Field Trip by Gary Paulsen

get dark; then he gets extra cheerful and fiddles with his phone. The boy didn’t see the boss on the phone when everyone else was lying on the ground, pretending to be dead. But I see everything. I can tell the boss will need my help, too.
    They’d be lost without me.
    Conor: I DID GOOD TODAY!!!!!!

The Moment of Truth…and Consequences
    One of the great things about hockey is that rinks usually open at five or five-thirty in the morning. Figure skaters and hockey players grow accustomed to being up and ready to function at what normal people call an ungodly hour, but normies have a hard time focusing at that time of the day.
    Which is exactly what I’m counting on.
    I turn in my seat and look at everyone.
    After the shoot ended, Brig got his hands on a king-size cup of coffee at a gas station and dropped a glob of that chocolate-hazelnut spread in it to melt. He’s overcaffeinating and oversugaring himself to stay alert as he drives. I’m getting used to Brig, if not his food, and I’m not going to freak out about him taking my place in the family until I get off the ice.
    Charlotte’s asleep on the floor between two benches, so I can’t see her, but I can hear her breathe and I even think that’s adorable. I might be falling for her, but I can’t think about how to handle that until after tryouts.
    Jacob is still sleeping on the far back bench. I get the feeling we could be buddies, unless he’s the kind of guy who holds a grudge about being tricked into a secret plan. Still, I can’t let this opportunity slip through my fingers because I might want to be friends with some guy.
    Dad and Conor are fast asleep on one of the benches. Dad’s going to be disappointed in me for scheming to take us off course and manipulating the situation for my own benefit. But I am destined to go to this hockey academy.
    Atticus is staring at me from his seat near the order window. We nod at each other even though I’m pretty sure he knows I’m up to no good. I wonder if I should jettison the sneaky plan so no one ever realizes how calculating and self-involved I am.
    I slap both of my cheeks briskly. Snap out of it. Pull it together. Take action. I have a plan; it’ll all work out.
    We’re about thirty or forty minutes from the rink and I need to start getting dressed. Luckily, I have a lot of experience pulling on hockey gear in moving vehicles. Most people couldn’t do it.
    I pull on one long-sleeved and one short-sleeved shirt. Since I know I’ll be super nervous, I skip the long underwear—don’t want to sweat myself dehydrated during tryouts. I also put on a jock and a cup, which are never skip-worthy. Ever. Even though they’re super tricky to put on in a moving vehicle four feet from a girl. I pull on lightweight track pants as fast as I can.
    I’m the kind of skater who doesn’t wear socks—I like the feel of my sweat softening the leather of my skates and molding to the soles of my feet. It’s an acquired taste. And it’s a smell like the depths of hell. Even I think hockey skates are about the worst smell ever. So I pull on my team socks, which are really striped, footless tubes, over my shin guards, which I’ve strapped to my lower legs, and secure them with hockey tape wrapped around my thighs. I wrap more tape under my knees to help keep the shin guards in place.
    Then come the hockey pants and belt; I’m not a suspenders kind of guy, although some old-school players swear by them.
    I’m sweating buckets already and cursing our abundance of gear. This is always the moment where I second-guess my love of hockey. For a fast sport that makes greased lightning look sluggish, dressing for it takes forever. I bet even Mark Messier had trouble gearing up from time to time.
    I won’t put on my skates, elbow and shoulder pads, jersey, helmet, or gloves until I’m inside the rink and ready to take the ice with my stick. I’m so edgy, though, that I pop my mouth guard in. I look goofy, but at least I won’t