This Journal Belongs to Ratchet

by Nancy J. Cavanaugh

  He said stretching the truth was sometimes necessary. To save the environment. Or to protect someone you love. (I wonder what the Good Lord thinks of Dad’s little lying theory?)

  The headline to the story about Dad read, “TRACTORS STOP FOR DEVELOPERS OF MOSS TREE PARK.” The caption under Dad’s photo said, “Environmental activist steals keys to construction vehicles in hopes of delaying development of Moss Tree Park.”

  In the article Dad says, “These morons think the only thing green is money. They’re going down!”

  I wonder why it’s so hard for Dad to just keep his mouth shut.

  Dad told reporters he’d found out that the guy who originally owned Moss Tree Park was Herman Moss. When Mr. Moss died and left the park land to the county, he supposedly had one condition—the land could never be developed.

  Dad said he’d read about it in an old newspaper article he found at the library, but for all I know, the Good Lord told him about it in a dream.

  Of course, no one can find the paperwork to prove what Dad says is true, but Dad told the newspaper he plans to somehow find it.

  Mayor Prindle said, “It’s too bad Mr. Vance can’t channel all that passion he feels toward parks into something that will really benefit this town: and that’s progress. I like parks as much as the next guy, but money doesn’t grow on trees, Mr. Vance, and our town stands to gain a lot of revenue from this new strip mall.”

  I knew this was something Eddie J. had told him to say. Dad always said Mayor Prindle never spoke to reporters without talking to Pretty Boy Eddie first. He was good at knowing what to say when the cameras were rolling, but when they weren’t, Pretty Boy and the mayor were much meaner. Dad told me the mayor once called him, right to his face, “a raving lunatic with a warped view of reality.” I guess Dad sort of deserved it with all the things he said at the meetings. He had called the city council members much worse things, but at least Dad wasn’t two-faced. Pretty Boy Eddie always acted like such a nice guy in public, but the minute he wasn’t on record, he turned into pretty much a jerk. Dad and Eddie J. had been at war with each other for years about everything, and Moss Tree Park was just one more battle.

  I’m sure Dad had stolen the tractor keys, hoping his stunt would give him more time to do some investigating, and he was right. The article ended with, “No doubt the mayor and the city council should do some of their own investigating before moving forward with the Moss Tree Park project.”

  Dad loved fighting for places like Moss Tree Park, and he never gave up. Especially when it had to do with the environment. And if it wasn’t this park or these trees, it would be something else.

  That’s why I know this is only ONE of my most embarrassing moments.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a letter of complaint.

  Writing Format—LETTER OF COMPLAINT: A type of business letter that states a problem.

  Dear God,

  Dad’s supposedly doing work for you, and usually that ends up being only slightly annoying and somewhat embarrassing, but now I’m getting caught in the middle. Dad’s arrest earned him one hundred hours of community service, but it’s turning into my punishment.

  They’ve assigned Dad a class at the rec center. Every year there’s a go-cart contest in Moss Tree Park. So the rec center has a “Build Your Own Go-Cart” class. They need a new teacher since they got rid of the last guy because he didn’t know a flathead from a Phillips. They thought Dad would be perfect for the job, and Dad thinks I’ll be perfect for the job of his assistant.

  What this all means is that I’ll be helping Dad with the go-cart class—which Hunter and Evan will be taking, and the class meets right across the hall from the “Get Charmed” class THE SAME DAY AND TIME!

  It’s bad enough I’m not “getting charmed,” and now this.

  I would appreciate any attention you could give this matter.

  Sincerely,

  Ratchet

  WRITING EXERCISE: Respond personally to a famous quote.

  Pablo Picasso:

  “When I was a child, my mother said to me, ‘If you become a soldier, you’ll be a general. If you become a monk, you’ll end up as pope. Instead I became a painter, and I wound up Picasso.’”

  Ratchet:

  I don’t know what my mom said I could be, so how will I know what I am supposed to become?

  WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry

  Writing Format—CONCRETE POETRY: A form of poetry in which the shape or design helps express the meaning or feeling of the poem.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a progress report.

  Writing Format—PROGRESS REPORT: A report documenting progress made in regard to accomplishing a proposed goal.

  Report on Progress of Proposal Goal #2—Be More Like Mom

  Places I’ve Searched for Clues about Mom:

  .Kitchen junk drawer

  .Living room TV stand

  .Dad’s nightstand

  .Linen closet storage bin

  .Office desk drawer

  Things I’ve Found:

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write questions to interview an expert about a specific topic.

  Writing Format—INTERVIEW: Find an expert on your subject. Formulate important questions and record the expert’s responses.

