Field Trip Read Online Free

should have had company last night when the boss and the real boss were talking. Well, he talked and she sat there quiet and then went for a walk. Not the good kind, where she takes us. The stompy kind without us.
    Conor: I’M GOING BUH-BYE IN THE VAN!!!!

The Twins
    “So, Dad, care to share deets on the twin thing?” I hope he’s noticing how awesome I’m being: calm, easygoing, curious, open to new people and experiences. The perfect son to send to Brookdale Hockey Academy.
    “Jacob and Charlotte Norton. Great kids. But you know that. They’re in your class.”
    They are? Maybe Dad is right about hockey taking over my brain, because I can’t connect these names with faces. In my defense, at school I focus on getting my homework done ahead of time so I don’t have it hanging over my head when I hit the ice. Distraction is not good for elite players. Neither is fatigue, so I can’t stay up late hanging out with friends or doing homework. I can name every player on every Stanley Cup–winning team for the past forty years, and I know every hockey player my age and at my level in the country who might be competition or a teammate when I turn pro, but I’m not too sure who most of the kids at school are.
    “Oh, sure, Jacob and Charlotte Norton,” I bluff. “So why are we picking them up?”
    “They had to go to a funeral yesterday and couldn’t leave with your class. I called their dad last night about a job and he was bummed that they had to miss the class trip, seeing as how Charlotte is the student council president and Jacob is the class representative to the parent-teacher association and they did most of the work to make the trip happen—the museum passes, chaperones, lesson plans connected to the museum exhibits…you know, stuff like that.”
    Oh, right. Jacob and Charlotte. The kind of Super-Involved Students teachers and administrators wish they could clone. A vague picture comes to mind of people who play in the band; sing in the choir; act in the plays; join numerous teams; win state contests in essay writing, science experiments, and social studies projects; host foreign exchange students; spearhead fund-raisers for food pantries; wash cars to raise awareness of air pollution or endangered species or something; and volunteer at nursing homes, reading to old folks. Them. Snore.
    Dad is still talking. “…so that’s when I knew: Ben can’t pass up this awesome experience because (a) it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and (b) the payments are nonrefundable. And Jacob and Charlotte shouldn’t miss it. Ben, it was like a call from the universe—another one, like selling the house.”
    This day just keeps getting better: He’s hearing cosmic orders. I open the glove box and root around for licorice or jelly beans. A sugar buzz will help me cope.
    “Hey, Ben.” Brig taps my shoulder. “Can you hand me the box of Red Hots your dad keeps on the dash? My breath is freaking Conor out because I just ate sardines and leftover garlic stir-fry for breakfast. I tried to share, but he didn’t want any.”
    “Can’t have a freaked-out border collie.” I hand back the candy and gag at the stench. I try not to compare Brig’s consideration of Conor’s comfort level with Dad’s lack of concern about the security and future of his only son. I crack the window for some fresh air, tip my head back, and close my eyes. I should learn to meditate.
    A few minutes later we pull over and I see two kids standing in a driveway. They have matching backpacks and duffel bags and are wearing pressed cargo pants, brand-new hiking boots, and matching T-shirts with the name of our school on the front. They’re waving and grinning, oozing enthusiasm and pep. I sigh. Here come the twintastics.
    “Hi, Mr. Duffy.” The girl climbs in the back next to Brig and the border collies. She’s wearing glasses and has her hair in a ponytail. “I got up early and made sugar- and fat-free power muffins for us. Bran buds, organic