Field Trip Read Free Page A

still asleep upstairs. “She used to worry about the way you run the business,” I remind him.
    “That was before she started doing the bookkeeping. Now she’s behind me a hundred percent!”
    Atticus barks at me. Sounds like “Go.” Conor’s still staring at the back door, willing it to open.
    At least some of us are excited to hit the road.
    I shuffle out to the pickup, two border collies hot on my heels. Atticus and Conor go everywhere with us—if we try to escape, they aren’t above tripping us to remind us to bring them along. I feel bad for sheep when I see how ruthlessly border collies herd their people.
    “Not the pickup, Ben,” Dad calls as he locks the back door. “We’re taking the company car.”
    No. Freaking. Way.
    The company car…Dad told us he was going to buy a van for next to nothing at a sheriff’s auction. Mom and I thought that made sense. But then he brought home an old ice cream van with a ginormous chipped fiberglass swirl cone cemented to the roof. It used to be pink-and-white stripes but has turned a deadly gray. Dad’s crazy about the cone and all the space on the inside. He said no one else saw the fun of driving around underneath an oversized plastic ice cream cone. I am one of those people.
    So I throw my duffel in the back of the van as hard as I can because not only do I have to prove myself and make him let me go to hockey school, but now I have to do it underneath the Death Cone.
    “Umph.” A pile of tarps on one of the seats groans and moves as my gear lands. I jump back. Atticus growls and slides between the van and me; Conor yelps and runs in circles around me—he hasn’t figured out the appropriate response to possible danger.
    “Oh, hey, Brig,” Dad says, glancing past me at the sleepy-faced guy crawling out of the van. He could be anywhere from seventeen to, um, twenty-four? “Did we wake you?”
    Atticus and Conor bark and jump on the guy, greeting him like an old friend. He’s got shaggy hair and is wearing baggy work pants and hiking boots and a ratty tee that reads DUFFY AND SON. We have company shirts now? He’s super skinny but strong; even both guys throwing themselves at him doesn’t take him off his feet.
    “Yeah, thanks. Not a bad wake-up call. My alarm clock is too loud and always makes the cone on the roof vibrate.” Brig rubs his eyes, stretches, and yawns. “Hey, buddy,” he says to Atticus and Conor as they scramble to get him to pet them. Even Atticus is all over him. Shockingly out of character.
    “Some info would be nice,” I say to Dad. Are we going to be fighting for sleeping space in our vehicles now that we have no home?
    “This is Brig.”
    “Uh-huh…?”
    “My apprentice.”
    “Really.” I hope sarcasm is a sustainable natural resource, because I’d hate to run out. I can see that bitter derision is going to be my default response to everything Dad shares from now on.
    “Apprentice, assistant, paid intern, associate, craftsman, what have you. Duffy and Son is an up-and-coming business with multiple employees.” Dad beams.
    “Hey, nice to meet you.” Brig stops petting my border collies long enough to shake my hand. “Mr. Duffy told me all about you. I’m Brigham Hancock.”
    “Good to meet you, Brig. Do you always sleep in Dad’s van?”
    “Ever since I started working for him.”
    “Why?”
    “So that I’m never late for work. I love my job, and I’d hate to disappoint Mr. Duffy. I’m on call for him twenty-four/seven.”
    “Did you know this, Dad?” He’s looking at a map. Why, I have no idea; it’s not like he uses them. I don’t even know why he owns any. It’s like a killer whale buying ballet slippers—they’re just never going to come in handy.
    “I know Brig loves working for me. I didn’t know he was sleeping in the van.”
    Geez. This day is so weird.
    “You don’t usually need the van so early,” Brig says.
    “Getting my boy to his class field trip, taking his mind off a bad idea, maybe