  The only expert on Mom I know is Dad, so I imagine the interview questions I’d like to ask him.

  1.What did you like best about Mom?

  2.What did she like best about you?

  3.What did Mom like best about me? (That’s the question I really want to ask.)

  4.What was her favorite color? Her favorite food? Her favorite TV show?

  But when Dad and I are in the garage, working on grinding down some rotors, those questions seem as out of place as I was in my Goodwill outfit at the “Get Charmed” class. So I ask a question that I’d never thought of before, but one that seems to fit the situation better. “Hey, Dad, did Mom like cars?”

  “What?” he asks, sounding confused, as he slides the caliper over the rotor.

  “Mom. Did she like cars as much as you do? Did she ever help work on them like I do?”

  “Not really” is all he says; and the way he says it, I know the interview is over before it has even begun.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Updated Progress Report

  Another day

  I search again

  For something of Mom’s.

  In cupboards

  In closets

  In dressers

  And

  Even bathroom drawers

  But

  Find

  Nothing.

  Then I see

  An old

  Cardboard box

  Full of

  Cotton balls

  And Q-tips

  Way in the back

  Under the sink

  In the second bathroom—

  The one Dad’s still fixing.

  And when I see it

  I remember

  The box.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a free verse poem about an object in your house.

  The Mystery Box

  There’s a box.

  It’s cardboard.

  It’s taped shut.

  And it hasn’t been opened

  For a long time.

  You can tell

  Because the tape

  And the cardboard

  Are melted together.

  The box goes with us

  To each “Handyman Special” we move into.

  Sometimes Dad puts the box in his closet.

  Sometimes he puts it in the laundry room

  On a shelf.

  Sometimes he puts it in a kitchen cupboard.

  I wonder where

  Dad’s put it

  This time.

  In this house
,

  Because I haven’t seen it lately

  And I haven’t found it,

  Yet.

  Maybe I can’t find

  Anything of Mom’s

  Because it’s all

  Inside

  The box.

  (I wonder what Dad would say if he read this.)

  The Other Box

  There is another box.

  Not taped shut

  Not up on the shelf

  Not hiding in the closet

  But here

  With me

  Every day

  Usually hiding inside

  A T-shirt

  I hate.

  We

  Live together,

  Eat together,

  Work together

  My dad and I.

  So why don’t I know what’s inside?

  The Third Box

  My heart

  Is the third box

  Held together by hope

  For something.

  I don’t even know what.

  The hope keeps the box

  Together.

  And keeps everything inside.

  So I hold on tightly

  To the hope,

  Afraid

  To let go

  Because

  No one knows what’s inside.

  Not Mom.

  Not Dad.

  Not even me.

  ?

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write an observation report about something you did this week.

  Writing Format—OBSERVATION REPORT: A report that includes vivid details that appeal to all the senses.

  At the rec center, I walked down the hall. Thankfully, without being noticed by the cover girls. They were already crowded around Charlize, practically sitting on top of her. It looked like she had every kind of makeup ever made spread out on the front table. Eye shadow, blush, lip gloss, mascara, and I could smell perfume all the way out in the hall.

  I turned and went into the room Dad had been assigned. Food wrappers and empty soda cans all over the floor. Desks pushed every which way. The air was a mixture of peanut butter and sweat with a faint smell of lemon floor cleaner. (Hard to believe you could still smell the floor cleaner because it looked like the floor in our garage, which has never been washed.) In the middle of the room were eight boys. All talking too loud.

  Dad wasn’t there yet. He was finishing up a brake job at home. He sent me over on my bike to keep order until he got there. I wondered if he realized I was the same age as the kids in the class. What made him think I could keep order?

  No one noticed me when I walked in. I picked up a few candy wrappers from the floor. Straightened out a few desks. (It did about as much good as throwing a cup of water on an overheating engine.)

  Then Evan said, “Hey, look, everyone. It’s Professor Ratchet!”

  The kids laughed in a way that proved Evan was the “cool” kid everyone looked up to.

  I ignored him. Maybe my invisible routine would work. I pushed a few more desks to make another row. That’s when I smelled something like burned toast. Evan yelled, “FIRE!” And at the same time, the fire alarm went off. We all ran out of the room and down the hall with the screaming cover girls following us.

  Out in the parking lot, an old lady waved her arms. “It’s all right. False alarm. Little mishap in creative cooking. No big deal.”

  That’s when Dad came squealing around the corner in his 1981 diesel Rabbit. (Real rabbits are quiet, cute, and cuddly; but there’s nothing quiet, cute, or cuddly about Dad’s piece of junk car.) The squealing noise came from the loose fan belt he never bothered to fix. He was always too busy fixing other people’s cars to fix his own.

