by Gary Paulsen
“Are we at least rescuing another puppy on the way?” I ask.
“You never know.” Dad tries to sound mysterious, but I can tell he hadn’t thought about a puppy until I mentioned it. He turns away and starts scrolling on his phone, searching for a puppy bribe.
Conor was promised to me last summer, but he took one look at Mom and fell in love. He’s all hers. And Atticus has always belonged to Dad. Atticus and Conor like me just fine, but I get the feeling they think I’m a useful servant, not the reason they get up in the morning. I need a border collie of my own. I deserve one who loves me best.
A new puppy isn’t going to make me forget about going to the academy, and I cringe at the idea of catching up with the field trip. But it’ll take a while to reach the class snoozefest. Anything can happen between then and now.
The thought of a new puppy is enough to lift my crummy mood a little.
I catch Atticus’s eye; he looks at Dad and then at Conor before turning back to me and wagging his tail to remind me what a great time we had on the last trip.
As usual, he has a point.
Atticus: The boss has a good plan. Road trips are fun, and the boss and my boy will be together in the truck, talking, and then everything will work out in the end. Like it always does.
The boss also has a bad plan. Another puppy. I can barely stand this one—he’s not coming around like I thought he would.
My boy and the boss and the real boss, the one who smells like flowers, like this puppy. At first I thought he had potential. But he’s making us look bad, with all his barking and rolling around. It’s loud. Undignified. He trips over his own paws. I pretend I don’t notice and look away.
I might be too old to raise two puppies. Puppies are a lot of work.
But anything can happen once the boss gets on the road; he could forget about the puppy. He does forget things.
Conor: A PUPPY! I’ve always wanted a puppy! Puppies are easy, not like Atticus, who is crabby and just likes to sleep in the sun. I’M GOING TO GET A PUPPY!
The Ultimate Flip and the Stowaway
As I’m grabbing some clothes for the trip, I do some deep breathing exercises I use when game pressure is on. I regroup: how to swing things back in my favor? It’s third period, Duffy; the score’s tied one-all. You’ve got one last chance to take control of the game.
Less hockey? We’ll see about that. I’ll figure out how to show Dad how badly I want this and convince him what a great deal the academy is.
Wait! That’s what this is all about. Dad’s just testing me—he’s making me earn the academy. He wants to make sure I’ve thought this through. If I prove myself on the road and I don’t moan and I’m a team player about the field trip, he’ll be so impressed he’ll let me try out. Yeah! Dad’s not the only one who thinks everything will work out in the end.
My brain is starting to whir. Always have a Plan B—Dad taught me that. I’m feeling better already. Gordie Howe would never let a setback like this get the best of him; neither will I.
I shove my dog-eared Wayne Gretzky autobiography and my team playbook into my bag. Out of habit, I grab my hockey bag, too. Feels weird to go anywhere without it.
I head back to the kitchen with a bounce in my step. I’ll get some studying done in the truck, a visual aid to impress Dad.
“Oh, uh, Ben,” Dad says in a voice I’ve only heard once before: when he told me he’d bought us a crack house in a really dicey area to fix up. I try to catch his eye. He’s not looking at me. “I have some, uh, news.”
“More?” I brace myself for the second time this morning.
“It’s good—don’t look so worried. It’s great, actually. It may well be the best thing that ever happened to this family!”
Wow. This is bad. Really bad.
“I sold another house. One I wasn’t even trying to sell: I’m that good! Ha ha ha.”
At Dad’s fake laugh, I close my eyes. This will be genuinely hideous.
“I sold our house!”
“You what?” If I weren’t gripping the countertop, I’d keel over.
“I was as surprised as you are.”
“Oh. You accidentally sold our house. Sure, happens all the time. You read about it in the newspaper, see stories on the news.” I roll my eyes.
Atticus and Conor slink to the kitchen door and stand with their backs to us, probably hoping one or the other will suddenly sprout hands so they can work the doorknob and escape.
“I know. Crazy, right?” Dad’s sticking with cheerful. “I sank a ton of money into that old place on Calhoun and Harriet. More than I expected. I needed money fast to keep the project on track.”
“So you sold our family home. Right out from underneath us. Without consulting us.” I just want to be clear.
“Yeah!” Dad nods, glad that I get it. “The good news is that I turned such a profit it would have been criminal to let the offer go. The buyer came to me, like the universe was helping me take the business to the next level. Plus, now I can get the Calhoun place up to code and make it a masterpiece. The profit we’re going to see on that place, Ben…”
“What about us? Where are we going to live? When do we move? What did Mom say? Does she even know?”
“Of course she knows.”
“And…?”
“She’s going to hammer out some details while we’re gone.” Dad nods happily.
“Details. You mean like packing everything we own and, oh, finding us a new place to live?”
“Yup! I’m not good with the particulars. I’m a big-picture guy.” Dad’s foot is tapping under his chair and he’s drumming his fingers on the tabletop, antsy to get going now that he’s dumped the news. “She was up half the night looking for the new Casa Duffy online.”
Traitor. I glare at the ceiling and Mom still asleep upstairs. “She used to worry about the way you run the business,” I remind him.
“That was before she started doing the bookkeeping. Now she’s behind me a hundred percent!”
Atticus barks at me. Sounds like “Go.” Conor’s still staring at the back door, willing it to open.
At least some of us are excited to hit the road.
I shuffle out to the pickup, two border collies hot on my heels. Atticus and Conor go everywhere with us—if we try to escape, they aren’t above tripping us to remind us to bring them along. I feel bad for sheep when I see how ruthlessly border collies herd their people.
“Not the pickup, Ben,” Dad calls as he locks the back door. “We’re taking the company car.”
No. Freaking. Way.
