AlsobyGaryPaulsenAlida’sSong•TheAmazing

LifeofBirds•TheBeetFields•TheBoyWhoOwnedtheSchool•TheBrianBooks:TheRiver,Brian’sWinter,Brian’sReturn,andBrian’sHunt•Canyons•CaughtbytheSea:MyLifeonBoats•TheCookcamp•TheCrossing•Crush•DangeronMidnightRiver•Dogsong•FamilyTies•FatherWater,MotherWoods•FlatBroke•

TheGlassCafé•Guts:TheTrue

StoriesBehindHatchetandtheBrianBooks•HarrisandMe•Hatchet•TheHaymeadow•HowAngelPetersonGotHisName•TheIsland•LawnBoy•LawnBoyReturns•The

LegendofBassReeves•Liar,Liar•MastersofDisaster•MollyMcGintyHasaReallyGoodDay•TheMonument•Mudshark•MyLifeinDogYears•Nightjohn•TheNighttheWhiteDeerDied•PaintingsfromtheCave•Puppies,Dogs,andBlueNorthers•TheQuilt•TheRifle•RoadTrip(withJim

Paulsen)•Sarny:ALifeRemembered•TheSchernoffDiscoveries•Soldier’sHeart•

TheTimeHackers•TheTransallSaga•Tucket’sTravels(TheTucket’sWest

series,BooksOnethroughFive)•Vote•TheVoyageoftheFrog•TheWhiteFoxChronicles•TheWinterRoom•Woods

Runner

Picturebooks,illustratedbyRuthWrightPaulsenCanoeDaysandDogteam

Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.

Textcopyright©2015byJamesPaulsenandGaryPaulsenJacketphotographscopyright©2015byEric

Isselee/Shutterstock

Allrightsreserved.PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyWendyLambBooks,animprintofRandomHouseChildren’sBooks,adivisionofPenguinRandomHouseLLC,NewYork.

WendyLambBooksandthecolophonaretrademarksofPenguinRandomHouseLLC.

VisitusontheWeb!randomhousekids.com

Educatorsandlibrarians,foravarietyofteachingtools,visitusatRHTeachersLibrarians.com

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataPaulsen,Gary.Fieldtrip/GaryPaulsenandJimPaulsen.—Firstedition.

pagescmSequelto:Roadtrip.

ISBN978-0-553-49674-1(hardback)—ISBN978-0-553-49675-8(lib.bdg.)—ISBN978-0-553-49676-5(ebook)[1.

Fathersandsons—Fiction.2.Automobiletravel—fiction.3.Bordercollie—Fiction.4.Dogs—Fiction.5.Brothersandsisters—Fiction.6.Twins—Fiction.7.Hockey—Fiction.8.Schoolfieldtrips—Fiction.]I.Paulsen,Jim.II.Title.PZ7.P2843Fie2015[Fic]—dc23

2014037288

eBookISBN 9780553496765eBookdesignbasedonprintedbookdesignbyVikkiSheatsley

RandomHouseChildren’sBookssupportstheFirstAmendmentandcelebratestherighttoread.

v4.1

ep

ContentsCoverAlsobyGaryPaulsenTitlePageCopyrightDedication

Chapter1:TheLettersChapter2:TheDecision

Chapter3:TheUltimateFlipandtheStowaway

Chapter4:TheTwinsChapter5:TheTwoPointsofView

Chapter6:ThePlotandtheFirstDiversion

Chapter7:TheMajorMotionPictureandtheSecondDistraction

Chapter8:TheMomentofTruth…and

ConsequencesChapter9:TheMake-UpFieldTrip

Chapter10:TheRescueChapter11:TheOtherRescue

Chapter12:TheTimeAfter

AbouttheAuthors

ThisbookisdedicatedtoJonathan,Lori,Rebecca,and

Jaredandtothegoodpeopleat

DogPatch,APlacetoBark,

andYoungatHeart,whoworktirelessly

tofindgoodhomesfordogsinneed.

Woof.

TheLetters

I stagger in the back doorafter hockey, wrecked.

Thursdays are brutal:strength and conditioningtrainingforninetyminutesbefore school; then, afterthe last bell rings, back totherinkforafewhoursonthe ice. After twenty yearsof hard work (well, I’mfourteen, but ice time iswaylongerthanrealtime),I finally made the besthockeyteamintown.

WhenIgethome,allI

wanttodoiseatandgotobed. A guy needs somepeaceandquiet.Butpeaceandquietareprettyrareatourhousethesedays.

Last summer Dadsuddenly quit his job as acorporate pencil pusherand started a businessflipping houses. No, he’snotagiant;flippingmeanshe buys crummy places,fixes them up, and sells

them. He’s pretty good atwhat he does, I have toadmit that; he’s boughtdumps that looked to melike nothing but rottingdrywall and turned themintoshowhouses.

But there’s always theawfulwaitforthehousetosell. And when Dad bugsout about things that arebeyondhiscontrol,heripsapart something in our

house.For the past ten

months, we’ve been livingin a construction zone.When Dad’s not at work,which ismost of the time,he’s home tearing downwallsandpullingupfloors.

Initially, I was reallyintoDad’scompany,DuffyandSon, and Iworked forhimlastsummer.ButonceI made the travel hockey

team,Ididn’thavetimeforthat.AndIcan’t standnothaving runningwater, andbeing able to see throughthe floor of my bedroombecauseDadyankeduptheboards. He andMom lovethe constant remodeling—he thrives on thechallenges, she enjoys thenewstuff—butIhateit.

Todayit’squietwhenIgethome.JustAtticusand

Conor waiting for me. It’sbeenthiswayformonths—me and the guys.Sometimes I think they’retheonlyoneswhonoticeifI come home, and they’rethe main reasons I comehomeatall.

Atticus sneezes as Iwalk into the kitchen; thedrywall dust bothers hisnose.He’sourfifteen-year-old border collie, and the

construction makes himextracranky.

Conor, the rescuepuppy we adopted lastsummer, caroms aroundthecornerintothekitchen,slidingintothewallwithathump. His paws scrabbleonthenewhardwoodfloor—hehasn’tgottenthehangof the slickwood yet—andhebatshisstuffedlambmyway,tothrowit forhimto

chase, but I kick it so thetoy skids tohim,pucklike.He pounces on it—goaldenied! I have visions ofputting together theworld’s first-ever caninehockey team. I am allhockey,allthetime.

“Awesome defense,buddy.” I try to get Conortohigh-fiveme,buthetipsover when he lifts a paw.He might be a little too

clumsy for hockey. Atticusjust watches the toy slidepasthimandthenlooksatme sadly. He’ll catchFrisbees and balls, buthockey isn’t his thing.Weirdthatwe’rerelated.

Atticus whines andstares at the slow cookeronthecounter.

“Beef stroganofftoday,” I tellhim.Hisearsprickup.I’vebeencooking

for myself all year, and aslow cooker is a hungryguy’s best friend. I had tostart making my ownmeals after Mom took onthe finances at Duffy andSon; she still works full-time at her old job, butnow she takes care of ourbooks in the eveningsandonweekends.I lookedupabunchofeasyrecipesand started fending for

myself. I don’t knowwhatMom and Dad do aboutmeals; I can’t rememberthe last time weatetogether.

I dump kibble in twobowlsfortheguys,thensitdown with my plate ofbeefy noodles, and thethree of us start inhalingsupper. I look through themailasIeat.

Two envelopes are

addressed to The ParentsofBenDuffy. “Mynameisonthem,”IassureAtticus,who has stopped eating towatch me, his earsflattened in disapproval.“It’sokay.”

Thefirst letter is fromtheassistantviceprincipalat my school. Atticus andConor are nudging mythigh,soIreadthelettertothem. “ ‘Ben’s attendance

record is less thanoptimal.’ That means Imissalotofschoolbecausemy hockey team has beenred-hot this season andwe’ve been invited to abunch of tourneys andskills seminars,” I explain.Atticus groans and liesdown,andConorscratchesan itchbehindhis ear andfalls over again.“ ‘Furthermore, he seems

to be coasting in hisclasses,failingtoliveuptohis full potential.’ That’sbecause I give everythingI’vegottothegame.Duh.”

Atticussighsandrestshis chin on my gear bag.He understands mypriorities.Conorchewsthebag’s shoulder strap. Hehas yet to perfectsupportive gestures thewayAtticushas.

“Good thing Iinterceptedthisnote,”Itellthem. “It’s the kind ofthing that would worryMom and Dad, and theyhave enough going onthese days without schoolcausing trouble. I knowwhat I’m doing.” Atticustilts his head, doubtful.Conor snatches the letterfrom my hand. “That’swhat I think: out of sight,

out of mind. Thanks,dude.”

I open the secondenvelope.Thisletterisalotmore interesting, and Ijump up and start pacingas I read because I’m sopsyched. The guys followme back and forth acrossthekitchen.

“Listen to this:‘Brookdale HockeyAcademy is hosting

invitational tryouts for thebest and brightest hockeytalent. Beginning this fallterm,BHAwillofferalive-infacilityfeaturingahigh-quality classroomeducation alongwith dailytraining for the country’shighest-caliber studentathletes.Wearepleasedtoinform you that your son,Ben Duffy, has earned aninvitation to apply for

admission to our eliteprogram.”

Mymindisracing.I’veheardrumorsaboutaplacelike this starting up a fewhours away. I guess theacademy is a go!And theywant me! It’s perfect—classes scheduled aroundpractice, living andtraining with the bestplayers, being coached bybrilliant hockeyminds. I’ll

finally be surrounded bypeople who get where myhead is at and who willencourage my dream ofplaying pro someday. Notlike Mom and Dad, whoonlynagme about leavingsmelly gear in the kitchenand show up late to mygames,whentheycanevenmakethem.

Atticuspawsatmyleg,and Conor, who studies

Atticuslikehe’sgoingtobetestedlater,pouncesonmyshoe. I stop pacing andgrindownatthem.

“Best. News. Ever.”Atticusmakes anoise thatsounds like Noooooo, butthat can’t be right: he’salwaysgotmyback.

I turn my attentionbacktotheletter.“Tryoutsare this weekend!Acceptances are being

announced next week.That’s fast. Figures—hockey is the fastest gameon earth. I have to callCoach,askaroundtoseeifany of the other guys onthe team are trying out,andarrangearide.”

“A ride where?” Dadcomes in from the garage.He’s carrying blueprintsand paperwork; he musthave bought a new house

to flip.TheDuffy family isonawinningstreaktoday.

I’m so jazzed, I can’tevenfindthewords;Ihandovertheletterandwaitforhimtoreadthewordsthatwillchangemylifeforever.

“Boarding school?”Dad frowns at the letter.“We never talked aboutyou going away to school,much less a hockeyacademy.” He makes air

quotes when he says“academy,”as ifhedoubtsit’s a real school. “MomandIwillhave to talk thisover, Ben. It’s a bigdecision. Very expensive,too.”

“It’snotadecision,it’sdestiny. You know howhardI’vebeenworkingandhow I’ve…sacrificed.” Iwait and let that sink in;lastsummerDadhadtogo

back on his promise to letme go to hockey campbecause of the newbusiness. It was aheartbreaker,butIjoinedasummer league in townand learned a lot, reallyupped my game. Thedisappointment aboutcamp helped me developnew skills, and I’ve beenworking my butt off eversince.“Playinghockeyisall

I’ve dreamed of andworkedforsinceIwasfiveand got my first skates.Hockey’snotjustagametome, Dad. It’s what I lovemorethananythingelseinthe world. And this is theopportunityofalifetime.”

“You said that aboutcamp last summer. Andthetravelteamlastfall.”

“Oh, uh, well, whenyou’re a true-blue player

like me, whose entirefuture revolves aroundhockey, you’re bound tohavemoreopportunitiesofa lifetime than averagepeople.” It’s so hard toexplain stuff like this toregularfolks.

Before Dad can sitdownandgetcaughtupinthenewhouse,Igiveitmybestshot.

“Iwishyouknewwhat

itfeelsliketobeflyingoverthe ice, working the puck,blowing past an opponentwholooks likehe’s inslowmotion, spotting the net,and then flipping yourstickjustrightandsendingthepuckspinningpast thegoalie.” I’m practicallyhyperventilating.

Dad’s trying to listen,but he’s sneaking glancesat the blueprints on the

table. This isn’t the firsttimehe’szonedoutonme,thinkingaboutboringstufflikemoneyandbills,whenI’vebeentryingtotellhimsomething importantaboutthegame.Momdoesit,too.

I take a deep breath.Find the perfect words.“HockeyistheonlythingIcare about. It’s all I thinkof.Hockeyismywholelife

—it’smyfuture.Ihopeyoukeep that in mind whenyoutalktoMom.”

I know enough toleavetheroombeforeIsaysomething I’ll regret. Like“Don’tbeahypocrite,Dad—you’re always talkingaboutbelieving in yourselfand how everything willwork out if you just workhard enough.” It may bethe truth, but it’ll torpedo

mychances.Besides, there’s no

way Mom and Dad won’tletmego.

No.Way.

Atticus: I don’t wantmy boy to go away.He’s tooyoung,and Ilike my peoplebunchedtogethersoIcan keep an eye onthem. No one evergets in trouble whenI’m around, but when

they go off inseparate directionsortrytokeepsecretsfrom me, things getweird. They don’tseem to realize that;that’s why I alwaystrytokeepmypeoplecloseby.

As long as I canremember, it’s beenthe boss and the realboss who smells like

flowers and my boyandme. And now thisfalling-overpuppy.Mypeople need to spendmore time together.Everyone is alwayscoming and going andmissing each other.My boy talks to meabout everything, andhe tries to explainthings to the puppy,but he still needs to

talk to the bosses.Andtheyshouldlistenbetter.LikeIdo.

They need tospend more time athome. I’m tired oftaking care of thispuppy. They wantedhim,notme.Thebosscould stop messingtheplaceup, too; it’salways loudanddirty,andeverythingsmells

wrong.

Conor: I LOVE THESHINY FLOOR! ITMAKESMEFLY!

TheDecision

Daddragsmeoutofbedatfive in the morning—his

favorite time of the day tobring me up to speed onfamily disasters. Hebounds down to thekitchenandassoonasI’vestaggeredtothetable,tellsme that after carefulconsiderationlastnight,heandMomhavedecidednotto let me try out for thenewacademy.

I bracemyself againstthecounterandwatchDad

petAtticus,whoglancesatmeandlooksawayquickly,horrifiedbythebombDadjustdropped.

I struggle to controlmy quavering voice. “Youcan’tdothattome.”

“Sure I can; I’m yourfatherandIhaveyourbestinterestsatheart.”

“How long are yougoingtoplaythatlame‘I’m

thedad’card?”“Can’tseeanendtoit.

Workslikeacharm.”“But you’re wrong!

You just don’t get it. I’mfourteen, and these arecrucialyears forme.Everyminuteattherinkmakesadifference. Don’t youunderstandtheimportanceof training with playersand coaches who’ll pushme tobebetterevery time

Itaketheice?”I’m sweating and my

hands are shaking, butDad’ssittingatthekitchentablecalmlyscratchingtheitch Atticus can’t reachbehind his right ear—arthritis in his hips hasstiffened his back legs. IsDadevenlisteningtomeorishejustwaitingformetostoptalking?Ipresson.

“Any serious coach

will tell you that turningdown this kind ofexperience will trash therestofmycareerandholdme back from any realmomentum. Do youwantto sentenceme to a life ofhockeymediocrity?Worst-case scenario? My gamefalls apart, my spirit isbroken, and I walk awayfrom the sport and…and…andI’mabumlivingunder

anoverpass!”Dad tilts his head. “I

thinkyou’reexaggerating.”“Barely.”“You’ve missed a ton

of school this year fortravel tournaments andclinics and camps and—Oh, hey, do you knowanything about the letterMom and I found underthe kitchen table from the

viceprincipal?”Ishrug.Dadraisesan

eyebrow. I should haveknown Conor wouldn’tdestroy the evidence. He’sjustapuppy,stilllearning;Atticus would have madesure there wasn’t a scrapleft.

