Free Field Trip by Gary Paulsen Page B

has another great idea.
    —
    All three guys run off, about twenty-five yards, then turn and face us, dropping their chests to the ground, butts in the air, waiting. Dad flicks the disk in the air; Conor springs up and runs in the wrong direction, happy to bound in circles, barking. Puck sticks close to Atticus, who never takes his eyes off the Frisbee, waiting until the last possible moment to spring into action. He hurtles skyward, snatches the disk out of the air with his teeth, and runs back toward us as soon as his paws hit the ground, the puppy in his wake.
    Atticus has never once handed me a ball or a Frisbee. He drops it three or four feet in front of me and then turns and runs as fast as he can to his waiting spot before I can pick it up and throw. No matter how many times you tell him “Bring it here” and hold out your hand, he won’t do it. Dad says that we don’t make the rules. It’s Atticus’s world; we just live here.
    But Puck barks at Atticus when he does this and Atticus slinks over, picks up the Frisbee, and, for the first time in my life, hands it to me. Then, sulking, he lies down and pretends to nap while Puck and Conor race each other for the Frisbee and keep bringing it back to us. Dad and I flop on either side of Atticus and wait for the puppies to retrieve the Frisbee.
    “So,” Dad finally says.
    “So.” Here we go. The Talk.
    “Your mother found us a house.”
    “She did? That’s great.” We won’t have to kick Brig out of the van so we can sleep there. Whew.
    “From the pictures she sent, I can see that it needs to be completely gutted.”
    “A lot of work?”
    “Yup, it’ll be a horrible living situation for a while.”
    “Good thing we’re already used to that.”
    “You know it.” He smiles.
    “Why’d she buy a house in that condition, though? We need a break.”
    “To show me what it’s like when someone makes life-altering family decisions without consulting the family. Kind of like what you did trying out for the hockey academy.”
    “Oh.” I glance at him, afraid he’ll look mad, but he smiles again.
    “I get it now. How the two of you must have felt every time I made another big decision without talking to you first.”
    “It’s a crummy feeling. On both sides. I know that now.” I’m not going to have any jeans left by the end of this trip if I don’t stop picking holes in them when I’m uncomfortable.
    “We probably need to instigate a family policy so that doesn’t happen again.” Dad pats my shoulder. “You know, let’s talk things over. I hear that works for some people.”
    “That’d be good.”
    Dad looks off. “Ben, I was wrong to decide not to let you go to the hockey academy the way I did, but I still don’t think the decision itself was wrong.”
    “So the academy is really off the table? There’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”
    “The thing is—you’ll be leaving home in four years anyway. And the academy is just getting started. And I know that any start-up has a lot of bugs to work out. I don’t want them working them out on you. Meanwhile, you’ll still play hockey. And high school in town could be great.” He nods toward Charlotte on her tablet.
    I’m surprised I’m not more bummed. I didn’t think anything could mean more to me than hockey. Turns out there’s more to life than what happens on the rink.
    “Hey, Ben?”
    “Yeah, Dad?”
    “The other reason Mom bought the house is that it’s a block away from the rink.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Nope. Mom says you can see the Zamboni snow pile from your bedroom window.”
    “That’s epic.” The worst hassle about two-a-day practices and all those games has been trying to get rides; this is going to make my life amazing. I’ll be able to walk over whenever I want, put in as much extra practice time as the rink has to give me. I’m still on the best travel team. I can go to school with Charlotte and I don’t have to leave Puck. Or Atticus and