The Letters
I stagger in the back door after hockey, wrecked. Thursdays are brutal: strength and conditioning training for ninety minutes before school; then, after the last bell rings, back to the rink for a few hours on the ice. After twenty years of hard work (well, I’m fourteen, but ice time is way longer than real time), I finally made the best hockey team in town.
When I get home, all I want to do is eat and go to bed. A guy needs some peace and quiet. But peace and quiet are pretty rare at our house these days.
Last summer Dad suddenly quit his job as a corporate pencil pusher and started a business flipping houses. No, he’s not a giant; flipping means he buys crummy places, fixes them up, and sells them. He’s pretty good at what he does, I have to admit that; he’s bought dumps that looked to me like nothing but rotting drywall and turned them into show houses.
But there’s always the awful wait for the house to sell. And when Dad bugs out about things that are beyond his control, he rips apart something in
our
house.
For the past ten months, we’ve been living in a construction zone. When Dad’s not at work, which is most of the time, he’s home tearing down walls and pulling up floors.
Initially, I was really into Dad’s company, Duffy and Son, and I worked for him last summer. But once I made the travel hockey team, I didn’t have time for that. And I can’t stand not having running water, and being able to see through the floor of my bedroom because Dad yanked up the boards. He and Mom love the constant remodeling—he thrives on the challenges, she enjoys the new stuff—but I hate it.
Today it’s quiet when I get home. Just Atticus and Conor waiting for me. It’s been this way for months—me and the guys. Sometimes I think they’re the only ones who notice if I come home, and they’re the main reasons I come home at all.
Atticus sneezes as I walk into the kitchen; the drywall dust bothers his nose. He’s our fifteen-year-old border collie, and the construction makes him extra cranky.
Conor, the rescue puppy we adopted last summer, caroms around the corner into the kitchen, sliding into the wall with a thump. His paws scrabble on the new hardwood floor—he hasn’t gotten the hang of the slick wood yet—and he bats his stuffed lamb my way, to throw it for him to chase, but I kick it so the toy skids to him, pucklike. He pounces on it—goal denied! I have visions of putting together the world’s first-ever canine hockey team. I am all hockey, all the time.
“Awesome defense, buddy.” I try to get Conor to high-five me, but he tips over when he lifts a paw. He might be a little too clumsy for hockey. Atticus just watches the toy slide past him and then looks at me sadly. He’ll catch Frisbees and balls, but hockey isn’t his thing. Weird that we’re related.
Atticus whines and stares at the slow cooker on the counter.
“Beef stroganoff today,” I tell him. His ears prick up. I’ve been cooking for myself all year, and a slow cooker is a hungry guy’s best friend. I had to start making my own meals after Mom took on the finances at Duffy and Son; she still works full-time at her old job, but now she takes care of our books in the evenings and on weekends. I looked up a bunch of easy recipes and started fending for myself. I don’t know what Mom and Dad do about meals; I can’t remember the last time we ate together.
I dump kibble in two bowls for the guys, then sit down with my plate of beefy noodles, and the three of us start inhaling supper. I look through the mail as I eat.
Two envelopes are addressed to
The Parents of Ben Duffy.
“My name is on them,” I assure Atticus, who has stopped eating to watch me, his ears flattened in disapproval. “It’s okay.”
The first letter is from the assistant vice principal at my school. Atticus and Conor are nudging my thigh, so I read the letter to them. “ ‘Ben’s attendance record is less than optimal.’ That
I stagger in the back door after hockey, wrecked. Thursdays are brutal: strength and conditioning training for ninety minutes before school; then, after the last bell rings, back to the rink for a few hours on the ice. After twenty years of hard work (well, I’m fourteen, but ice time is way longer than real time), I finally made the best hockey team in town.
When I get home, all I want to do is eat and go to bed. A guy needs some peace and quiet. But peace and quiet are pretty rare at our house these days.
Last summer Dad suddenly quit his job as a corporate pencil pusher and started a business flipping houses. No, he’s not a giant; flipping means he buys crummy places, fixes them up, and sells them. He’s pretty good at what he does, I have to admit that; he’s bought dumps that looked to me like nothing but rotting drywall and turned them into show houses.
But there’s always the awful wait for the house to sell. And when Dad bugs out about things that are beyond his control, he rips apart something in
our
house.
For the past ten months, we’ve been living in a construction zone. When Dad’s not at work, which is most of the time, he’s home tearing down walls and pulling up floors.
Initially, I was really into Dad’s company, Duffy and Son, and I worked for him last summer. But once I made the travel hockey team, I didn’t have time for that. And I can’t stand not having running water, and being able to see through the floor of my bedroom because Dad yanked up the boards. He and Mom love the constant remodeling—he thrives on the challenges, she enjoys the new stuff—but I hate it.
Today it’s quiet when I get home. Just Atticus and Conor waiting for me. It’s been this way for months—me and the guys. Sometimes I think they’re the only ones who notice if I come home, and they’re the main reasons I come home at all.
Atticus sneezes as I walk into the kitchen; the drywall dust bothers his nose. He’s our fifteen-year-old border collie, and the construction makes him extra cranky.
Conor, the rescue puppy we adopted last summer, caroms around the corner into the kitchen, sliding into the wall with a thump. His paws scrabble on the new hardwood floor—he hasn’t gotten the hang of the slick wood yet—and he bats his stuffed lamb my way, to throw it for him to chase, but I kick it so the toy skids to him, pucklike. He pounces on it—goal denied! I have visions of putting together the world’s first-ever canine hockey team. I am all hockey, all the time.
“Awesome defense, buddy.” I try to get Conor to high-five me, but he tips over when he lifts a paw. He might be a little too clumsy for hockey. Atticus just watches the toy slide past him and then looks at me sadly. He’ll catch Frisbees and balls, but hockey isn’t his thing. Weird that we’re related.
Atticus whines and stares at the slow cooker on the counter.
“Beef stroganoff today,” I tell him. His ears prick up. I’ve been cooking for myself all year, and a slow cooker is a hungry guy’s best friend. I had to start making my own meals after Mom took on the finances at Duffy and Son; she still works full-time at her old job, but now she takes care of our books in the evenings and on weekends. I looked up a bunch of easy recipes and started fending for myself. I don’t know what Mom and Dad do about meals; I can’t remember the last time we ate together.
I dump kibble in two bowls for the guys, then sit down with my plate of beefy noodles, and the three of us start inhaling supper. I look through the mail as I eat.
Two envelopes are addressed to
The Parents of Ben Duffy.
“My name is on them,” I assure Atticus, who has stopped eating to watch me, his ears flattened in disapproval. “It’s okay.”
The first letter is from the assistant vice principal at my school. Atticus and Conor are nudging my thigh, so I read the letter to them. “ ‘Ben’s attendance record is less than optimal.’ That
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