kicks out of his cargo pants and replaces them with black suit pants and dress shoes from his bag. He rips off his T-shirt and slides into a white button-down with a necktie already looped through the collar, and a jacket that matches the pants. He travels with business clothes? That don’t have a wrinkle on them? Man, I’m lucky if I have the right number of clean boxers.
“Let’s go make dreams come true.” Dad opens the van door and we all pile out.
“It’s an intergalactic, postapocalyptic, war-of-the-zombies movie,” Charlotte briefs Jacob, looking up from
her tablet. “Loosely based on a bestselling graphic novel originally published in Japan and adapted by the guy who also wrote the screenplay for the totalitarian regime werewolf love story.”
We all nod. Good stuff.
“They will totally want us to be extras,” Jacob says, studying the set. “They don’t have nearly enough dead bodies for an endgame scenario. And we already look horrible from cleaning the house!”
Dad lets the border collies out of the van as we head over to join a line forming near the set.
“Uh, Dad? Don’t you think we should leave them here? We’re gate-crashing a movie set, which is probably not proper etiquette. The guys will just call attention to us.”
“No one will even notice them, Ben. Atticus and Conor are impeccably trained. It’s like they’re not even dogs. They won’t bother anyone. Besides, every good movie needs man’s best friend to really tug at the old heartstrings.”
Atticus glares at me. I mouth, I’m sorry, and he tips his head in forgiveness. Then he glares at Dad for implying that he’s a dog. But Dad doesn’t notice.
Atticus is pretty stealthy and knows how to act cool, but Conor…
We take our places in the line of extras and slowly make our way to the front. Conor and Atticus stand next to Dad, holding their own leashes in their mouths. Dad thinks it’s demeaning to them to be led around; he follows the law, more or less, by clipping leashes to their collars, but he refuses to hold the other end, so the border collies pick them up and carry them.
A woman with a clipboard, a headset, a walkie-talkie, and a ginormous cup of coffee hurries over.
“I’m the AD.” She flips through papers on her clipboard.
“That’s assistant director,” Jacob whispers. “She’s a goddess around here. All power flows through her. She’s spotted my star potential.”
I hope he’s right. Plus, that would really help me out by killing some time.