“A good education,”Dad is lecturing me now,“has to be your firstpriority,notshotsongoal.

Mom and I want you toexplore opportunities,broaden your interests,attend a school with girlsso you can go on dates,makefriendswhostillhavealltheirteeth.

“That’s why I wokeyou up so early. Sinceyou’regoingtobefocusingless on skating from nowon, you should go on yourclass field trip after all. It

won’tkillyoutomissafewdays of practice. Sure, therest of the class leftyesterday,butI’lldriveyoumyself; we’ll catch up tothem in no time. We hittheroadinafewminutes.”

“What?”Firsthetakesaway my dream and thenhemakesmegoonanerdyfieldtrip?

“It’s going to beanother amazing Dad and

Ben On the RoadAdventure.”

I slump against thecounter. What is it withDad’s new habit ofspringing catastrophicnews at dawn andimmediately dragging meontheroad?Hedid it lastsummer when he rippedawayhockeycampbecausehequithis jobandstartedflipping houses. Then he

whiskedmeawayonaroadtrip. The good part wasthat we saved Conor, arescue puppy in need of ahome. And we met somegreatpeople.Andhadfun.

“ARFARFARFARFARF!”Conor chases his stuffedlambacrossthefloor.He’sthebestthingtohappentothis family in a long time,and I have to confess thatour trip to get him didn’t

startouttoowell,either.“Are we at least

rescuinganotherpuppyontheway?”Iask.

“You never know.”Dad tries to soundmysterious, but I can tellhe hadn’t thought about apuppyuntilImentionedit.He turns away and startsscrolling on his phone,searching for a puppybribe.

Conor was promisedtome last summer,buthetookone lookatMomandfell in love. He’s all hers.And Atticus has alwaysbelonged to Dad. Atticusand Conor like me justfine, but I get the feelingthey think I’m a usefulservant, not the reasontheygetupinthemorning.Ineedabordercollieofmyown. I deserve one who

lovesmebest.A new puppy isn’t

going to make me forgetabout going to theacademy, and I cringe atthe idea of catching upwith the field trip.But it’lltake a while to reach theclass snoozefest. Anythingcan happen between thenandnow.

The thought of a newpuppy is enough to liftmy

crummymoodalittle.I catch Atticus’s eye;

helooksatDadandthenatConor before turning backtomeandwagginghis tailtoremindmewhatagreattime we had on the lasttrip.

As usual, he has apoint.

Atticus:Thebosshasa good plan. Roadtrips are fun, and theboss and my boy willbe together in thetruck, talking, andthen everything willwork out in the end.Likeitalwaysdoes.

Theboss also hasa bad plan. Anotherpuppy. I can barelystand this one—he’snot coming aroundlike I thought hewould.

My boy and theboss and the realboss, the one whosmells like flowers,like this puppy. AtfirstI thoughthehad

potential. But he’smaking us look bad,with all his barkingand rolling around.It’s loud. Undignified.He tripsoverhis ownpaws. I pretend Idon’t notice and lookaway.

Imightbe toooldto raise two puppies.Puppies are a lot ofwork.

But anything canhappenoncethebossgets on the road; hecouldforgetaboutthepuppy.Hedoesforgetthings.

Conor:A PUPPY! I’vealways wanted apuppy! Puppies areeasy,not likeAtticus,whoiscrabbyandjust

likes to sleep in thesun. I’M GOING TOGETAPUPPY!

TheUltimateFlipandtheStowaway

As I’m grabbing someclothes for the trip, I dosome deep breathingexercises Iusewhengamepressure is on. I regroup:how to swing things backin my favor? It’s thirdperiod, Duffy; the score’stiedone-all.You’vegotonelast chance to take controlofthegame.

Lesshockey?We’llseeabout that. I’ll figure out

how to show Dad howbadly I want this andconvincehimwhat a greatdealtheacademyis.

Wait!That’swhat thisis all about. Dad’s justtesting me—he’s makingme earn the academy. Hewants to make sure I’vethought this through. If Iprove myself on the roadandIdon’tmoanandI’mateamplayeraboutthefield

trip, he’ll be so impressedhe’ll let me try out. Yeah!Dad’snottheonlyonewhothinkseverythingwillworkoutintheend.

Mybrainisstartingtowhir.AlwayshaveaPlanB—Dad taughtme that. I’mfeeling better already.Gordie Howe would neverlet a setback like this getthe best of him; neitherwillI.

I shove my dog-earedWayne Gretzkyautobiography and myteam playbook into mybag. Out of habit, I grabmy hockey bag, too. Feelsweird to go anywherewithoutit.

I head back to thekitchen with a bounce inmy step. I’ll get somestudyingdoneinthetruck,a visual aid to impress

Dad.“Oh, uh, Ben,” Dad

says in a voice I’ve onlyheard once before: whenhe toldmehe’d bought usa crack house in a reallydiceyareatofixup.Itrytocatch his eye. He’s notlooking at me. “I havesome,uh,news.”

“More?”Ibracemyselffor the second time thismorning.

“It’s good—don’t lookso worried. It’s great,actually.Itmaywellbethebest thing that everhappenedtothisfamily!”

Wow. This is bad.Reallybad.

“I sold anotherhouse.OneIwasn’teventryingtosell: I’m that good!Ha haha.”

AtDad’s fake laugh, I

closemyeyes.Thiswillbegenuinelyhideous.

“Isoldourhouse!”“You what?” If I

weren’t gripping thecountertop,I’dkeelover.

“Iwas as surprised asyouare.”

“Oh. You accidentallysold our house. Sure,happens all the time. Youread about it in the

newspaper, see stories onthenews.”Irollmyeyes.

Atticus and Conorslink to the kitchen doorandstandwith theirbackstous,probablyhopingoneor the other will suddenlysprout hands so they canwork the doorknob andescape.

“Iknow.Crazy,right?”Dad’s sticking withcheerful. “I sank a ton of

money into that old placeon Calhoun and Harriet.More than I expected. Ineededmoneyfast tokeeptheprojectontrack.”

“So you sold ourfamily home. Right outfrom underneath us.Without consulting us.” Ijustwanttobeclear.

“Yeah!” Dad nods,gladthatIgetit.“ThegoodnewsisthatIturnedsucha

profit it would have beencriminaltolettheoffergo.Thebuyercametome,likethe universe was helpingmetakethebusinesstothenext level.Plus,now I cangettheCalhounplaceuptocode and make it amasterpiece. The profitwe’re going to see on thatplace,Ben…”

“What about us?Where are we going to

live? When do we move?What did Mom say? Doessheevenknow?”

“Of course sheknows.”

“And…?”“She’s going to

hammer out some detailswhile we’re gone.” Dadnodshappily.

“Details. You meanlikepacking everythingwe

own and, oh, finding us anewplacetolive?”

“Yup! I’m not goodwith the particulars. I’m abig-pictureguy.”Dad’sfootis tapping under his chairand he’s drumming hisfingers on the tabletop,antsytogetgoingnowthathe’s dumped the news.“Shewasuphalf thenightlooking for the new CasaDuffyonline.”

Traitor. I glare at theceiling and Mom stillasleep upstairs. “She usedtoworryaboutthewayyourunthebusiness,”Iremindhim.

“That was before shestarted doing thebookkeeping. Now she’sbehind me a hundredpercent!”

Atticus barks at me.Sounds like “Go.” Conor’s

still staring at the backdoor,willingittoopen.

Atleastsomeofusareexcitedtohittheroad.

I shuffle out to thepickup, two border collieshot on my heels. Atticusand Conor go everywherewith us—if we try toescape, they aren’t abovetrippingustoremindustobring them along. I feelbad for sheep when I see

how ruthlessly bordercolliesherdtheirpeople.

“Notthepickup,Ben,”Dad calls as he locks theback door. “We’re takingthecompanycar.”

No.Freaking.Way.The company car…

Dadtoldushewasgoingtobuy a van for next tonothing at a sheriff’sauction. Mom and I

thought that made sense.But thenhebroughthomeanoldicecreamvanwithaginormous chippedfiberglass swirl conecemented to the roof. Itused to be pink-and-whitestripes but has turned adeadly gray. Dad’s crazyabout the cone and all thespace on the inside. Hesaid no one else saw thefun of driving around

underneath an oversizedplastic ice cream cone. Iamoneofthosepeople.

So I throw my duffelin the back of the van ashard as I can because notonly do I have to provemyself and make him letme go to hockey school,but now I have to do itunderneath the DeathCone.

“Umph.” A pile of

tarps on one of the seatsgroans and moves as mygear lands. I jump back.Atticus growls and slidesbetween the van and me;Conor yelps and runs incircles around me—hehasn’t figured out theappropriate response topossibledanger.

“Oh, hey, Brig,” Dadsays, glancing past me atthe sleepy-faced guy

crawlingoutofthevan.Hecould be anywhere fromseventeen to, um, twenty-four?“Didwewakeyou?”

Atticus and Conorbarkandjumpontheguy,greeting him like an oldfriend.He’sgotshaggyhairandiswearingbaggyworkpantsandhikingbootsanda ratty tee that readsDUFFY AND SON. We havecompany shirts now? He’s

super skinny but strong;even both guys throwingthemselves at him doesn’ttakehimoffhisfeet.

“Yeah, thanks. Not abad wake-up call. Myalarmclockistooloudandalwaysmakes the cone ontheroofvibrate.”Brigrubshis eyes, stretches, andyawns. “Hey, buddy,” hesays to Atticus and Conorastheyscrambletogethim

to pet them. Even Atticusis all overhim.Shockinglyoutofcharacter.

“Some info would benice,”IsaytoDad.Arewegoing to be fighting forsleeping space in ourvehicles now that we havenohome?

“ThisisBrig.”“Uh-huh…?”“Myapprentice.”

“Really.” I hopesarcasm is a sustainablenatural resource, becauseI’d hate to run out. I cansee that bitter derision isgoing to be my defaultresponsetoeverythingDadsharesfromnowon.

“Apprentice, assistant,paid intern, associate,craftsman, what have you.Duffy and Son is an up-and-coming business with

multiple employees.” Dadbeams.

“Hey, nice to meetyou.”Brigstopspettingmyborder collies long enoughto shake my hand. “Mr.Duffy told me all aboutyou. I’m BrighamHancock.”

“Good to meet you,Brig. Do you always sleepinDad’svan?”

“Ever since I startedworkingforhim.”

“Why?”“SothatI’mneverlate

for work. I love my job,and I’d hate to disappointMr. Duffy. I’m on call forhimtwenty-four/seven.”

“Did you know this,Dad?” He’s looking at amap.Why, Ihaveno idea;it’snotlikeheusesthem.I

don’t even know why heowns any. It’s like a killerwhale buying balletslippers—they’rejustnevergoingtocomeinhandy.

“I know Brig lovesworking for me. I didn’tknow he was sleeping inthevan.”

Geez. This day is soweird.

“You don’t usually

needthevansoearly,”Brigsays.

“Gettingmyboytohisclass field trip, taking hismindoffabadidea,maybegetting a puppy. Whoknows?Thedayisyoung.”

“Your dad is teachingme the business. And howtomultitask.”BriggazesatDadwithadmiration.

“Yeah, Dad’s super

good at doing more thanone thing at a time.” Lookathowheleftmehomelessand destroyed my career.Is it really less than anhour since I was asleep,witha fixedaddress andagreatfutureaheadofme?

Atticus growls atConor, and Conor falls offtheseatinthevan.

“Well, let’s go,” Brigsays. “The guys are

restless.” He climbs backintothevanandshovesthepileofjunkhewassleepingon off the seat, urgingConor away from Atticusand showing Atticus thathis space is his again.Atticus is territorial andlikes to sit next to theslidingwindowwherekidsused to buy Bomb PopsandFudgsiclesandDreamBars. Dad added

removable seats and acouple of shelves andceiling hooks for his toolsand gear, but he left theorder window and thefreezer and all the otherequipment in place. Iwouldn’tbesurprisedifhestarts selling frozen treatsjust because he can. He’dthinkitwasawesome.

Brig and the bordercollies look expectantly at

Dadandme:Go!“Brig’scoming,too?”I

ask Dad as we climb intothefrontseats.

Dad turns the key intheignition.“We’rekindoftaking his bedroom withus, and if I’m not around,there’s no work, so whynot? Look how much funwe had last year when wetook on passengers. It’s agood thing we ignore that

rule about not picking upstrangers.”Henods,proudofourfamily’seagernesstofloutthebasicstandardsofsafety.

“Mr. Duffy picked meup when I washitchhiking,”Brigtellsme.“Convincedme not to runaway, said I should stickaround, work for him,makesomethingofmylife.ButI’msureyouknowthe

wholestory.”I didn’t know you

existed until ten minutesago,Ithink,butInod.

“He’s like the dad Ineverhad.”Brigsmiles.

Hunh. Well, I’m sureyou’relikethesonheneverhad, too, if you loveworking for him so muchyou sleep in the van.“That’s…nice,”Ifinallysay.

TheDuffysbelongtoanational rescue group thatfosters border collies; didDad join one for runawayteens, too?He has a thingforstrays.

“Brig coming along isa good omen, Ben. Can’tyoufeelit?”Dadasks.

I feel resentment,anxiety, and the hot,slobbery breath of Conoronthebackofmyneck.

When Dad, Atticus,and I set out to rescueConor last summer, itwasjust the three of us, and Iwas super ticked-off athim.Butonthewaytotheshelterwepickedupateenhoodlum, a crankymechanic, and a runawaywaitress. By the time wegot home, we’d become aweird little road family,andDadandIweregetting

along great. I can tell bythe way Dad’s smiling atBrig and the dogs in therearview mirror that hethinks the same thing isgoing tohappen this time.I guess he’s never heardthat lightning doesn’tstrike twice in the sameplace. I almost feel a littlebadforhim.

“Well, it’s not like wedon’t have room for more

people.”Isigh.Dadslapshisthigh.“I

almost forgot!We have tomakeaquickstopandpickupthetwins.”

Of course we do. Weneedasetoftwins.

Allrightythen.

Atticus:I’malwaysonthe boss’s side. Eventhoughhechangeshismind too fastand toomany times, he’susuallyright.

But he may havegonetoofarthistime.Our new home might

have a lot of stairsthatwill hurtmy hipswhen I climb them,and small windows sothere aren’t nicepatchesofsunonthefloor where I cansleep.

We should staywhere we are. Wecouldsendthispuppyto a new place andkeep the boy who

works for the boss.He’s coming alongnicely,settlinginwiththe family. My boydidn’tnoticehimuntiltoday, so he’ll needsometimetoadjust.

And we’re gettingmorenewpeoplenow.That’sgood.Thebossand the boy neverfight in front ofpeople. They try

harder to get alongwhen they’re notalone.Weshouldhavehad company lastnight when the bossand the real bosswere talking.Well, hetalked and she satthere quiet and thenwent for a walk. Notthe good kind, whereshe takes us. Thestompy kind without

us.

Conor: I’M GOINGBUH-BYE IN THEVAN!!!!

TheTwins

“So, Dad, care to sharedeetsonthetwinthing?”I

hope he’s noticing howawesome I’m being: calm,easygoing,curious,opentonew people andexperiences. The perfectson to send to BrookdaleHockeyAcademy.

“Jacob and CharlotteNorton. Great kids. Butyou know that. They’re inyourclass.”

