Field Trip

1
The Letters
I stagger in the back door after hockey, wrecked. Thursdays are brutal: strength and conditioning training for ninety minutes before school; then, after the last bell rings, back to the rink for a few hours on the ice. After twenty years of hard work (well, I’m fourteen, but ice time is way longer than real time), I finally made the best hockey team in town.
When I get home, all I want to do is eat and go to bed. A guy needs some peace and quiet. But peace and quiet are pretty rare at our house these days.
Last summer Dad suddenly quit his job as a corporate pencil pusher and started a business flipping houses. No, he’s not a giant; flipping means he buys crummy places, fixes them up, and sells them. He’s pretty good at what he does, I have to admit that; he’s bought dumps that looked to me like nothing but rotting drywall and turned them into show houses.
But there’s always the awful wait for the house to sell. And when Dad bugs out about things that are beyond his control, he rips apart something in our house.
For the past ten months, we’ve been living in a construction zone. When Dad’s not at work, which is most of the time, he’s home tearing down walls and pulling up floors.
Initially, I was really into Dad’s company, Duffy and Son, and I worked for him last summer. But once I made the travel hockey team, I didn’t have time for that. And I can’t stand not having running water, and being able to see through the floor of my bedroom because Dad yanked up the boards. He and Mom love the constant remodeling--he thrives on the challenges, she enjoys the new stuff--but I hate it.
Today it’s quiet when I get home. Just Atticus and Conor waiting for me. It’s been this way for months--me and the guys. Sometimes I think they’re the only ones who notice if I come home, and they’re the main reasons I come home at all.
Atticus sneezes as I walk into the kitchen; the drywall dust bothers his nose. He’s our fifteen-year-old border collie, and the construction makes him extra cranky.
Conor, the rescue puppy we adopted last summer, caroms around the corner into the kitchen, sliding into the wall with a thump. His paws scrabble on the new hardwood floor--he hasn’t gotten the hang of the slick wood yet--and he bats his stuffed lamb my way, to throw it for him to chase, but I kick it so the toy skids to him, pucklike. He pounces on it--goal denied! I have visions of putting together the world’s first-ever canine hockey team. I am all hockey, all the time.
“Awesome defense, buddy.” I try to get Conor to high-five me, but he tips over when he lifts a paw. He might be a little too clumsy for hockey. Atticus just watches the toy slide past him and then looks at me sadly. He’ll catch Frisbees and balls, but hockey isn’t his thing. Weird that we’re related.
Atticus whines and stares at the slow cooker on the counter.
“Beef stroganoff today,” I tell him. His ears prick up. I’ve been cooking for myself all year, and a slow cooker is a hungry guy’s best friend. I had to start making my own meals after Mom took on the finances at Duffy and Son; she still works full-time at her old job, but now she takes care of our books in the evenings and on weekends. I looked up a bunch of easy recipes and started fending for myself. I don’t know what Mom and Dad do about meals; I can’t remember the last time we ate together.
I dump kibble in two bowls for the guys, then sit down with my plate of beefy noodles, and the three of us start inhaling supper. I look through the mail as I eat.
Two envelopes are addressed to The Parents of Ben Duffy. “My name is on them,” I assure Atticus, who has stopped eating to watch me, his ears flattened in disapproval. “It’s okay.”
The first letter is from the assistant vice principal at my school. Atticus and Conor are nudging my thigh, so I read the letter to them. “ ‘Ben’s attendance record is less than optimal.’ That means I miss a lot of school because my hockey team has been red-hot this season and we’ve been invited to a bunch of tourneys and skills seminars,” I explain. Atticus groans and lies down, and Conor scratches an itch behind his ear and falls over again. “ ‘Furthermore, he seems to be coasting in his classes, failing to live up to his full potential.’ That’s because I give everything I’ve got to the game. Duh.”
Atticus sighs and rests his chin on my gear bag. He understands my priorities. Conor chews the bag’s shoulder strap. He has yet to perfect supportive gestures the way Atticus has.