The company car…Dad told us he was going to buy a van for next to nothing at a sheriff’s auction. Mom and I thought that made sense. But then he brought home an old ice cream van with a ginormous chipped fiberglass swirl cone cemented to the roof. It used to be pink-and-white stripes but has turned a deadly gray. Dad’s crazy about the cone and all the space on the inside. He said no one else saw the fun of driving around underneath an oversized plastic ice cream cone. I am one of those people.
So I throw my duffel in the back of the van as hard as I can because not only do I have to prove myself and make him let me go to hockey school, but now I have to do it underneath the Death Cone.
“Umph.” A pile of tarps on one of the seats groans and moves as my gear lands. I jump back. Atticus growls and slides between the van and me; Conor yelps and runs in circles around me—he hasn’t figured out the appropriate response to possible danger.
“Oh, hey, Brig,” Dad says, glancing past me at the sleepy-faced guy crawling out of the van. He could be anywhere from seventeen to, um, twenty-four? “Did we wake you?”
Atticus and Conor bark and jump on the guy, greeting him like an old friend. He’s got shaggy hair and is wearing baggy work pants and hiking boots and a ratty tee that reads DUFFY AND SON. We have company shirts now? He’s super skinny but strong; even both guys throwing themselves at him doesn’t take him off his feet.
“Yeah, thanks. Not a
bad wake-up call. My alarm clock is too loud and always makes the cone on the roof vibrate.” Brig rubs his eyes, stretches, and yawns. “Hey, buddy,” he says to Atticus and Conor as they scramble to get him to pet them. Even Atticus is all over him. Shockingly out of character.
“Some info would be nice,” I say to Dad. Are we going to be fighting for sleeping space in our vehicles now that we have no home?
“This is Brig.”
“Uh-huh…?”
“My apprentice.”
“Really.” I hope sarcasm is a sustainable natural resource, because I’d hate to run out. I can see that bitter derision is going to be my default response to everything Dad shares from now on.
“Apprentice, assistant, paid intern, associate, craftsman, what have you. Duffy and Son is an up-and-coming business with multiple employees.” Dad beams.
“Hey, nice to meet you.” Brig stops petting my border collies long enough to shake my hand. “Mr. Duffy told me all about you. I’m Brigham Hancock.”
“Good to meet you, Brig. Do you always sleep in Dad’s van?”
“Ever since I started working for him.”
“Why?”
“So that I’m never late for work. I love my job, and I’d hate to disappoint Mr. Duffy. I’m on call for him twenty-four/seven.”
“Did you know this, Dad?” He’s looking at a map. Why, I have no idea; it’s not like he uses them. I don’t even know why he owns any. It’s like a killer whale buying ballet slippers—they’re just never going to come in handy.
“I know Brig loves working for me. I didn’t know he was sleeping in the van.”
Geez. This day is so weird.
“You don’t usually need the van so early,” Brig says.
“Getting my boy to his class field trip, taking his mind off a bad idea, maybe getting a puppy. Who knows? The day is young.”
“Your dad is teaching me the business. And how to multitask.” Brig gazes at Dad with admiration.
“Yeah, Dad’s super good at doing more than one thing at a time.” Look at how he left me homeless and destroyed my career. Is it really less than an hour since I was asleep, with a fixed address and a great future ahead of me?
Atticus growls at Conor, and Conor falls off the seat in the van.
“Well, let’s go,” Brig says. “The guys are restless.” He climbs back into the van and shoves the pile of junk he was sleeping on off the seat, urging Conor away from Atticus and showing Atticus that his space is his again. Atticus is territorial and likes to sit next to the sliding window where kids used to buy Bomb Pops and Fudgsicles and Dream Bars. Dad added removable seats and a couple of shelves and ceiling hooks for his tools and gear, but he left the order window and the freezer and all the other equipment in place. I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts selling frozen treats just because he can. He’d think it was awesome.
Brig and the border collies look expectantly at Dad and me: Go!
“Brig’s coming, too?” I ask Dad as we climb into the front seats.
Dad turns the key in the ignition. “We’re kind of taking his bedroom with us, and if I’m not around, there’s no work, so why not? Look how much fun we had last year when we took on passengers. It’s a good thing we ignore that rule about not picking up strangers.” He nods, proud of our family’s eagerness to flout the basic standards of safety.
“Mr. Duffy picked me up when I was hitchhiking,” Brig tells me. “Convinced me not to run away, said I should stick around, work for him, make something of my life. But I’m sure you know the whole story.”
I didn’t know you existed until ten minutes ago, I think, but I nod.
“He’s like the dad I never had.” Brig smiles.
Hunh. Well, I’m sure you’re like the son he never had, too, if you love working for him so much you sleep in the van. “That’s…nice,” I finally say.
The Duffys belong to a national rescue group that fosters border collies; did Dad join one for runaway teens, too? He has a thing for strays.
“Brig coming along is a good omen, Ben. Can’t you feel it?” Dad asks.
I feel resentment, anxiety, and the hot, slobbery breath of Conor on the back of my neck.
When Dad, Atticus, and I set out to rescue Conor last summer, it was just the three of us, and I was super ticked-off at him. But on the way to the shelter we picked up a teen hoodlum, a cranky mechanic, and a runaway waitress. By the time we got home, we’d become a weird little road family, and Dad and I were getting along great. I can tell by the way Dad’s smiling at Brig and the dogs in the rearview mirror that he thinks the same thing is going to happen this time. I guess he’s never heard that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. I almost feel a little bad for him.
“Well, it’s not like we don’t have room for more people.” I sigh.
Dad slaps his thigh. “I almost forgot! We have to make a quick stop and pick up the twins.”
Of course we do. We need a set of twins.
All righty then.
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!!!!
The Twins
“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.