They are?MaybeDadis right about hockey

taking over my brain,because I can’t connectthesenameswith faces. Inmy defense, at school Ifocus on getting myhomework done ahead oftime so I don’t have ithanging over my headwhen I hit the ice.Distraction is not good forelite players. Neither isfatigue, so I can’t stay uplate hanging out with

friends or doinghomework. I can nameevery player on everyStanleyCup–winningteamfor the past forty years,and I know every hockeyplayer my age and at mylevel in the country whomight be competition or ateammatewhenIturnpro,but I’m not too sure whomost of the kids at schoolare.

“Oh, sure, Jacob andCharlotte Norton,” I bluff.“So why are we pickingthemup?”

“They had to go to afuneral yesterday andcouldn’t leave with yourclass.Icalledtheirdadlastnight about a job and hewasbummedthattheyhadto miss the class trip,seeing as how Charlotte isthe student council

president and Jacob is theclass representative to theparent-teacher associationand they did most of thework to make the triphappen—the museumpasses, chaperones, lessonplans connected to themuseum exhibits…youknow,stufflikethat.”

Oh, right. Jacob andCharlotte. The kind ofSuper-Involved Students

teachers andadministrators wish theycould clone. A vaguepicture comes to mind ofpeople who play in theband;singinthechoir;actintheplays;joinnumerousteams; win state contestsin essay writing, scienceexperiments, and socialstudies projects; hostforeignexchange students;spearhead fund-raisers for

foodpantries;washcarstoraise awareness of airpollution or endangeredspecies or something; andvolunteer at nursinghomes, reading to oldfolks.Them.Snore.

Dadisstilltalking.“…sothat’swhenIknew:Bencan’tpassupthisawesomeexperience because (a) it’sa once-in-a-lifetimechance, and (b) the

payments arenonrefundable. And Jacoband Charlotte shouldn’tmiss it. Ben, it was like acall from the universe—another one, like sellingthehouse.”

This day just keepsgettingbetter:He’shearingcosmic orders. I open thegloveboxand rootaroundforlicoriceorjellybeans.Asugar buzz will help me

cope.“Hey, Ben.” Brig taps

my shoulder. “Can youhand me the box of RedHotsyourdadkeepsonthedash? My breath isfreakingConoroutbecauseI just ate sardines andleftover garlic stir-fry forbreakfast. I tried to share,buthedidn’twantany.”

“Can’thave a freaked-out border collie.” I hand

back the candy and gag atthe stench. I try not tocompare Brig’sconsideration of Conor’scomfort level with Dad’slack of concern about thesecurity and future of hisonly son. I crack thewindowforsomefreshair,tip my head back, andclose my eyes. I shouldlearntomeditate.

Afewminuteslaterwe

pulloverandIseetwokidsstanding in a driveway.They have matchingbackpacks and duffel bagsand are wearing pressedcargo pants, brand-newhikingboots,andmatchingT-shirts with the name ofour school on the front.They’re waving andgrinning, oozingenthusiasm and pep. Isigh. Here come the

twintastics.“Hi, Mr. Duffy.” The

girlclimbsinthebacknextto Brig and the bordercollies. She’s wearingglassesandhasherhairina ponytail. “I got up earlyand made sugar- and fat-free powermuffins for us.Bran buds, organiccranberries, proteinpowder, free-range eggsfrom the chickens I raise.

For moistness, I madeapplesaucefromthetreeinour backyard instead ofusing shortening, which,according to currentresearch,islethal.”

Shehandsamuffin toBrig,whopullsacanoutofhisbag,dipstwofingersin,and smears confettifrosting on the muffin.Charlotteflinches.

“Hi,Charlotte,”Ijump

in. “Thanks for themuffins, very…thoughtfulof you.” I’d kill forsomething deep-fried oroozingwithmeltedcheese,but she looks sodisappointedwithBrighamthat I want to make herfeelbetter.“That’sBrig.Heworks with my dad. He’sgot, um, low blood sugarand will pass out if hedoesn’t eat frosting.” She

seems skeptical, but shesmilesatme.Whoa.Greatsmile. Didn’t expect a girllikehertobesocute.

“I’mBen—”Brigpullsacanoutof

his bag and tips it in hismouth for a whipped-creamchaser.

I shudder andcontinue. “—and theyounger border collie is

ConorandtheotheroneisAtticus.” Both of the guysare staring at her muffinanddrooling.Shebreaksitintwopieces,givinghalftoeach. Atticus gulps hisdown whole, but Conorchews, gacks, and spewschewed-up muffin onCharlotte’s shirt. Before Icanapologize, shewhipsabox of wet wipes and astain stick out of her

backpack and starts de-crumbing and un-goobering her shirt. She’snot mad, though; shelaughs and pets Conor,who tries to help her bylicking the goo off. She’spretty mellow about dogspit.“Ilikeyourtruck,”shetells me. The Death Conebecomes a little cooler inmyeyesifsheapproves.

Jacob settles into the

far backseat. Before I cansay anything to him, Dadsays, “Let’s get started,”and throws the van inreverse. He zooms out ofthe driveway and, once inthe street, makes asickening lurch intoforward gear. Conor, whohasn’t gotten the hang ofdriving with Dad, crashesinto the back of my seat,wagginghistail likethis is

a fun new game. Atticuslooks as dignified as astatue, immune to pettyforceslikemomentumandgravity. Atticus glances atConor to make sure he’sokay before, I swear,rolling his eyes and thenlooking out the window.Atticus spends a lot of histimepretendingtherestofus aren’t embarrassinghim.

Conor crawls betweenthetwofrontseats,pokinghis black-and-white snoutbetweenDad andme, andhowls in excitement. Dadgives a howl of his own,Brigbarksafewtimes,andJacobandCharlottegiveafew shy yips, trying to fitin. Atticus sneezes indisgust.Oh,whattheheck:Ipunchthebuttontomakethe ice cream truck song

playoutofthespeakers.We’re officially under

way.

Atticus: The dry foodblob the girl sharedwas horrible. But thepuppy should haveswallowed it. If youspew food back atpeople, they don’tgive you more.Sometimes they take

you to the vet. Andthey don’t share thenext time they eat.We always gethamburgers on theroad, but the puppymight not get onenow. That’s okay; I’lleatit.

I like bringingmore people with us.The muffin girl andherboysitbehindme,

and the boy whoworks with the bossletsmesitinmyspot.

My boy can’t stoplookingatthegirl.

Conor:WEHAVENEWFRIENDS!!!!! WITHTERRIBLETREATS!!!!

TheTwoPointsofView

“YoumustbeJacob,”Icallto the boy in the back.“Sorry about the puppypuke.”

“No problem.” Hebeams.“Thisisthegreatestday of my life. Everythingthathappensisperfectandexactly the way it’s meanttobe.”

Atticus and I look ateachother.Right.Inapastlife, Jacob was probably

super stoked about thatsnazzy new ship theTitanic.

“Today is the greatestday of his life sinceyesterday,” Charlotteclarifies, and smiles atJacob. I like her more allthetime.

“Yesterday was prettyawesome,” Jacob agrees.“A personal best forlearning new stuff. I went

to Great-Aunt Pansy’sfuneral.Didyouknowthatmorticians insert a tubeinto the abdomen of adeceased body? Afterwhich a pump is attachedso that the contentsof thestomachandintestinescanbe pumped out? This alsoremoves all of the gasesfrom the body andpreventsbloating.”

“Wow,”Isay.He’snot

boringanddweebyatall.“Jacob thinks every

day is the best day of hislife.”Charlottelooksatmeand Brig. “And that noinformationistoogross.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.We’llsee about that after he’sspent some timewithBrigand his bag of horriblefood.

“Can I tell you

something?” Jacob asks. Inod. “This is the greatestdayofyourlife,too!”

I’m pretty sure he’swrong, but there’ssomething about his goofygrinthatmakesmefakeanencouraging expression.“Keeptalking.”

“You’re traveling withaninternationalstarinthemaking and a futurehousehold name in

politics. Journalists willcontact you in years tocome to confirm that youknewusbackintheday.”

I must look confused.“Charlotte’s going to runthe world someday, andI’m going to entertain it.We’re…”

He can’t think of theword, so I supply:“Twincredible!”

“Exactly! We’ve heardourcallingsatayoungage;wediscoveredourgiftsandwe know how we want tospendtherestofour lives.Charlotte and I haveworked like crazy toprepare for our futures.” Iknow about that. I punchDad to make sure he’slistening.

“I couldn’t agree withyou more. Sounds, oh, I

don’t know, Really SuperFamiliar, don’t you think,Dad? A serious lifetimegoal at fourteen?” I’mhappy to see Dad shiftuncomfortablyinhisseat.

“Tell me, Jacob,” Dadsuddenlysaysinthatfake-cheerful voice he useswhen he’s trying to getsomething he wants butalso seem like a nice guydoing it, “what kind of

extracurriculars are youandyoursisterinvolvedin,and aren’t you in all thehigh-levelclasses?”

Izoneoutandglareatthe passing road signs asJacobtalks.Ourschoolhasthat many teams andclubs?Dialitback,buddy.

“Impressive,” I liewhen Jacob is finishedwithhislist,“butdon’tyouworry thatyou’re the jack-

of-all-trades, master ofnone?” I heard someonesaythattoDadatajobsiteonceand, fromthewayhescrewed up his mouth, Icould tell it wasn’t a goodthing.

“Oh, no. See, at ourage, it’sallaboutexposuretoavarietyofoptionsandtaking advantage of asmany opportunities as wecan,”Charlottesays.

“Now, doesn’t thatsound Really SuperFamiliar, Ben?” Dadsmirks.

I glance back in themirror on my visor;Charlotte and Jacob areleaning forward in theirseats,eyesglowing.Brig isasleep, I think; it’s meagainst…everybody.

“Benwantstotransfertoanewschool, ifyoucan

even call it a school,” Dadsays sadly, as if I toldhimI’m going to join anexpedition to pillage theAmazon rain forest. “It’s anewhockeyacademy.He’llconcentrateonpowerplaysand becomewell educatedin blade sharpening andstick handling. He’ll nevergo to a school dance, hisonly friends will be puckjockeys, he won’t learn

calculus or readShakespeare, and he’llhave a frequent-flyer cardat the emergency room,probably learn to givehimself stitcheswithblackthread and a sewingneedle.”

“But,Dad!Youhaven’tbeen listening toeverything I’ve beensaying! You’remissing thebigpictureIhaveinmind.

The hockey academy isonly the first step. Plus,they teach how to avoidinjuries. If I do well therethenext fouryears—and itis a real school withnormal high schoolsubjects—I’m bound to berecruited by someawesome college. I won’tgoprofessionaluntilafterIhaveadiploma.Ihaveitallworkedout.”

Themanwhoquithisjob and cashed in hisretirement fund to buy acrack house to renovate,andwhojustunloadedourhouse, looks at me andshakeshishead.Likecrazyself-determination doesn’truninthefamily.

“Youmakesomegoodpoints,”Charlottesays.

“Who?”DadandIaskatthesametime.

“Bothofyou.”“But I have the more

compelling argument,”Dad sits up. “I’m the dad,andwhatIsaygoes.”

“Unquestionedpatriarchalauthorityisoneoftheleasteffective,nottomention most unpopular,forms of leadership.”Charlotte isbrisk. “It’snota valid way to participatein a healthy family. The

keystone of democracy iseveryone’s right to freelyexpress their opinions,avoidinganabuseofpowerbyautocraticrulers.”

Charlottewinksatme.I turn to Dad. “Sounds tomelike‘becauseIsayso’isanassaultonbasichumanrights.”Hesighs.

“Plus, it’s no way tohave the best day ever,”Jacob adds. “I’ve always

found that people whoinsist on getting their waydespite the good ideas ofothers don’t last long insports.Oronthestage.Orin committee work. It’sbettertocompromise.”

“You compromise atwork, Mr. Duffy.” GuessBrig wasn’t sleeping.“You’re always respectfulabout asking my opiniononthejob.”

Charlotte and I leanway out across Brig andAtticus and bump fists.This trip has taken a bigstepintherightdirection.

Istretch,sitback,andwatchthescenerywhizby.

“But,” Charlotte says,“there is something to besaid for the judgment andexperience of an elder,whose duty is to place hisor her wisdom and

knowledgeattheserviceofthegreatergood.”

Say what? My headsnapsaround.

Dad sits up a littlestraighter in the driver’sseat.

“And every team I’veever been on only has onecoach,”Jacobsays.

Dadgrins.“AndI’veneverknown

Mr. Duffy to screw up,”Brig offers. “Well, Imean,we screw up all the time,but he always figures outhowtofixit.”

Isighandlookoutthewindow.

Brig dips a beef jerkystick in the canof frostingto scrape out the last bit,singing along to the songon the radio. Charlottestarts reading a book as

shescratchesablissed-outConor’s tummy. Atticus ispeering out the window,readytoleadusbackhomewhen Dad gets us lost.Jacob fiddles with thebusted soft-serve machineonthevanwall.

Charlotte looks upfrom her book and smilesat me. My stomach flipsandIsmileback.

I’m not going to say

this out loud, because it’sthe kind of thing Dadwould never letme forget,but I suspect he mighthave some kind ofmagnetism that attractsinterestingpeople.

It’skindacool.And at least I’m in

good company while I trytofigureouthowtosalvagemylife.

Atticus: I’m the onlyone who seems toknowthat theboss isnever going to catchuptothefieldtriplikehe says. He’s alreadyturned around threetimes. I don’t thinkanyone has noticed.

They’re too busytalking to payattention.

Conor:Snore.

ThePlotandtheFirstDiversion

Everyone’s fallen asleep inthe back. Hockey playersare practically bionic, soI’m wide-awake. Butbored.Dadmightnotreadmaps,butIdo.I’mtracingtherouteweseemtobeonwhen a town catches myattention.

I can’t immediatelytell why the name rings abell. I’m absentmindedlyshufflinganoldpuckinmy

handwhen it hitsme: thename on the letter fromthe academy. Tryouts areatthattown’srink.Ireachfor my phone and look itup. Yup. Tryouts.Tomorrow.

Iwonder…We’re going to pass

right through the townwheretherecruiterswillbelooking for my kind oftalent. Dad’s not the only

one who gets signs fromtheuniverse.Whateverhasbeen whispering to Dadhasamessage forme, too.Ben,tryout.

IfIcanshowDadhowimpressed the admissionspeoplearebymyskills,hecan’t say no. He hasn’tseenmeplayinawhile,sohe’s not up to speed onhow awesome I am. Andwordswon’twork—ourlast

conversationprovedthat.Ihavetoshowhim.

I just have to figureout how get us to the rinktomorrow on the sly,becauseifIaskhimtotakeme,he’llshutmedown.

I need a distractionthat’llkeepusbusyfortherest of the day so we canshow up at the right timetomorrow.

Something will comeup; it always does. All Ihavetodoiskeepmyeyesopen and think positivethoughts.

Dad hits the brakeswithasickeningjolt.

“What was that for?”I’m not proud of the waymy voice cracks, but noone seems to notice. AndCharlotte was switchingseats with Brig when she

was thrown forward. Shereaches out to grab myshoulder to steady herself.My skin tingles under herhand.

“Look over there.”Dad’s tone is reverent,hushed.Weall lookwherehe’spointing.

“What are we lookingat?”Jacobasks.

“Idon’tseeanything.”

Charlotte tries to nudgeAtticusasidesoshecangetabetterview.

“I’ll get thepetty cashbox,” Brig breathes, asthrilledasDad.

“What’s happening?”Jacobasks.

“Dadspottedanestatesale.” Just the time-suck Iwashopingfor.Score!

“What’sthat?”

“It’swhatfancypeoplecall a garage sale forsuckers like Dad. Somepeople can’t resist buyingbargain crap from otherpeople’shouses.”