“Good thing I intercepted this note,” I tell them. “It’s the kind of thing that would worry Mom and Dad, and they have enough going on these days without school causing trouble. I know what I’m doing.” Atticus tilts his head, doubtful. Conor snatches the letter from my hand. “That’s what I think: out of sight, out of mind. Thanks, dude.”
I open the second envelope. This letter is a lot more interesting, and I jump up and start pacing as I read because I’m so psyched. The guys follow me back and forth across the kitchen.
“Listen to this: ‘Brookdale Hockey Academy is hosting invitational tryouts for the best and brightest hockey talent. Beginning this fall term, BHA will offer a live-in facility featuring a high-quality classroom education along with daily training for the country’s highest-caliber student athletes. We are pleased to inform you that your son, Ben Duffy, has earned an invitation to apply for admission to our elite program.”
My mind is racing. I’ve heard rumors about a place like this starting up a few hours away. I guess the academy is a go! And they want me! It’s perfect--classes scheduled around practice, living and training with the best players, being coached by brilliant hockey minds. I’ll finally be surrounded by people who get where my head is at and who will encourage my dream of playing pro someday. Not like Mom and Dad, who only nag me about leaving smelly gear in the kitchen and show up late to my games, when they can even make them.
Atticus paws at my leg, and Conor, who studies Atticus like he’s going to be tested later, pounces on my shoe. I stop pacing and grin down at them.
“Best. News. Ever.” Atticus makes a noise that sounds like Noooooo, but that can’t be right: he’s always got my back.
I turn my attention back to the letter. “Tryouts are this weekend! Acceptances are being announced next week. That’s fast. Figures--hockey is the fastest game on earth. I have to call Coach, ask around to see if any of the other guys on the team are trying out, and arrange a ride.”
“A ride where?” Dad comes in from the garage. He’s carrying blueprints and paperwork; he must have bought a new house to flip. The Duffy family is on a winning streak today.
I’m so jazzed, I can’t even find the words; I hand over the letter and wait for him to read the words that will change my life forever.
“Boarding school?” Dad frowns at the letter. “We never talked about you going away to school, much less a hockey academy.” He makes air quotes when he says “academy,” as if he doubts it’s a real school. “Mom and I will have to talk this over, Ben. It’s a big decision. Very expensive, too.”
“It’s not a decision, it’s destiny. You know how hard I’ve been working and how I’ve . . . sacrificed.” I wait and let that sink in; last summer Dad had to go back on his promise to let me go to hockey camp because of the new business. It was a heartbreaker, but I joined a summer league in town and learned a lot, really upped my game. The disappointment about camp helped me develop new skills, and I’ve been working my butt off ever since. “Playing hockey is all I’ve dreamed of and worked for since I was five and got my first skates. Hockey’s not just a game to me, Dad. It’s what I love more than anything else in the world. And this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“You said that about camp last summer. And the travel team last fall.”
“Oh, uh, well, when you’re a true-blue player like me, whose entire future revolves around hockey, you’re bound to have more opportunities of a lifetime than average people.” It’s so hard to explain stuff like this to regular folks.
Before Dad can sit down and get caught up in the new house, I give it my best shot.
“I wish you knew what it feels like to be flying over the ice, working the puck, blowing past an opponent who looks like he’s in slow motion, spotting the net, and then flipping your stick just right and sending the puck spinning past the goalie.” I’m practically hyperventilating.
Dad’s trying to listen, but he’s sneaking glances at the blueprints on the table. This isn’t the first time he’s zoned out on me, thinking about boring stuff like money and bills, when I’ve been trying to tell him something important about the game. Mom does it, too.
I take a deep breath. Find the perfect words. “Hockey is the only thing I care about. It’s all I think of. Hockey is my whole life--it’s my future. I hope you keep that in mind when you talk to Mom.”
I know enough to leave the room before I say something I’ll regret. Like “Don’t be a hypocrite, Dad--you’re always talking about believing in yourself and how everything will work out if you just work hard enough.” It may be the truth, but it’ll torpedo my chances.
Besides, there’s no way Mom and Dad won’t let me go.
No. Way.