Dad unbuckles hisseatbeltandopensthevandoor, in a trance, headingtowardtheyardfullofjunkwith a glassy-eyed stare. Iclimb out, crossing myfingers that he’ll spend

hourslookingaround.Brig jogs ahead, a

cigar box of money underhis arm. Charlotte andJacob follow me and theguys. I glance down—Atticus is depressedbecausehehatesshopping,but Conor prances. Helacks the boredom gene.Everything is fun for him.AndmaybeheagreeswithDad that some million-

dollar treasure can besnapped up for seventy-fivecents.

I see Jacob’s andCharlotte’s perplexedexpressions. “Dad’s alwayslookingforstuffforhisfliphouses. Just watch—he’sgoing to get all jazzedabout buying a mason jarfull ofnutsandbolts foraquarter, or he’s going tofind a like-new toilet.”We

allcringeatthethoughtofsharingthebackofthevanwiththat.

We stand on the curbwith the guys, watchingDad and Brig cruise thecardtables.

“I don’t get it,”Charlottefinallysays.

“Luckyyou.Idon’ttellmanypeople this,butDadalso Dumpster dives. He

knows the schedule for allthe neighborhood’sgarbage and recyclingpickupdays,andhedrivesup and down streetslooking for odds and endshe can fix up or use. ‘Oneman’s trash is anotherman’s treasure,’ Dadalwayssays.”

“We’re never going tocatchupwiththefieldtrip,are we?” Charlotte sounds

more curious thandisappointed.

“Well…follow-throughisn’t Dad’s strong suit.”Dadwon’tforgetaboutthepuppy though, right?Nah,puppies and field trips aretwo completely differentthings. One you can livewithout just fine, but noteven Dad can space outaboutapuppy.

“Okay by me,” Jacob

says. “I’m kind of boredwith the field trip fromallthe planning. We’ll makeour own educationalexperience, anindependent study. I’ll getbacktoyouwithaplan.”

“No, you won’t.”Charlotte shakesherhead.“I’m more organized. I’llfigureoutanalternative.”

“You’reorganized,butI’mcreative.”

I jump in. “Whydon’tyouboththinkaboutitandwe’lltalkaboutitlater.”Ornever.

Conor chases asquirrel into the yard nextdoor.

I whistle to call himback to my side. “Thatplace is condemned.” Ipoint to the bright orangenotification on the frontdoor. “They’re probably

goingtoknockitdown.”“What do you mean

‘knock it down’?” Brig isstanding nearby sortingscrap wood. “You meanthat a space that’ssheltered families,witnessed generations oflaughter and tears, birthsand deaths, is going to bedestroyed?”Hesinkstothecurb, like the news is toomuchtotake.

Brig is panting andwild-eyed and raking hisfingers through his hair.It’s kind of scary. Ourgoalie, Dooter, looked likethat during last year’sregionals. Of course, histibia was poking throughhisshin.

Jacob pats Brig’sshoulder and Charlottespeaks to him softly. I digin his backpack and come

upwithacanofsquirtablecheese and some oatmealraisin cookies. After acouple of cookiesandwiches, Brig calmsdown.

“Ijustfeelsoawfulforthe house,” he mumblesthroughamouthful.

“Well, sure…” I’m notsure how to comfortsomeonewhogetssoupsetaboutdrywallandshingles.

Dad, who didn’t seemto notice when he rippedmy soul to pieces earlier,spotsBrig’sdistress.Tobefair,Atticusalertedhim.

“What’s going on?”Dad looks at mesuspiciously.

I throwmy hands outin the “I’m innocent”gesture.

Conor crawls onto

Brig’slap.AtticussolemnlyputsapawonBrig’sknee,the silent message beingPull yourself together,man.We’reinpublic.

Brig sniffs, wiping hisnoseonConor’s fur. “Thatbeautiful house, relegatedto the scrap heap becauseit got a little old, a littlerun-down. It’s tragic howwe’re becoming adisposablesociety.”

“I couldn’t agree withyou more,” Dad says. Inthe game of crazy poker,Dad will always see yourhysteria and raise you anexaggeration.

Atticus and I catcheachother’seyesandsigh.We’veheardDad’s speech.Atticus lies down andpretends to take a nap. IlookatCharlotteandJacoband shake my head,

silentlywarningthem.Briglooks at Dad like he’swaitingfortheRapture.

“I save old housesbecause I believe it’s vitalto protect the past. Irestore venerable beautieswho’ve seenbetter days totheir former glories,protecting and defendingthe memories that livewithinthosewalls.”Thisisthe point in his speech

where Dad pauses, as ifchoked up, and takes adeepbreath.Ifyouhaven’thearditamilliontimes,it’seffective. Brig bites his lipand blinks hard. CharlotteandJacoblistenpolitelyasDad winds up. “I knowthis: it’s not just a house,it’sahome.”

Brig stands andthrows his arms aroundDad.“It’sabeautifulthing,

whatwe do.Rock on.”Heturnstofist-bumpme.“Wehavethebestdad!”

“ ‘We’?” And you lackboundaries, I think, butforceasmile.

“Brig thinks he’sfamily,” Jacobwhispers tome. “Let me know if youneed any pointers onsibling rivalry. CharlotteandIhavebeencompetingsincewewereborn.”

“Before we wereborn,”shesays.“I’msevenminutes older, and I’vebeen ahead of you sinceyou were a two-celledorganismdevelopinginmyshadow.”

She pulls her tabletout of her bag, starting toswipeandtypefuriously.

“Let’sgetabetterlookatthathouse.”Dadstudiesthefrontdoor.

“Why not?” I ask.“Luckily, my tetanusbooster is up to date.” If Iweren’t trying to run theclock out today, there’s noway I’d encourage Dad tobreak into a padlockedhouse full of rusty nailsand feral, rabid animalsjusttocheckoutthecrownmolding and doorframeshe’d like to pry out andreuse.

“It’s got a verywelcoming air about it,don’t you think?”DadandBrigrunoffandtherestofusdriftafter.

“Yeah,” I say. “Thewindows boarded up withplywood sheets spray-paintedwithlargeblackXsjust scream ‘Come on inandsetaspell.’ ”

Jacob and Charlottecrack up, but Dad can’t

hear me. He grabs thepadlock on the front doorand gives it a shake.“Nope.” Then he headstoward the backyard,pointing to Brig to checkthe boards nailed acrossthewindows.

“I’m in!” Jacob callsfrom the depths of thehouse. He’s shimmiedthroughahole in thebackdoor. He twists the lock

fromthe insideand jumpsout of the way when thedoorfallsofftheframe.

“Nicely done, Jacob.”Dad and Brig high-fivehim.CharlotteandItiptoeinside, stepping on a layeroftrash.IcantellCharlotteshares my fear of sharpobjects and wild animals.Dadissnappingpicturesofthe kitchen cabinets withhisphone.

“This house obviouslywasn’tcondemnedbecauseof structural faults.” Dadlooksaround.“Everyissue,asfarasIcansee,ismostlycosmetic. The foundationlooks solid. Anotherexampleofsomeonelettinga house go rather thanputtingintheelbowgreasetomakeitshine.”

“This house has got areally good spirit,” Brig

says to me. “Your dadtaught me how to read aspace, and this one has ahappy soul. Can’t you feelit?”

“I’m,uh,notsure.”Helooks so disappointed thatI say, “Right, the energy.Yeah,it’sgood.”

Charlotte hops onto acounter and studies hertablet. Before I can sayanything about putting

down the electronics andbeing present in themoment,whichIhearalotathome,Dadcalls.

“Do you see what Isee?” Jacob, Brig, Atticus,Conor, and I crowd thedoorway.

“A built-in buffet,”Brig breathes. “In mintcondition.”

Dad snaps more

pictures and Brig runs hishandsoverthewood.

I read theirminds. “Itwon’t fit in the van. Notwith four people and thetwo guys. There’s noroom.”

Dad looks at me, hisfaceaglow. “Ifwe takeoutthe benches and stackthemalongonesideof thevan, the buffet will fitperfectly.”

“Remove the seats?With four people and twobordercollies?”

“Three people. You’vebeen sitting in the frontwithme.AtticusandConordon’t mind lying on thefloor.We’llbunchupafewtarps for the twins andBrig. They’ll think they’resitting in beanbag chairs.It’llallworkout.”

“I’ll go get the

toolbox.”Brigheadstothetruck.

“And you two”—Dadpoints to Jacob and me—“seeifyoucanjimmythefront door open and thengrab some skids from theback of the van tomake arampdownthefrontsteps.We’ll just ease this babyoutof thewallandslide itdown the stairs, and it’llfloatintothevan.”

Uh-huh. I thinkgravityhasdifferent ideas.But since (a) I’m thePerfectSonDadWillWantto Send to Hockey Schooland (b) this is a projectthat’ll keep us here forhours, I start yankingplywoodoffthefrontdoor.

A curse-filled,unproductive,painfulhourpasses. Charlotte’s stillworking on her tablet in

thekitchen.I have a vision of

Charlotte, Jacob, Brig,Conor, Atticus, and melashed to the side of theDeathConeontheroofforthe rest of the trip if weever do get thismonstrosityintothevan.

“Well.” Charlottedancesuptousgleefully,“Ididit!”

“Did what?” I rub thesweatoffmyface.

“Boughtthehouse.”“Uh,what?”“I didn’t get why Mr.

Duffy and Brig were sointerested in this house,butwhen you said that hecould tell how special itwas,Ifinallyunderstood.”

“You did?” She’slookingatmewitha great

smile,andthere’snothingIwouldsaytomakeherstoplookingatmethatway,soIkeepmymouthshut.

“Ifoundoutthishousewas foreclosed on andwentupforauction,butnoonebid.Iwasabletobuyitforabuck!”

“You bought a wholehouse for a dollar? Howdid a kid buy a house?”And why isn’t Dad

snatching up bargains likethis?

“Charlotte can doanything online.” Jacobbeams. “She could be agreatcriminalorcomputerhacker if she wanted to.But she only uses herpowers for good.Borrrrring.”

“Ididn’tbuythehouseformyself.Ijustfoundoutitwas for sale and located

the perfect buyer and didthe legwork for them tomake theoffer.”EvenDadlooks astonished, so sheexplains,“Ivolunteerforafoundation that helpsfinancially challengedhomeowners buy cheaphouses and fix them up.TheysaidIshouldmakeanofferrightawayafterItoldthem about the place andhowsoundyousaiditwas.

They’ll be here tomorrowto show the place toprospectivehomeowners.”

“And to think howcloseweweretorippingitsheartout.”Brig shakeshishead, a little free with theword “we,” if you ask me.“Good thing the buffet isstillinplace.”

“Yeah, good thing.” Istick a fresh Band-Aid onthe gash on my arm.

Hockey players know howto play through pain.Gonna have to ice mysmashed toes tonight so Ican shove my foot in myskatetomorrow.

Tomorrow.Iforgotaboutmyplan

for a while. We haven’tchewed up nearly enoughtime to keep us on mysecret schedule. I lookaroundfrantically.

“This place is filthyand disgusting,” Iannounce. “Dad alwayssays that first impressionsare crucial.” Dad pats myshoulder. “We shouldmake a few simple repairsbefore the foundationpeopleshowup.Evenforadollar, this place looksoverpriced.”

Brig lights up. “Dibson repairing those doors,

Dad.Imean,Mr.Duffy.”Dad? How’d Brig and

Dadgetsotight?Ishootaquick look out the frontdoor to make sure thetruck still reads DUFFY &SONandnotDUFFY&SONSor maybe even DUFFY &BRIG.

“Grabsometrashbagsandworkgloves,Ben,”Dadtells me. “You andCharlotte start picking up

allthegarbage.JacobandIwill take the plywood offthewindows.”

“The former ownersate a ton of fast food.”Charlotte looks around. Itake a second to ask theuniverse not to find bugsor rats. I’m only brave inthefaceofphysicaldanger;gross things freakme out.Screaming because acockroach skitters across

my feet won’t makeCharlotte think I’mawesome.

“I move like greasedlightning,” I warn her.“Thebluryou’llsee—that’llbe me.” We grab glovesandfacemasksfromDad’ssuppliesandgettowork.

I didn’t expect thatpicking up rotten pizzaboxes and moldy friedchicken buckets would be

such a great way to get toknow a girl. I wish sheplayed hockey because wework together so well.Jacobwasn’tkiddingwhenhe said Charlotte wascompetitive; she could goone on one with thetoughestguyinmyleague.We race each other tosweep the house clean ofgarbage. We don’t evenhavetotalk;wejusthustle.

Sheisthecoolestgirlever.Dad and Brig crawl

into the attic. CharlotteandIwashwindows.Jacobsweeps. We tighten doorhinges, nail down loosefloorboards, dump bleachin the toilets. I’msweatinglikeapigandcovered inathick layer of crud.Charlotte just gets prettierand prettier; her haircomes out of her ponytail

andhercheeksgetpink.“Aha!” Jacob comes

out of the kitchen, wavingCharlotte’s tablet. “Mysister isn’t the only onewho can do an onlinesearch. I called the localtelevision station andthey’re going to do a feel-good piece about how thehouse was saved and willbeafreshstartforafamilyinneed!”

Charlotte pretends tobe annoyed with him fortrying toone-upher,but Ican see the smile she triestohide.“Jacobthinksgooddeeds are nothing withoutpublicity.”

“All this work shouldbe a secret?” he asks.“Look around—we did anamazingjob.”

The way Charlottethrowsherarmaroundmy

shoulders as we study oureffortsalmostmakesupforthe little stab of jealousy Ifeel when I hear Dad tellBrig “Good job.” Hedoesn’tsayawordtome.

Brig seems to bereplacing me. On thebright side, Brig will keepDad company when I’maway at boarding school.ButIwillnevercompBrigon tickets when I make it

totheNHL.Ifeelalotbetterwhen

I look around. Dad wasright; elbow grease waswhatwasneeded.AndBrigwas right; the house doesseemwelcoming.We closethedoorbehindus.

“Let’s roll.” Dadhurries us to the truck.“We have a field trip tocatchupto,andwegotoffschedule.” Jacob,

Charlotte, and I roll oureyes.EvenBrigsaysunderhis breath, “Not. Gonna.Happen.” I feel anothersting of jealousy that heknowsDadthatwell.

Aswewalktothevan,I swear the house sighs. Iglance back and tell thehouse, “You’ll see; it’ll allworkout.”

Then I cross myfingers that my plan will

turn out as good as thehouse.

Atticus:I’mnothappythat the boss left mein the van with thepuppy when theystopped to getsomething to eatafterweleftthedirtyhouse.

I don’t bark and

scratch at thewindows and lookpatheticwhenI’mleftbehind, like somepeople I know. I liedown on the seat andpretend to sleepbecause I have to bealert.Youneverknowwhat might happen;strangersmighttrytotouch the boss’s van,and that’s not going

to happen while I’maround.

Ihave togrowlatthepuppy,becausehetriedtohead-butt thedoor open and followthe boss. And hechewedononeof theseats until thestuffingcameout.

But then my boyand the boss broughtfood and shared with

meand thepuppy.Sodidthemuffingirlandthemuffingirl’sboy.Inever eat any foodfrom the boy whoworkswiththeboss.

Conor: I CAN HIGH-FIVENOW!!!!!!Atticusfell asleep and wasembarrassedwhen hewoke up, but I kept

watch. That’s why IactedlikeIwastryingtogetoutofthevan—sohecoulddoagoodjobandgrowlatme.

TheMajorMotionPicture

andtheSecond

Distraction

After we finished with thehouse, we grabbedsomething to eat, and bythe time we left therestaurant, it was starting

togetdark.It’sallIcandonot to cheer—a whole daywasted. Yay, me! BobbyOrr would be proud toshare the ice with me.Motel,herewecome.

“I feel like driving allnight,”Dadannounces.

Saywhat?“There’s something

magical about journeyingon the open road under a

starry sky.” Dad looksaround. “Heck, I mighteven write a country songwhile I drive! Houseflipper, songwriter—I likeit.”

No.Nooooooo.Nononononono.We have to spend the

night nearby or we’llovershoot the rink and

tryouts.I lookout thewindow

forafleamarketorsalvageyard.I’vealsogottofigureoutawaytogetDadoutofthe driver’s seat. He can’tnotice the detour we needtotaketogettotheicethatholdsmyfuture.

I look at Dad singingand pounding on thesteering wheel to the beatof the songblasting out of

the radio. He’s alreadymade three or four coursecorrectionssincewegotonthe road this morningbecause he forgets aboutthingslikewatchingforhisexitandhighwaynumbers.He thinkshe’s got amuchbetter sense of directionthanhereallydoes.

If only I could seizecontrol of thewheel.But Ihaven’teventakendriver’s

edyet.“So, Brig, got your

license?” I cross myfingers. Dad’s singing soloudhecan’thearmeoverhimself and the radio.Jacob is fiddling with thesoft-serve machine, andCharlotte’s reading andpettingthebordercollies.Idrag my eyes away fromher.Focus,Ben.

“Sure.” I gag as Brig

mixespacketsofhoneyandketchup in a cupand thendunkspretzelrods.

“Does Dad let youdrivethevan?”

“Sure. Especially ongarbagedays,whenIdriveand he looks for stuff torescue.”

“Good times, I bet.Hey, don’t you think itwould be a great idea to

alternatedrivingwithDad?Givehimabreak?”

“Sure.I’llasktoswitchnow.”

“Wait!”Igrabhisarm.This has to be aspontaneous event, astealthattack.

Luckily, inaddition tothe aimlessness of Dad’sdriving, Conor needs a lotofpeebreaks.Thatwillbe

the perfect opportunity toswitchdrivers.

“Dad!” I holler overthe music. “Conor has topee. Keep an eye out forthenextrestarea.”

Conor raises his headfrom his nap and looks atme,surprised.Icanseethethought run through hismind:Ihave topee?I feelbad lying to a puppy, so Irummage through my

pockets, hoping there’s aspare dog cookie to use asabribeandanapology forusinghisweakbladderthisway.He crunches happily.I love that border colliesdon’tholdagrudge.Ortellonyou.

A few minutes passbefore Dad finds a gasstationandConordutifullypees on the side of theroad. I slip him another

cookie.Atticusstaresatmein disapproval because hecan read my mindsometimes. “I don’t carewhat you think. I’m doingitanyway.”Atticusmakesanoise that sounds like“hmh.” Even though hedoesn’t speak, Atticususuallygetsthelastword.Itry to give him a cookie,but he turns up his nose;Atticuscannotbebribed.

“Hey, Dad,” I say oh-so-casually as we happento be standing near thedriver’sdoor.“Icouldhearyour phone buzzing withmessages and emails allday. I know you’re tooconscientious a driver tocheck your phone whenyoureyesshouldbeontheroad,butitmustbekillingyou to miss all thatbusiness.” I pause to let

that sink in. “How aboutBrig drives the next shiftandyoucansitinthebackand answer some of thosecallsandmessages?Maybegetsomeshut-eye?”

Dad leaps at thesuggestionandBrigclimbsinto the driver’s seat. I sitnexttohim,mapinhand.

No one notices that Idirect him to get back onthe freeway,headed in the

same direction we camefrom.

I shake off the guilt;soon I’ll be enrolled inhockey academy and Dadwillbeashamedofhimselffor putting me in such anawkwardposition.

I justhope I cankeepeveryone in the dark andtime the drive right. Andscore a walk-on tryout.And dazzle the recruiters

before Dad can shove mebackintothevan.

First things first: Ineed a good, lengthydistraction.

Anotherone.“STOP. THIS. VAN!”

Jacob bellows from theseat next to the orderwindow. He’s hanging outthe window waving andhollering,andall Icansee

from the front seat arehislegs kicking and feetflailing inside the van. It’sfreaking me out, likemaybe we’ve lost a tire orare about to drive straightintoafieryinferno.

Even Dad looksalarmed.“Brig!Pullover!”

“What is it? Whathappened? What’s wrong?Are you okay?” Webombard Jacob, and

Atticus and Conor barktheirheadsoff.

“Look!” Jacob’s handis shaking as he pointsacrossthehighway.

It’s a bunch of semisand trailers and—what isthat? Gigantic silverumbrellas and miles ofblack cable all over theground. No blazing fire orspacealien landings.Whatishesoupsetabout?

“It’s a movie set.They’re setting up for anovernight shoot,” hewhispers.“Look:lightsandgenerators and cameratrack and the mike boom.All I want in my wholeentire life is to be in amovie. I just know I wasborn for it and thateverything in my life hasbeen leading to thismoment. We’ve got to go

over. Movie sets alwaysneedextras. I don’t care ifwe just stand around andwatch.GoodthingIalwayscarrymyheadshots;maybeI’ll run into someone fromcasting.”

Brilliant.Jacob digs in his

backpack and, sureenough, comes up with astackofeight-by-tenglossyphotographs. He thrusts

them into Charlotte’shands and kicks off hishiking boots. “Avert yourgaze,” he instructs us. Noonedoes,ofcourse,andwewatchashekicksoutofhiscargo pants and replacesthemwithblacksuitpantsand dress shoes from hisbag.HeripsoffhisT-shirtand slides into a whitebutton-down with anecktie already looped

through the collar, and ajacket that matches thepants. He travels withbusiness clothes? Thatdon’t have a wrinkle onthem?Man, I’m lucky if Ihave the right number ofcleanboxers.

“Let’sgomakedreamscometrue.”Dadopensthevan door and we all pileout.

“It’s an intergalactic,

postapocalyptic, war-of-the-zombies movie,”Charlotte briefs Jacob,lookingupfromhertablet.“Loosely based on abestselling graphic noveloriginally published inJapan and adapted by theguy who also wrote thescreenplay for thetotalitarian regimewerewolflovestory.”

We all nod. Good

stuff.“Theywilltotallywant

us to be extras,” Jacobsays, studying the set.“They don’t have nearlyenoughdeadbodies foranendgamescenario.Andwealready look horrible fromcleaningthehouse!”

Dad lets the bordercolliesoutofthevanaswehead over to join a lineformingneartheset.

“Uh, Dad? Don’t youthinkweshouldleavethemhere? We’re gate-crashinga movie set, which isprobably not properetiquette.Theguyswilljustcallattentiontous.”

“No one will evennotice them, Ben. Atticusand Conor are impeccablytrained.It’slikethey’renoteven dogs. They won’tbother anyone. Besides,

every good movie needsman’s best friend to reallytugattheoldheartstrings.”

Atticusglaresatme. Imouth, I’m sorry, and hetips his head inforgiveness.Thenheglaresat Dad for implying thathe’sadog.ButDaddoesn’tnotice.

Atticus is prettystealthyandknowshowtoactcool,butConor…

We take our places inthe line of extras andslowlymakeourwaytothefront. Conor and AtticusstandnexttoDad,holdingtheir own leashes in theirmouths. Dad thinks it’sdemeaning to them to beled around; he follows thelaw, more or less, byclipping leashes to theircollars, but he refuses tohold the other end, so the

bordercolliespickthemupandcarrythem.

A woman with aclipboard, a headset, awalkie-talkie, and aginormous cup of coffeehurriesover.

“I’mtheAD.”Sheflipsthrough papers on herclipboard.

“That’s assistantdirector,” Jacob whispers.

“She’s a goddess aroundhere. All power flowsthrough her. She’s spottedmystarpotential.”

Ihopehe’sright.Plus,that would really help meoutbykillingsometime.

“You can’t have dogsontheset.”TheADpointsto Conor and Atticus.“Allergies and biting arehugeinsuranceliabilities.”

“Atticus and Conoraren’tallergictoanything,”Dadtellsher,“andIdoubtthe cast and crew of yourmovie struggle to controltheir impulsetobite.”Dadcracks up. He thinks he’sfunnier than he really isand never got the memothatit’spoorformtolaughatyourownjokes.

IfeelJacobfreezenexttome. I poke him so he’ll

hand the AD one of hisheadshots, but he can’tmove.He’sgotstagefright,or whatever fright it iswhen you need to make agood impression on thepersonwhocangetyou ina movie and you can’t doanythingtoproveyourstarquality.

The AD glares at Dadand stomps away indisgust. Jacobwhimpers a

little,thesoundofadreamdying.

“Don’t worry, Jacob.We’llthinkofsomethingtoget you noticed. Dadalways says there’s asolution to any problem.Wejusthavetofindit.Healso says that two headsare better than one. Andwe’vegotfiverighthere.”

Before the five peoplecancomeupwithanygood

ideas, one of the twoborder collies does. ConorhurlshimselfaftertheAD.I try to grabhis leash, buthetrotsovertowhereshe’sstanding in a huddle ofpeoplewithclipboardsandsitsdownatherfeet.

I start to duck underthe tape keeping us extrasinastraightlinetoretrievehimbefore theADnoticeshimandhasus thrownoff

the set, but I feelAtticus’steeth on my pants leg,holding me back. I trusthim and stay put. Jacob,Dad, Brig, and Charlottestandnexttome,watchingintently.

Conor starts leaninginto theAD’s leg, trying toget her to bend down andpet him. He’s kind ofspoiled that way—we’vetaughthimthathe’salways

going to be petted. Thewoman’s ability to ignoreaffectionate puppies mustreally freak him out,because he pulls back andtipshishead,studyingher,wondering why she’s notdropping to her knees,talking baby talk andkissinghisnose, like someofusdo,althoughI’llneveradmittoitpublicly.

The great thing about

border collies is that theyare super determined togettheirownway.Conor’sancestors moved hugeherds of sheep acrossenormous fields andthrough numerous gatesintospecificpenswithjusta stern gaze and anobsession with pleasingtheirmasters.Onechurlishmovie person is no matchforsomeonewithhisDNA.

Conor stands up, puts hisfront paws on the side ofher thigh, dips his head,and burrows his nosebetweenherhand andherside, wiggling until she’spassively petting him. Hetosses his head, makingherhandcaresshisears.

Iseehergentlypathishead two or three times,tentatively.

She looks down at

Conor and half smiles.Helooks intently into hereyes,thenturnsandstaresatusandbarksfrantically.The AD glances at us andpauses, thinking, thenpoints at Jacob. “Extraguy! The one in the suit,come over here. You canwalkyourdog through theshotasthezombiesattack;it’snotinthescript,butit’sa great image. I’m a

brilliantfilmmaker.”Jacob can only gape.

Brig and I give him amighty shove that propelshimhalfwaytotheAD.Shegrabs his arm and startstalking fast and pointing.Shepullsafewpagesfromher clipboard and speaksinto her walkie-talkie asshe thrusts them intoJacob’shands.

Out of nowhere,

anothergirlwithaheadsetgrabs Jacob’s arm andhustleshimandConorintoa semitruck markedMAKEUP.

“Hrf,” I hear Atticusgrunt,andIturntolookathim.Foronce,heseemstoapprove of Conor. Hesettlesdowntonap.

For the next hour,Dad, Brig, Charlotte,Atticus, and I are waiting

for filming to start andwatching the crew adjustthe lighting as night falls.Charlotte readsus thecastand crew’s credits, as wellas reviews of the book themovie is based on. Brigeats a snack of fried porkrinds and black olivesdipped in peanut butter;the rest of us edge awayfromhim.

Jacob finally emerges

from the makeup trailer,Conortrottingbehindhim.I only know it’s Jacob byhissuit;hisfaceiscoveredin zombie makeup. Themakeup peopleworked onConor, too; his fur ismattedwithmud.Theyrunovertous.

“I only have aminutebeforewe start shooting. Iwanted to get some quickpictureswithyouwhileI’m

inmakeup.”Westaggertoourfeet,

brush dust off our butts,andstraightenourclothes.

Atticus always actslike he hates having hispicture taken, but I noticethat he’s not pulling hisface away when Jacobadjusts the angle of hisnoseand tellshim,“That’sit! That’s your best side.Remember, now: always

have them shoot you fromtheright.”

Atticus snorts, but Imakeamentalnotetotakehis picture later and see ifhe turnshis right cheek tome, because I get thefeeling Jacob has foundAtticus’sinnercamerahog.

“Places, people. Scenetwenty-six, invasion of theundead. Three-minutewarning,” booms over the

soundsystem.“I told you this was

going to be the best dayever!But Ididn’t even tellyouthebestpart!”Jacobisabout to burst. “I have aspeaking role: ‘Oh mygosh, he ate her face!’ I’llbe in the credits!Screaming ZombieNumberEight.”

We all cheer andfollowJacobandConoron

to the set. Atticus cutsaway,trotsovertotheAD,and sits next to her. “He’smore of a behind-the-scenes guy,” I tellCharlotte.

“Of course; Atticus’spersonality isbetter suitedto production rather thantalent.” She watchesAtticus study the activityaround him and beams.“Likeme.JacobandConor

are the hams; we’re thebrains.”

As Dad, Brig,Charlotte, and I are beingdirected to lie on thegroundinvariousposturesindicating a violent end, Itry not to grin. A night offilming will put me ontrack to the tryouts. Iknow, I know—I’m actingshady. But then they haveCharlotteliesoherheadis

resting on my chest. Hercheekrestsonmysternum,and her hair smellsamazing. Ihope thisshootlastsallnightlong.

It’s like Dad alwayssays: sometimes the bestway to solve a problem istohandoveragoodideatothe universe and see whathappens.

Sofar,sogood.

Atticus: Well, it’sabouttime.

Just when I wastrying to figure outhow to leave him atthe next rest stop,that puppy showswhathe’smadeof.

I’m not convinced

he knew what he wasdoing, but sometimesI wonder if there’smore to him than helets on. I hope so,because I’m going toneed some help withmyboyandtheboss.

My boy hassomething on hismind. His eyes getdark and his mouthgetstight.AndIdon’t

like the way heglances at the bossand then the map orhisphonerealquick.Ican’t tell what he’sthinking, but it’s notgood.Myboywillneedmyhelp.

The boss noticesmy boy’s face getdark; then he getsextra cheerful andfiddleswithhisphone.

Theboydidn’tseetheboss on the phonewhen everyone elsewas lying on theground, pretending tobe dead. But I seeeverything. I can tellthebosswill needmyhelp,too.

They’d be lostwithoutme.

Conor: I DID GOODTODAY!!!!!!

TheMomentofTruth…andConsequences

One of the great thingsabout hockey is that rinksusuallyopenatfiveorfive-thirty in the morning.Figure skaters and hockeyplayers grow accustomedto being up and ready tofunction at what normalpeople call an ungodlyhour, but normies have ahard time focusing at thattimeoftheday.

Which is exactly what

I’mcountingon.I turn inmy seat and

lookateveryone.Aftertheshootended,

Brig got his hands on aking-sizecupofcoffeeatagas station and dropped aglob of that chocolate-hazelnut spread in it tomelt.He’sovercaffeinatingand oversugaring himselfto stay alert as he drives.I’mgettingused toBrig, if

not his food, and I’m notgoing to freak out abouthimtakingmyplaceinthefamily until I get off theice.

Charlotte’s asleep onthe floor between twobenches,soIcan’tseeher,but I canhearherbreatheand I even think that’sadorable.Imightbefallingfor her, but I can’t thinkabout how to handle that

untilaftertryouts.Jacob is still sleeping

onthefarbackbench.Igetthe feeling we could bebuddies, unless he’s thekind of guy who holds agrudgeaboutbeingtrickedinto a secret plan. Still, Ican’t let this opportunityslip through my fingersbecauseImightwanttobefriendswithsomeguy.