Atticus and Conor

Atticus: I don’t want my boy to go away. He’s too young, and I like my people bunched together so I can keep an eye on them. No one ever gets in trouble when I’m around, but when they go off in separate directions or try to keep secrets from me, things get weird. They don’t seem to realize that; that’s why I always try to keep my people close by.
As long as I can remember, it’s been the boss and the real boss who smells like flowers and my boy and me. And now this falling-over puppy. My people need to spend more time together. Everyone is always coming and going and missing each other. My boy talks to me about everything, and he tries to explain things to the puppy, but he still needs to talk to the bosses. And they should listen better. Like I do.
They need to spend more time at home. I’m tired of taking care of this puppy. They wanted him, not me. The boss could stop messing the place up, too; it’s always loud and dirty, and everything smells wrong.

Conor: I LOVE THE SHINY FLOOR! IT MAKES ME FLY!


2

The Decision
Dad drags me out of bed at five in the morning--his favorite time of the day to bring me up to speed on family disasters. He bounds down to the kitchen and as soon as I’ve staggered to the table, tells me that after careful consideration last night, he and Mom have decided not to let me try out for the new academy.
I brace myself against the counter and watch Dad pet Atticus, who glances at me and looks away quickly, horrified by the bomb Dad just dropped.
I struggle to control my quavering voice. “You can’t do that to me.”
“Sure I can; I’m your father and I have your best interests at heart.”
“How long are you going to play that lame ‘I’m the dad’ card?”
“Can’t see an end to it. Works like a charm.”
“But you’re wrong! You just don’t get it. I’m fourteen, and these are crucial years for me. Every minute at the rink makes a difference. Don’t you understand the importance of training with players and coaches who’ll push me to be better every time I take the ice?”
I’m sweating and my hands are shaking, but Dad’s sitting at the kitchen table calmly scratching the itch Atticus can’t reach behind his right ear--arthritis in his hips has stiffened his back legs. Is Dad even listening to me or is he just waiting for me to stop talking? I press on.
“Any serious coach will tell you that turning down this kind of experience will trash the rest of my career and hold me back from any real momentum. Do you want to sentence me to a life of hockey mediocrity? Worst-case scenario? My game falls apart, my spirit is broken, and I walk away from the sport and . . . and . . . and I’m a bum living under an overpass!”
Dad tilts his head. “I think you’re exaggerating.”
“Barely.”
“You’ve missed a ton of school this year for travel tournaments and clinics and camps and-- Oh, hey, do you know anything about the letter Mom and I found under the kitchen table from the vice principal?”
I shrug. Dad raises an eyebrow. I should have known Conor wouldn’t destroy the evidence. He’s just a puppy, still learning; Atticus would have made sure there wasn’t a scrap left.
“A good education,” Dad is lecturing me now, “has to be your first priority, not shots on goal. Mom and I want you to explore opportunities, broaden your interests, attend a school with girls so you can go on dates, make friends who still have all their teeth.
“That’s why I woke you up so early. Since you’re going to be focusing less on skating from now on, you should go on your class field trip after all. It won’t kill you to miss a few days of practice. Sure, the rest of the class left yesterday, but I’ll drive you myself; we’ll catch up to them in no time. We hit the road in a few minutes.”
“What?” First he takes away my dream and then he makes me go on a nerdy field trip?
“It’s going to be another amazing Dad and Ben On the Road Adventure.”
I slump against the counter. What is it with Dad’s new habit of springing catastrophic news at dawn and immediately dragging me on the road? He did it last summer when he ripped away hockey camp because he quit his job and started flipping houses. Then he whisked me away on a road trip. The good part was that we saved Conor, a rescue puppy in need of a home. And we met some great people. And had fun.