Dad and Conor are

fast asleep on one of thebenches.Dad’sgoingtobedisappointed in me forscheming to take us offcourse and manipulatingthe situation for my ownbenefit. But I am destinedto go to this hockeyacademy.

Atticusisstaringatmefrom his seat near theorder window. We nod ateachothereventhoughI’m

pretty sure he knows I’muptonogood.IwonderifIshould jettison the sneakyplansonooneeverrealizeshow calculating and self-involvedIam.

I slap both of mycheeksbriskly.Snapoutofit. Pull it together. Takeaction. I have a plan; it’llallworkout.

We’re about thirty orfortyminutesfromtherink

and I need to start gettingdressed. Luckily, I have alotofexperiencepullingonhockey gear in movingvehicles. Most peoplecouldn’tdoit.

I pull on one long-sleeved and one short-sleevedshirt.SinceIknowI’llbesupernervous,Iskipthe long underwear—don’twant to sweat myselfdehydratedduringtryouts.

I also put on a jock and acup,which arenever skip-worthy.Ever.Eventhoughthey’re super tricky to putoninamovingvehiclefourfeet from a girl. I pull onlightweight track pants asfastasIcan.

I’m the kind of skaterwho doesn’t wear socks—Ilike the feel of my sweatsofteningtheleatherofmyskates andmolding to the

soles of my feet. It’s anacquired taste. And it’s asmell like the depths ofhell. Even I think hockeyskates are about theworstsmellever.SoIpullonmyteam socks, which arereally striped, footlesstubes,overmyshinguards,which I’ve strapped to mylower legs, and securethem with hockey tapewrapped around my

thighs. I wrap more tapeunder my knees to helpkeep the shin guards inplace.

Thencomethehockeypants and belt; I’m not asuspenders kind of guy,although some old-schoolplayersswearbythem.

I’m sweating bucketsalready and cursing ourabundance of gear. This isalways the moment where

I second-guess my love ofhockey. For a fast sportthat makes greasedlightning look sluggish,dressing for it takesforever. I bet even MarkMessier had troublegearing up from time totime.

I won’t put on myskates,elbowandshoulderpads, jersey, helmet, orgloves until I’m inside the

rink and ready to take theice with my stick. I’m soedgy, though, that I popmymouthguard in. I lookgoofy, but at least I won’tcrackamolargrindingmyteethfromstress.

Just in time. I see thesigns for the rink, and ascasuallyasIcanmanage,Ispit out the mouth guardsoIcantellBrig,“Takethenextexit.”

He glances over, doesa double take—somehowhe didn’t noticed megearingupeighteeninchesaway—and sends the vanintoasickeningswerve.

“It’s a surprise; I’llexplain to you andeveryone in the back in afewminutes.”Itrytogrin,butmymouthissodrymytop lip sticks tomymouthguardandIgivemoreofa

sickgrimace.“Uh-huh.”Hisvoice is

flat. He should be thrilledI’m clearing the way forhim to take overmy placein the company. And thefamily. I feel a stab ofjealousy.

Focus.Ridthemindofdistractions.

I direct Brig to therink and ask him to slow

way down as he nears thefrontdoor.“Don’tstop;I’lljumpoutandusemyduffelto breakmy fallwhile youkeep driving. Just circlethe lot so the sensation ofthe van stopping won’twake anyone. I’ll let youknowwhentostop.”

He just stares out thewindshield. After I’vetaken care of theregistrationdetailsandam

ready to get my skate on,I’ll come back out andwave at Brig to park thevan. And that’s when I’llwake them all up andbreakthenewstoDad.

I’m getting good atplanning. Now I’mpicturingDadleapingontothe ice and sweeping meup in a big bear hug afterI’veflippedapuckintothegoal past two big

defensemen bearing downonme. I imagineaparadewith confetti, and T-shirtswith my name on them,and endorsement deals,especiallyforthoseproteinbars and electrolyte waterdrinks I like. But that allcomesafterDadsaysIwasright about hockey schooland assures me he totallyunderstands, appreciates,and forgives my

underhanded way ofgettinghere.

Brig slows the van tothe correct speed as wepull up to the rink. Itumble out, precisely asplanned, on my pads andduffel, and roll tomy feet.Man, where are randompassersby with videocameras when you needthem?

Isailintotherinkand

spot the sign-up table.Mynameisontheirmasterlistof invitees. I’m given anumberedstickertoputonmyjerseyandassignedtoascrimmage group. My agetakes the ice in twentyminutes, so I put on therest ofmy gear, except formy skates, which I leaveloosened and ready to slipintonexttomystickbythedoortotheice.Ifyoucan’t

tightenand tieyourskatesin under a minute, you’vegot no business callingyourselfahockeyplayer.

I’m ready to headoutsidetoflagdownBrig.

He seesmewaving athim and slams on thebrakes. Well, no need toworry about wakingeveryone; the way theywere hurtled through theair did that nicely. I count

totenandheadtothebackofthevan.

Dad, the guys, Jacob,andCharlotte look groggy.And, when they seeme infull hockey attire,surprised.DadandAtticuslookdisappointed.

“So,um,greatnews!”Isay, adopting Dad’stechnique of fake cheer.“You all get to watch metry out for the hockey

academy!”I had planned to say

more,butDadandAtticuslook away from me, andmymindgoesblank.

“So…anyway…I’m upin a few minutes….Hopeyou’ll come in and, uh,cheermeon.”

Silence.Iturnandtrudgeback

totherink.Thisisn’thowI

pictured thismoment,andI sure never imagined thesinkingfeelingof…shame.

Then I start to getmad.This is all Iwant, allI’veeverwanted,andDad’sruining it for me. Again.First he yankedme out ofcamp last year afterpromising I could go, andnow…I start to stomp alittleharder.

Dad quits jobs and

sells houses and renegeson promises and neverasksanyoneaheadof timeifthey’reonboardwithhisplans,andhe’smakingmefeel like a louse for doingwhat I need to do toprotect the only thing I’veeverworkedfor?

I jammy feet intomyskates and yank the lacesso hard as I tie my bootsthat I practically stop the

blood flow to my toes. Istampmy feet a few timesand slip my gloves onbefore pounding each fistintheotherpalmoverandover. I’m mad now, reallymad,andthat’sgood.

Ihear thewhistle andIskatetomyposition.

The puck drops andthe twenty minutes of ourscrimmage whiz by. I canfeel my blades shredding

the ice,hear the thwackofthe puck as it connectswithmystick,tastetheicyair I drag into my lungspast my minty mouthguard, see the black-and-white shirts of the refs asthey zoom next to mealong the boards. I cansmell the fear ofteammates and opponentswhotrytogetbetweenmeandthepuck.

I’mnotusuallyapuckhog,butthismorningIamonfire.Everyplayerwho’sever gone past the peeweeleagues knows what itlooks like when a fellowplayer is in the zone. Youknow better than to messwith it or water it downwiththoughtsofteamworkand good sportsmanship;you justgetoutofhiswayandletthemagichappen.

All too soon, the finalwhistle sounds and thescrimmageisover.IrealizeI’m standing at center ice,clutching my stick andpanting likeawildanimal.Alone. Dad’s not slidingacross the rink to lift meoff my feet in a bear hug.Charlotte’s not cheeringfromthestands.JacobandBrig aren’t hollering forme. The quiet hurts my

ears.So…nocelebration.No

bonding. No victory lap. Icalledthiswrong.

I stare at the puckbetween my skates. Thecold of the ice zingsthrough me from thebottom of my feet to thetop of my sweat-soakedhead and I start shaking.I’ve shivered from coldbefore,butthisisdifferent.

I stagger off the ice andheadtothelockerroom.

No one speaks to meand I don’t speak toanyoneasIshuckmygearandletthehotwateroftheshower rinse away all mysweat. Guilt and dreadstickaround.

I towel off, getdressed,andshovemygearinto my hockey bag,heading to the lobby. I

don’t see anyone from thevan.

An official from theacademy hurries over tome and hands me a stackof papers: the judges’comments on myperformance.The reason Isnuck here in the firstplace. The key to myfuture. I thank her andhurry out of the rinkwithout catching anyone’s

eye or glancing at thepapers. I can’t wait to getaway.

IthoughtIjustwantedto go to the academy; Ididn’t realize until nowthat I wanted Dad’sapprovalandsupport,too.

Iscourtheparkinglot.Novan.Idropmybagandtry

to catch my breath. This

feels exactly like gettingthe wind knocked out ofyou by a high-stickingwingman.

Ican’tmakemybrainwork, can’t even begin tofigure out how I’ll gethome from here or makethings right with Dad.Myeyesburn.

As I stare vacantly attheparkinglot,ateambuspulls away. Behind it is a

rattyvanwithagiganticicecreamconeontop.

Dad is still here,waiting for me. I swipe atmyeyes,grabmybag,andtrudgetothevan.

Atticus:Whenmyboyrolledoutofthevan—which I didn’t like atall—and then camebackandspoketotheboss,itwasn’tagoodthing.

The boss didn’tsayanythingaftermy

boy walked away.Then he said “No!”when the muffin girltried to get out andfollow my boy. Shelooked scared, andthat’s bad—the bossnever scares people.SoIbarkedathimandhe apologized. But hedidn’t move, just satstaring at his phone.SoIbarkedagain.And

again.Andagain.Untilhe finally looked upand said, “Oh, allright!”andwentaftermyboy.Ifollowedhimand made sure hewent inthebuilding.Ibarked at the muffingirl and her boy andtheboywhoworksforthe boss until theywent inside, too. Istayed outside, but I

watched through theglassdoors.

They all came outandgotinthevan,butthings still aren’tright;thebossandmyboyaren’ttalking,butat least they’retogether.

Conor: I bit theboss’selbow.There’s

a little spot on theback of the armwhere, if you nip realfast and sharp, it’senough tomake themmove. My boy wantedthe boss to followhim, and Atticus wasbarking and barking,but the boss stillwasn’t moving. Inippedhim.Hemoved.

He can start

talking tomyboyanytimenow.

TheMake-UpFieldTrip

Dad hasn’t said a wordsincewelefttherink.

Which is A-OK withme because I’m notspeakingtohim,either.

He’s sitting in the farbackseat texting, so I can’tsee him, and I won’t turnaround to look. Conorcrawledintothefootwellofthe front passenger seatnext to Charlotte’s feet,and Atticus is staring out

the order window. Eventhe guys are toodisappointedtolookmeintheeye.

I’m sure Dad’s notgoing to get me a puppynow,ifhewasplanningto.It’s clear he and the guysdon’tthinkI’mworthyofapuppy after the stunt Ipulled.

Charlotte gives Brigdirections in a soft voice

andpetsConor.Shehasn’tsmiledatme,hasn’tlookedmy way since I climbedaboardattherink.

Jacobfixed,filled,andstarted the soft-servemachine and hands outcones to everyone. I can’ttaste mine, but theburning, twisting,stabbingpain in my gut settlesdown.

Brigpassedon a cone

and is slurping from astinky thermos cup ofhaggis or kimchi orsomethingmadeofpickledears and stuffed hooves. Ionce saw a guy in thelockerroomeatasandwichthat had fallen out of hisduffel and landed on theshowerfloor,andeventhatwasn’t nearly as gross aswhatBrigiseatingnow.

I finally get up the

nerve to text Mom what Idid. But I don’t have theguts to leavemyphoneonto see if she responds. I’msure she’s already heardDad’s version. She and Ialways used to shake ourheads together at Dad’scrazy ideas, but ever sinceshestarteddoingthebooksfor the business anddigging the houseremodeling,it’slikeIdon’t

knowheranymore.Iglanceatthecritique

on my scrimmage—greatcomments about my skillsand hustle from everyjudge. I’m a shoo-in. JustlikeIplanned.ButI’mnotevenrelieved.

Ipickatthesmalltearintheleftkneeofmyjeansuntilit’sagapinghole.

Inmyworstdreams,I

couldn’t have imaginedsuch a crappy field trip.Which, by the way, isn’teven happening. I knewDadwouldforgetallaboutgetting Charlotte, Jacob,and me to…what was itagain? No one has said aword about it sinceyesterday. We’re justdriving aimlessly at thispoint. I’d like to catch upwith the field trip or else

hurl myself out the orderwindow, land on the roofofasemi,holdonuntilthedriverstopstogetgas,andthenhitchhome.Anythingis better than being stuckin the Ice Cream Truck ofDoom under the DeathCone.

“So, uh, hey…”Everyone jumps like I setoff firecrackers. Probablybecausethespeakeronthe

dash that blasts the icecream truck song hasturned itself on and I’msitting next to the mike.Myvoiceisblaringthroughthe truckandoutonto thefreeway. The truck driverin the next lane swervesand then regains controlbefore flipping us the birdand roaring off. Brigpounds on the dash untilthespeakershutsoffwitha

squeak.“I, um, kind of lost

trackofthewholefieldtripthing….”Thetensioninthetruck is thick as we allthink about why that is.“But,uh,what’sthedeal?”

“I was starting towonder if anyone wouldever ask,” Charlotte says,“orifJacobandIweretheonly ones whoremembered why we hit

theroadinthefirstplace.”“What’s the field trip

for, anyway?”Brig asks. “Ijust drive where you tellme. No one ever told medetails.”

“The rest of our classis going to a bunch ofmuseumsandona tourofthe government center toobserve democracy inaction,” Jacob explains. “Iknow, totally dweeby. But

you try arranging detailsfor that many kids andfindingenoughchaperonesandkeepingthecostdownand making it a cross-curriculum focus.Definitelynotthebesttimeever. But it looks amazingonmyresume.”

“Jacob and I figuredoutwewerenevergoingtocatch up with the classoncewestartedworkingon

the house,” Charlotteexplains. “So while I wasemailing the foundationand the bank and waitingfortheiranswers,Istartedbrainstorming theindependent study fieldtripJacobsuggested.”

“And how’s thatworkingout?”Dadasks.

“Well! The movie setwas a way better exampleof ego-driven power-

mongers than any visit tocityhall. SoJacobwrote aone-act play starring thetwo of us about powerstructures and decisionmaking on the set. Boom!We’ve captured the spiritof democracy better thanthefieldtripevercould.”

“What about Ben?What’llhedo?”Brigasks.

“Lie on the floor toreenact the pile of dead

bodies. Teachers lovevisual aids and kids lovedead bodies,” Jacob says.“Icaneventellthemaboutthe gut-sucking tube Ilearned about at thefuneral!”

“Good thinking.” Iwishmoreschoolactivitiesinvolved playing dead.MomandDadwouldneverhave anything to complainabout,grade-wise.

“Butthat’snotthebestpart!”Jacobsays.“Tonightwe fight forsurvival in thewilderness.”

“Oh,uh,wow,that’s…”I wish I’d never said Ithought the field tripsoundedboring.Imaybeabrute on the ice, but I’mnot what you’d calloutdoorsy.

“It’s a forest preserve.We’re camping overnight.”

Charlotte shoots Jacob alook. “We’ll be there in afewminutes.”

“How’s that like goingto amuseum?” I don’t getit.

“Our experience willhelp us as the foundingmembers of our school’sEco-Preservation Society,”Charlotte tells me. “We’llactively promoteeducational programs that

advance environmentalconsciousness andfacilitate public awarenesswith a call to action.” Shesmiles. Atme. I can’t lookaway.Orfeelmylegs.

“See? It’s not justgoing to a museum, likeany boring schlub.” Jacobbounces. “We’ll embodythe spirit of a museum.And then bring ourknowledge back to school

andshareitwitheveryone.We’ll save the planet, onemiddle-school studentatatime.”

“Uh-huh.”“Westartbycollecting

examples of leaves andnativegrassesandflowers,identifyingrocksandtrees.Once it gets dark, we’llcampout,liveofftheland.I read a book aboutsurviving in the woods;

howhardcanitbe?”I glance over at Dad;

he’s grinning. I’ve alwaysthoughthewaswaitingfora chance to see if he haswhat it takes to be one ofthose daredevil adventureguys. I guess I should beglad Charlotte and Jacobdidn’t think rappellingdown the side of a cliff orskydiving was the perfectreplacement for our field

trip.“Awesome. I’ve never

been on a family campoutbefore,”Brigsays.

“Very…twinventive,” Isay, trying to look andsound as jazzed, orgullible,aseveryoneelse.

“Hereweare!Justpullup to any open campsite,Brig.”Charlottepoints.

“I’ll gocheck inat the

office.” Dad whistles toConor and Atticus. “Youget started on yourforagingandwhatnot.”

“I’ll keep Mr. Duffycompany,” Brig says. “Seeifwecanfigureouthowtomakeashelterfromallthetarps in the back of thetruck, maybe rustle upsomegrub.”

“No!”weallshriek.

“I’ll drive back to thegrocery store down theroad while Brig sets up ashelter.” Dad winks at us.“Get some hot dogs andbuns.”

I’m not sure how thiscountsasafieldtrip,butIdon’t mind walking withCharlotteinthewoods.Welet Jacob get a few feetahead of us on the pathand we walk side by side.

Our hands brush againsteachother, and it’s almostas good as stealing thepuck. How did I nevernotice this girl before?Maybe Dad was on tosomething when he saidhockey school would limitmy options.Maybe havingfriends instead of justteammatescouldbefun.

Jacob picks up everyleaf and pebble and stick

he thinks is pretty andkeepsdraggingmenext tohimforpicturesinfrontofbushes and trees andflowers. “I’ll justPhotoshop some morenormal headshots of youwhen we get home,” hedecides after scrollingthrough some images onhis phone. “Because youstill look like the undeadfrom yesterday’s zombie

movie. A little dazed andoutofit.”

“That’s because we’relost, and I’m dehydratedandstarving.”

Charlotte and Jacobargue about which way tohead. “That’s where wecamefrom,Jacob.Youaresowrong.”And“It’sclearlywest.Weneedtobearwestto get back to thecampsite.”

I’m about to lie downon the ground and expireforreal.

“Arf.” One terse,ticked-offbark.

Atticus is standingrightinfrontofme,havingappeared out of thin air.He looks annoyed andmakes sure I understandhe’s here to save me andI’m meant to follow himbefore he turns and heads

back down the path thatneither Charlotte norJacob thought we shouldtake.

“Oh, good, someonewhoknowshisdirections,”Charlotte says, and startstofollowAtticus.

Jacob shrugs. “I’llfollowAtticusanywhere.”

“Arfarfarfarfarf!!!!”Conor comes tumbling

through thewoods,his furcovered in burrs, a smallbranch stuck to his collar.Hehurlshimselfatmeandpropels me flat on myback. I can’t breathebecause he’s sitting onmychest, licking my face andrubbinghispricklyheadonmy chin. He won’t stopbarking and, oh, no. Hejustpeedalittle.

“All right, all right.

Good job, you saved me.Stop peeing on my chestandgofindAtticus.”

He leaps off me andheads up the path Jacobwantedtotake.Iwaitforacouple seconds and sureenough, a black-and-whiteblur comes hurtling backand zooms after Atticus. Ifollow more slowly. Andfind that Charlotte iswaitingtowalkwithme.

When we finallystagger back to thecampsiteandspotthevan,there’s a line trailing awayfromourvehicleparkedatthe edge of the lot. Dadand Brig are studying thecrowd. Jacob, Charlotte,andIwalkup.

“Dad—what’s goingon?”

Atticus starts barkingat the truck; he’s looking

up, barking at the DeathConeontheroof.

I laugh for the firsttime all day. “They’rewaiting for the ice creamtrucktoopen.”

“GoodthingIfixedthesoft-servemachine,”Jacobsays. “Ifwe give the conesaway,wecanalsoadddataaboutphilanthropiceffortson the trip.Nooneon theofficial field trip will have

done anything as cool asthis.Werule!”

I scramble to findconesinthemessofboxesin the back. Then we taketurns running the soft-serve machine to see whomakesthebestcurlicueontop.

Jacob plugs thefreezer in and does sometweaking to themotorandpretty soon it’s humming

away. “We’ll fill it withfrozennoveltieslater,”Dadsays. “Obviously, we havean obligation to carrytreats.”

“Obviously.” But Ismile. Itwas just amatterof timebeforeDad startedselling ice cream. Dadsmiles back and the chillbetween us warms up alittle.

After the campers

haveallgoneback to theircampsites, we makedinner. Then Brig hangstarps and rope between atree and the Death Cone,andwe have a funky tent.Hesays it’sbigenoughforthefourofusandtheguys,but Atticus snorts andjumpsintothevan,makinga bed from himself on thefrontpassengerseat.Conorfollows him. I follow the

guys because they havemoresensethanDad,Brig,and Jacob, who throwthemselvesunderthetarp.Charlotte climbs into thevan behindme, but Conoris in the middle seatbetween us and we can’teven see each otherbecause of the tall backs.It’sstillawesomethatIgetto sleep a few feet awayfromher.

The ice cream, theforestairandexercise,andlistening to Charlottebreathe help take awaysome of my confusionabouttryoutsandDad.

I wonder what Jacobthinks about tomorrowbeing the best day ever,becauseIfeelaboutdue.

Atticus: We didn’t gofor a hike with theboss. I knew wewouldn’t. We found ahammockandhe tookanap.Thebossisoldnow, and he needsmore rest than heusedto.

I didn’t mind,though; the puppy isat his bestwhen he’sasleep.

I didn’t nap. I satunderneath the bossto protect them. Imight have closedmyeyes for a second ortwo.I’mnotsoyoung,either.

Still,Icanfindmyboywhenhegetslost.

We’re going tokeep the muffin girland her boy and theboywhoworksfortheboss. They’ll come tothe house a lot andwe’ll get in the truckandgo see them.Andmy boy will tell mestories about themand try to make metalk to them on thephone.

I wish there wereanother way to makefriends like this thatdidn’t involvebouncinginthevan.

At least we didn’tget a new puppy thistime.That’sprogress.

Conor: I SAVED MYBOY!!! I had topretend to chase a

squirrel so Atticuscouldgettohimfirst.Ihopethebossdidn’tforget he’s going togetmeapuppy.

TheRescue

After the world’s longestnight, it’s finally morning.

We survived thewilderness.Or,inmycase,sleeping in the van withfarting border collies. Wenow possess the woodsversion of street cred.We’restiffandachyandweall smell a little funky,especially Brig, who reeksofvinegar,sourcreamandonion potato chips and, Ithink,deadskunk.

Jacob and Charlotte

agree that we surpassedthe official field trip interms of practical learningexperiences.

“Wearegoingtomakeeveryone at school crazywithenvy.”Charlottenods.

“Ifweheadbacknow,we’ll have time to get ourhomework done tonight,”Jacob says. As if that’ssomething to look forwardto.

Dad takes the wheeland I sit in the passengerseat. I wonder if we canstart feelingmore normal,maybe even talk aboutwhat happened. Whatcomes next. Although I’mnotgoingtostart.

We’vebeendrivingforan hour or two on asmaller road; Dad likes totake country roads andback ways when he can.

Atticus starts barking,jumping up and down,pawing at the orderwindow, frantic togetout.He’s never, ever, not onceinmywhole life acted likethis. I can’t rememberseeing him so out ofcontrol.

Dad laughs and turnsto me. “Border colliesnever forget anything.Ever.” He turns into what

lookslikeafarmandstops.We get out and hear

theworld’smostwonderfulsound: barking dogs.Atticus runs to theenormous fenced-in yardand puts his paws up onthetoprungofthefencesohecanseebetter.

I’ve never seenanything so beautiful.Waves of rolling hills andgrass waving in the wind

andmore dogs than I cancount.Blackandchocolateand golden Labs, beagles,pugs,JackRussellterriers,retrievers, spaniels, amajestic-looking Irishsetter;olddogsandyoungdogs; dogs that stand ontheirbacklegsatthefence,howlingforustopetthem;shydogs thatpeekaroundtreestumps;dogsthatbarkandyipandbrayandhowl

and sing, begging us toplay. It’s a dog rescue. It’sparadise.

Myheartstarts to feelwarm and light justlooking. Jacob and Brigand Charlotte are sweptinsidethegatebyaworkerwhogives thembucketsofdog food and water andpoints at the food binsscattered around the field.It’s breakfast time, and

every hand is a helpinghand.

“ThisiswhereyougotAtticus,isn’tit?”DadandIwatch Atticus study thedogs running where heusedtoplay.

“Yup. Couldn’t thinkof a better place to find apuppy. C’mon. Let’s seewho’sreadytoberescued.”

Besides me. I hope a

puppywill thaw the freezebetween me and Dad. Isuredon’tknowhowtodoit.

Dad heads toward thebuildingmarkedOfficeandIfollow,Conoratmyheels.

This is where thepuppiesarekept.DadandI inhale the amazing scentofbabydog.

I look at the row of

cratesagainstthewallandabout fall over. Aminiature Atticus andConorisstaringstraightatme. Our eyes lock. AtticusandConorand I loveeachother, but I feel totallydifferent than I ever havebefore when I look in thispuppy’sbrightbrowneyes.Icantellhefeelsthesameway about me. What theysayabouttrueloveisright:

youjustknow.The puppy starts to

wiggle,tryingtogettome.It’s crazy, I know, but Iwish I weren’t wearingjeans with a hole in theknee so I could make agood impression on thislittleguy.

Even though I knowbetter, I unlatch the dogcrate without asking. Thepuppy leaps in my arms.

Wefittogether.Isitonthefloor and lean against thewall, holding him on mychest, our cheeks pressedagainsteachother.

A ladywearinga shirtthat says BYE BYE, DEATHROW—HELLO, LIFE smilesatmeasshewalksbywitha pile of towels. “Seemslikeyoutwoweremadeforeachother.”

Brig, Jacob, and

Charlotte walk in andstand next to Dad andConor, watching me meetmypuppy.

“What’s his name?” Ifinallyasktherescuelady.

“I call him Puck. HislitterallgotShakespeareannames.”

“It’s a sign,” Jacobsays.“YouplayhockeyandhisnameisPuck.”

The lady nods; thenshe laughs. Atticus isstanding at the door,waitingtobeletinside.Shepushes open the door andAtticus walks in, leansagainst her leg, and sighs.She must have been goodto him when he was apuppy: he’s grateful. Iblinkawayatear.

“Hello, my friend.”She gets down on her

hands and knees to holdhisface.“Youlookgoodforanoldman.Itoldyouhe’dtakegoodcareofyou.IgetyourChristmascardseveryyear,soIknowyou’vebeenwell.”

Conor starts yipping,jumpingup to try tomakeme set the smaller versionof him down so they canplay. Puck barks sharplyand Conor drops his butt

totheground.Dad laughs. “You’ve

got yourself an alpha dog,son. He just let Conorknowwho’sincharge.”

I set Puck down andhe touches noses withConor. Then they bothsneeze and Conor tipsover.

Atticus groans andturns his face toward the

door,as ifhecan’tbear tolook.

DadcallsAtticustohisside and ruffles his ears.“You’ll see, it’ll all workout.”

But Atticus startsbumping his head againstDad’s leg, trying to herdhimaway.

Dad looks down. “I’mtelling you—it’s all right. I

neverlietoyou—youknowthat.”

Atticus sighs andslinksovertothetwopups.Conor looksnervous.Puckdoesadoubletakewhenhesees Atticus and quivers.But then he fluffs up thefur on his neck, trying tolook bigger, and attemptsto bark like he did atConor. It comes out a yip.He looks embarrassed,

backs up, scratches theground likebullsdo in thering, triesagain.Thisbarkisbetter.

Atticus stops dead,blinks, and—I swear—chuckles,hehhehheh.Histail slowly wags and hisears go back as he sniffsthe puppy from head totail. Once he’s found Puckacceptable from a smellpoint of view, he puts his

noseinthepuppy’searandsnuffles. Atticus-speak for“You’lldo.”

Conor has beenwatching intently. Now helauncheshimselfatAtticusand Puck. He trips, ofcourse, and knocks Puckover. Atticus forgets hisdignity, sticks his butt intheair,tailwaggingcrazily,andbarks as the twopupsroll around, whining and

yipping.“This really and truly

isthebestdayever,”Jacobsays.We all grin andnod;he’sright.

Dad starts to fill outthe adoption paperworkwhileJacobpicksoutaredleash and the lady helpsBrig make a name tag.Charlotte and I read theingredients on bags ofpuppyfoodandPuckgives

somechewtoysatestrun.Brig hands me an ID tag:BEN’SBORDERCOLLIE.

The lady takes ourpictureforherWebpage.Ikeep an eye on Atticuswhile we’re posing. Heremembers Jacob’s adviceabout his good side andleans forward with hisrightcheek.

Puck follows Atticuswith his eyes; he knows

Atticus is topdog.Heyipsat Conor and snaps at hisback legs to keep him inline. Conor doesn’t trip asmuch.

DadandItakeAtticusandConorandPucktothefield behind the rescuebuilding to play Frisbeebeforeheadinghome.

BrigandJacobareinapen, covered in puppies.Charlotte, of course, has

hertabletout.“I’mpairingthe rescue people withlocal schoolkids who needvolunteer hours.” She getscuter every time she hasanothergreatidea.

—

All three guys run off,about twenty-five yards,then turn and face us,dropping their chests to

the ground, butts in theair,waiting.Dad flicks thedisk in the air; Conorspringsupandruns inthewrong direction, happy tobound in circles, barking.PucksticksclosetoAtticus,who never takes his eyesoff the Frisbee, waitinguntil the last possiblemoment to spring intoaction.Hehurtlesskyward,snatchesthediskoutofthe

airwithhisteeth,andrunsback toward us as soon ashis paws hit the ground,thepuppyinhiswake.

Atticushasneveroncehanded me a ball or aFrisbee. He drops it threeor four feet in front ofmeandthenturnsandrunsasfastashecantohiswaitingspotbeforeIcanpickitupand throw.Nomatterhowmany times you tell him

“Bring it here” and holdoutyourhand,hewon’tdoit. Dad says that we don’tmake the rules. It’sAtticus’sworld;wejustlivehere.

But Puck barks atAtticus when he does thisand Atticus slinks over,picks up the Frisbee, and,forthefirsttimeinmylife,hands it to me. Then,sulking, he lies down and

pretendstonapwhilePuckandConor raceeachotherfor the Frisbee and keepbringingitbacktous.DadandIfloponeithersideofAtticus and wait for thepuppies to retrieve theFrisbee.

“So,”Dadfinallysays.“So.”Herewego.The

Talk.“Your mother found

usahouse.”“She did? That’s

great.” We won’t have tokickBrigoutof thevansowecansleepthere.Whew.

“Fromthepicturesshesent,Icanseethatitneedstobecompletelygutted.”

“Alotofwork?”“Yup,it’llbeahorrible

living situation for awhile.”

“Good thing we’realreadyusedtothat.”

“You know it.” Hesmiles.

“Why’d she buy ahouse in that condition,though?Weneedabreak.”

“Toshowmewhat it’slike when someone makeslife-altering familydecisions withoutconsultingthefamily.Kind

of likewhatyoudid tryingout for the hockeyacademy.”

“Oh.” I glance at him,afraid he’ll look mad, buthesmilesagain.

“Igetitnow.Howthetwo of you must have feltevery timeImadeanotherbig decision withouttalkingtoyoufirst.”

“It’sacrummyfeeling.

Onbothsides.Iknowthatnow.” I’m not going tohave any jeans left by theend of this trip if I don’tstoppickingholes in themwhenI’muncomfortable.

“We probably need toinstigatea familypolicysothatdoesn’thappenagain.”Dad pats my shoulder.“Youknow,let’stalkthingsover. Ihear thatworks forsomepeople.”

“That’dbegood.”Dad looks off. “Ben, I

waswrongtodecidenottolet you go to the hockeyacademythewayIdid,butI still don’t think thedecisionitselfwaswrong.”

“So the academy isreallyoffthetable?There’snothingIcansaytochangeyourmind?”

“The thing is—you’ll

be leaving home in fouryears anyway. And theacademy is just gettingstarted. And I know thatany start-up has a lot ofbugs to work out. I don’twant them working themout on you. Meanwhile,you’llstillplayhockey.Andhigh school in town couldbe great.”He nods towardCharlotteonhertablet.

I’m surprised I’m not

more bummed. I didn’tthinkanythingcouldmeanmore to me than hockey.Turns out there’s more tolife thanwhat happens ontherink.

“Hey,Ben?”“Yeah,Dad?”“The other reason

Mom bought the house isthat it’sablockaway fromtherink.”

“You’rekidding.”“Nope.Mom says you

can see theZamboni snowpile from your bedroomwindow.”

“That’s epic.” Theworst hassle about two-a-daypracticesandall thosegames has been trying toget rides; this is going tomakemy life amazing. I’llbe able to walk overwheneverIwant,putinas

much extra practice timeas therinkhas togiveme.I’m still on the best travelteam. I can go to schoolwith Charlotte and I don’thave to leave Puck. OrAtticus and Conor. AndDad and I are talkingagain.

Dad’snotdone.“…andI can’t say anything untilMom calls back, but trustme; she’s working on

another plan you’re goingto like, one we’ve beentalking about for nearly ayearnow.”

“Momhasaplan?”“Yeah. How Duffy of

her,right?”“Ihope she’sbetterat

executing plans than youandIare.”

“SodoI,Son;sodoI.”

Atticus: Another…puppy.

Conor: I GOT APUPPY!!!!!

Puck: I got my boy.

Andapack.

TheOtherRescue

Atticus and Conor aretrying tonudgePuckawayfrommeinthebackseatasweheadhome,Brig at thewheel. They think hebelongs to them. But hebarks,theybackoff,andhesettles on my lap. I’dexpect him to fall asleep—that’swhatpuppiesusuallydo—but he’s keeping aneyeoneveryoneinthevan.He.Is.Awesome.

I suddenly realize I’mnot obsessing abouthockey. I can’t rememberthe last time I wasn’tstressing about injuries orrunning plays in my heador hoping my stick holdstogether for another gameor plottingmy next careermove. It’s kind of…relaxing. I’m enjoying thepeace of mind, and I’mkind of dizzy because the

sunlightsupthelittlebabyhairs near Charlotte’stemple. “Things don’t getbetter than this.” I didn’tmean to say thatout loud,butawarmpuppyonyourlapisliketruthserum.

“Brace yourself, Ben.”Dad looks up from hisphone.

“Huh?”“Things are about to

getbetter.Waybetter.”Brig high-fives him in

the passenger seat. Jacoband Charlotte look backand grin.Everyone’s in onsomething. Of course, I’vebeen zoning out with thepuppy, lost inmynewZenstate, so it’s possiblethey’ve been talking sincewe got in the van and Ididn’thearaword.

“Ever since last

summer,whenIhadto letyou down about going tohockey camp, Mom and Ihave been working withyourcoachtopulltogetherasummertrainingcampatour rink.Here.”He handsmehisphonesoIcanreadwhat’sonhisscreen.

My head almostexplodesasItakeitin.

“Twelve weeks ofintensive training.” I look

up.“RealliveNHLtrainingstaffandevenafewretiredpros!”

“You sound happy.”Dadsmiles.

“It’sonlytwentytimesbetter than the hockeycampImissed.”

“ItoldyouI’dmakeitup to you. I just needed alittletime.”

“Ididn’tthinkyouand

Mom cared about hockeyorrealizedhowgoodIam.”

“Wealwaysknew.AndI could see that you wereoneofthestandoutsinthescrimmageyesterday.”

“You saw? I thoughtyou stayed in the van.Actually…Ifreakedoutthatyou might have left methere because of what acreepI’dbeen.”

“Isaweverysecond.Ablurmostofthetime,butIknew: you were the onewiththepuck.”

“Wewerewayuphighinthebleachers,”Charlottesays. Charlotte sawme onthe ice, too. If she didn’tknowabouthockeybefore,I’m sure she’s studied upon it since then and getshowkillerIamontheice.Ihope.

“Way up high wherethe heat vents are.” Jacobshivers.

“We sent Mom avideo, so she saw, too.”Brig waves his phone atme.

Mom, he called her. Itake a moment to thinkabout that. I don’t feeljealous, so I tell him,“WhenIturnpro,I’llmakesure you can get house

tickets to every game. Atcost.”

“Frozenbuttsforever!”Brigyells.

Conor has to pee, sowe stop at a rest area.Charlotte,Jacob,andIbuybottles of water; Brigchooses flaming hot cornchips, sour gummies, andmaltedmilkballs.

The three of us

exchange a look. Charlottespeaks for us: “I haven’twanted to be rude, but Ihave to ask—how can youstomach that crap youeat?”

“ ’Cause I’d behurling,” Jacob tells him.“You’ve downed someprettygrosscombos.”

“I was always hungrygrowing up,” Brig says.“Never enough food. Soda

crackers and oatmeal,mostly, maybe some stuffin dented cans, whateverMom could afford,whatevermydaddidn’teatfirst.”

Wow. Charlotte,Jacob, and I look at eachothersadly.

Brig’s eyes go darkand I getwhyhe’s sonutsaboutDad,whyhe’salwaysmunching.

“Well,ourdaddoesn’troll like that,” I tell him.“He always has our bestinterests at heart.” Was itjust two days ago he toldme that and I rolled myeyes?

“He got some badnews before we left,” Brigsays. “He has to have theCalhoun place drywalledby Tuesday or theelectricians won’t be

available.He’s been tryingtoscrambleacrewthepasttwo days, but no one’savailable on such shortnotice.”

Dadtaughtmehowtoput up drywall lastsummer.It’snothardonceyou know what you’redoing.

“Even if we had fiveguys,wemightnotmakeitintime,”Brigsays.

“Howaboutifyouhadtwentyguys?”

“We could knock upthosewallsinadayortwoiftheywerehardworkers.”

“They are.” I rub myhands together like acartooncharacterhatchinganevilplot.“Ineedyoutodrive us somewherewithouttellingDad,okay?”

Briglooksstartled,but

when I give him theaddress, he smiles andrelaxes.“I’min.”

I hold my phone outsoCharlotteandJacobcansee the text I’mstarting towrite, and they grin.“We’re in, too,” Charlottesays.

We climb back intothe van. Brig drives andeats, and Dad dozes offwith the guys. Charlotte,

Jacob, and I send texts allthewayhome.

ExceptweheadfortheCalhounplace.

My hockey team andMom are standing on thesidewalk.

Dad looks up with astart.“What?”

“Let’s get to work,” Itellhim.“Theguysarehereto get the drywalling done

pronto.”“Youcan’tbeserious.”“It’s the least we can

do; you set up hockeycamp.”

“And studentgovernmentvolunteerswillbehere soon tohelppaintand haul trash,” Charlottesays.

“And when you’reready, thedrama club and

mytrackteamaregoingtohelp you pack and movefrom the old house to thenewone.”Jacobhigh-fivesMom.

“Even though we’redonewiththefieldtrip,thefield trip’s not done withus,” Charlotte says. “Weareonfire!”

“It’slikeIwroteinmyfield trip proposal”—Jacobgrins—“ ‘Planning for

appropriate follow-upactivities is essential andwill facilitate studentlearning and multiply thevalue of hands-onexperiences outside theclassroom.’ ”

“You nailed it,” I tellhim.

AfterMomhugsusalland shows Dad and mepicturesofthenewplace—and Dad groans at all the

work—she straps on hersafetygogglesandheadstothe basement to startpounding drywall intoplacenexttous.

“This might be thebest tripwe’ve ever taken,Ben.”Dadand Iwatchmydefensive line turn barestudsintowalls.Theyworksofast it feels likewe’re inthemiddle of a time-lapsevideo.

“Like you say,everything always worksout intheend.Youalwaysforget to mention themessy middle part,though.”

“I don’t forget. I’msmart enough not to talkabout it because I’mwaitingforthegoodpart.”

He can stop waiting;it’shere.

Atticus: No one butmeknows.Perfect.

Thatwasprobablymylastroadtrip.

It’s getting hardto keep up with thepuppy and the newguy. My people

haven’tnoticedthatImove slower and myeyes are cloudy and,eventhoughIpretendI’m just not listening,I can’t hear as well.Pretty soon they’llstart to compare meto the puppy and thenew guy and it’ll beobvious.

Evenso,I likethenew guy. He’s more

mystyle.He’s doing a good

jobwiththeoldpuppy.I knew it was a two-man job to train thatone, but now I havehelp and everything’sgoing to be fine. Myboy says everyoneneeds a little assistonce in a while. Evenme.

It’llallworkout.

Conor: I’m glad noone but me knows.Perfect.

Atticus is gettingold.

He thinks I don’tknow that or how todomyjob.Iactgoofyand clueless so Iwon’thurthisfeelingsand make him feeluseless.IpretendedIdidn’tseehowhard it

was for Atticus tojumpupanddownoutofthevanandtokeepupwithus.

AtticuswouldhateitifheknewInoticedanything. I can playalong. I don’t mind ifhethinksI’magoof.

Ilovethenewguy.He’llbeabighelp.

Atticus is a two-man

job, and we need tomake sure he alwaysfeels like he’s incharge.

I know it’ll allworkout.

Puck: I’m glad theydon’tknowIknow.

Theoldguyneedsto see that I’ve gotthings under control.

The other guy needsto think he’s runningthe show. I knowwhereIfitinandwhatmyjobis.

And I know thatit’llallworkout.

TheTimeAfter

We’rehavingalast-day-of-summer barbecue thisafternoon. At the newhouse. Or theuninhabitable money-suckingdrain,asDadcallsit.

Dad complains, buthe’s having a blast. Withhelpfromthehockeyteam,and Charlotte and Jacob’steammates and dramabuddies, we’re making

great progress on ourhouse.AndwebroughttheCalhoun place in ahead ofschedule and underbudget; now Dad can payeveryone to work for him.He says they’re the bestcrewhe’severworkedwithand he’ll be sad whenschoolstarts.

Mom quit her old joband works full time forDuffy and Family. We

changed the name of thecompany, since Mom’sbetter at negotiatingcontracts and managingthe crew. She’s also prettygood at swinging ahammer;she’spitchedinafew times when shethought people wereslackingoff.

Brig’snotlivinginthevanunder theDeathConeanymore. Dad’s first

priority when we movedinto thenewhousewas tofix up an apartment aboveour garage for him—wewould have given him aroom in thehouse, but nomatter howmuch we loveBrig, we’re afraid of whathemighteat.Betterhehashisownkitchen. Igothima slow cooker and sharedsome of my recipes withhim. Fingers crossed he

startseatingbetter.I don’t know why I

waseverjealousofBrig;hewasn’t trying to take myplace, just to find one ofhisown.OnethingIknowabout this family—wealways make room forsomeone who needs aforeverhome.Andit’skindof cool to have a two-legged brother for achange.

Charlotte and Jacobarecomingtotheparty,ofcourse. Charlotte’s beenover a lot since we gothome from the field trip.Which is totally awesomefor reasons a gentlemankeeps to himself. She’samazingandbeautifulandshe likes me back, so youdothemath.

Charlotte worked itout so that we’re going to

surpriseJacobtodaywithaDVD of our scene in thezombiemoviewherewe’reallapileoftheundeadandhesayshisbigline.

Jacob tried to get meto try out for the fallmusical. I went toauditions with him, but Ichoked. Worked out okayin the end; I’m on thebackstageand set crew forBye Bye Birdie, starring

Jacob Norton as ConradBirdie.

The hockey team willcome to thebarbecue, too,along with the rest of theguysImetathockeycamp.I’m going to take lots ofpictures tonight so whenweallmakeittothepros,Icanshowthatwe’veknowneach other since we werekids.

Dad was right, and I

don’tevenhatetoadmitit:Playingonthebesthockeyteamin town,beingapartof the world’s mostawesome hockey camp,working for the coolestfamily business in history,and having the greatestgirlfriendeveriswaybetterthan obsessing abouthockey 24/7/365. My feetsmellbetter,too.

I stillworry aboutmy

future, but now that justmeans I already lockeddown a date tohomecoming this fall.Charlotte’s teachingme toslow dance. Win/win forBen.

The guys are reallyhappy in the new house,especiallysincetheyspendmostoftheirtimeinBrig’sapartment to avoid theconstruction.

Atticus has reallymellowedinhisoldage;ormaybe it’s having Puckaround so he doesn’t haveto manage Conor on hisown. I don’t say anythingto Dad or Mom aboutAtticus getting older; itwould just upset them.ConorandPuckknowwhatto do without me tellingthem. When Atticus naps,which is a lot these days,

they curl up next to him,but they don’t sleep, theykeepguard.And theyslowtheir steps so he can keepup.

I use some of themoneyImakeatDuffyandFamilytobuyfiletmignonand chicken breasts andthose huge knuckle bonesAtticus likes to chew. I actlike I only buy the treatsforAtticus,butIslipConor

and Puck their portionswhenAtticus isn’t looking,and they’recoolenough toeat them out of sight soAtticusfeelsspecial.

When I see thatAtticus is changing, I’mglad all over again that Ididn’t leave home forhockey school. I’ve gotforevertoplayhockey,butAtticusneedsmenow.

Dad still believes that

everything will alwayswork out. I believe thatnothing ever happens likeyou think it will. But bothofus know that real life isalways a million timesbetter than anything youcanimagine.

AbouttheAuthors

Gary Paulsen is thedistinguished author of manycritically acclaimed books foryoung people, including threeNewbery Honor Books: TheWinter Room, Hatchet, andDogsong.HewontheMargaretA.EdwardsAwardgivenbytheALA for his lifetimeachievement in young adult

literature. Among his RandomHouse books are Road Trip(written with his son, JimPaulsen); Family Ties; Vote;Crush; Flat Broke; Liar, Liar;Paintings from the Cave;Woods Runner; Masters ofDisaster;LawnBoy;LawnBoyReturns; Notes from the Dog;Mudshark;TheLegendofBassReeves; The Amazing Life ofBirds; Molly McGinty Has aReally Good Day; How AngelPetersonGotHisName;Guts:The True Stories BehindHatchet and the Brian Books;

The Beet Fields; Soldier’sHeart; Brian’s Return, Brian’sWinter, and Brian’s Hunt(companions to Hatchet);Father Water, Mother Woods;and five books about FrancisTucket’s adventures in the OldWest. Gary Paulsen has alsopublishedfictionandnonfictionfor adults. He divides his timebetweenhishomeinAlaska,hisranch in New Mexico, and hissailboat on the Pacific Ocean.YoucanvisithimontheWebatGaryPaulsen.com.

Gary Paulsen is available forselect speaking engagements.To inquire about a possibleappearance, please contact thePenguin Random HouseSpeakers Bureau atspeakers@penguinrandomhouse.com.

Jim Paulsen is a sculptor andformer elementary schoolteacher. He lives with his wifeandtwochildreninMinnesota.