  If it weren’t for the smell of the fire, we would’ve smelled Dad coming before we heard him. To keep the environment cleaner, Dad had converted his car to run on vegetable oil. Recycled vegetable oil, of course. Which meant the oil came from fast-food restaurants. They threw out barrels of the stuff every day. Dad always picked up oil from King of Wings so he spread the tasty aroma of fried chicken wings wherever he went.

  Dad waved at me through his open window as he pulled into the parking lot. Then the rec center director, who looked a little like Cruella de Vil, realized Dad hadn’t been in his classroom when the fire alarm went off. She went CRAZY. As crazy as Dad did at the city council meetings.

  “Mr. Vance! Where have you been?! You mean to tell me that you were not supervising your students when the fire alarm went off?”

  Dad’s car door groaned as he got out. The door barely opened and closed anymore. The car really belonged at the junkyard instead of on the road.

  “Sorry. I was running a little late,” Dad said as he got out. “Won’t happen again.”

  Dad slammed the door. I cringed, hoping the whole car wouldn’t fall apart. Dad’s hair looked like it had been fried in vegetable oil. He had a huge oil stain on his shirt. Black wheel-bearing grease smeared into his knees. And his hands looked like they hadn’t been clean in years.

  The boys in the class looked at Dad and took Evan’s lead—they all burst out laughing. The cover girls joined in. I could tell from the way they giggled that they thought Dad was a huge joke, and I could tell by the way they fluttered their eyelashes and looked over their shoulders as they huddled closer together that they wanted the boys to stop noticing Dad and start noticing them.

  “Mr. Vance,” Cruella went on, waving her finger in Dad’s face (she even had long Cruella de Vil fingernails), “this whole arrangement of you teaching goes against my better judgment. You’ll need to work a lot harder to prove me wrong.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Dad knew he couldn’t mess this up. It was community service or jail time.

  Soon we got the “all clear” from the fire department who’d showed up a couple of minutes after Dad.

  “C’mon, future mechanics of the world,” Dad said, waving his arm toward the door. “Let’s go build some go-carts.”

  Evan raised his eyebrows to the group. Then circled his finger by his head and mouthed the word crazy.

  He’d read my mind. This was only the beginning.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry

  Which one of these things

  Doesn’t belong?

  Mayor Prindle and Pretty Boy Eddie

  Dressed in suits

  Dumping a recycling bin

  Full of shredded paper

  Into a dumpster hidden by trees

  Behind the library.

  Something tells me

  More than one thing

  Doesn’t belong.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a narrative essay about meeting a new person.

  I was holding a flashlight for Dad. It felt like my arm was going to fall off. He was changing the fan belt on a minivan, which was a tricky job. And it was taking forever.

  Sixties and seventies music blasted from the garage radio. I sort of hated to love Dad’s music because I should’ve been listening to pop and rap like other kids my age. But I still sang along with every song.

  That’s why I didn’t hear Hunter’s mom come into the garage. I smelled lilacs. And then there she was. I jumped. The flashlight moved.

  “Ratchet!” Dad yelled. “Hold still!”

  Then he bumped his head on the hood of the car.

  “Sorry!” Hunter’s mom called out over the music. “I don’t mean to bother you!”

  I looked past her. Hunter sat in the front seat of the car. For some reason he looked like a little first-grader sitting there in the car by himself. I’d never seen him without Evan.

  Dad pulled his head out from under the hood. “What’s the problem?”

  Dad always asked, “What’s the problem?” People didn’t come to our house for
any other reason except problems. Car problems.

  Hunter’s mom looked worried. She explained she’d almost gotten into an accident that morning. She told Dad her car had died in the middle of traffic. She said she didn’t know what to do.

  People told Dad stuff like this all the time. But for some reason it sounded different when Hunter’s Mom talked. I don’t know if it was the lilac perfume. Or the way she used her hands to tell the story. Or just how pretty she looked in her sleeveless cotton shirt, matching capris, and flip-flops. Her hair was the same color as mine. And the same length. It was in a ponytail. But it looked so good. She was all put together like a mannequin in a store.

  Dad told her we’d take a look at the car. But he had to finish the fan belt first. She and Hunter should leave the car there and walk home. Hunter’s mom looked relieved.

  Dad got back under the hood. I aimed the flashlight on the pulleys for the fan belt. I took a deep breath, smelling the last of the lilac perfume before it got swallowed up by the smell of grease and oil.

  (I don’t know what Dad would think if he read this.)

  WRITING EXERCISE: Make a web about a person or place.

  Writing Format—WEB: A graphic organizer that organizes important information into the shape of a web.

  My web is about Hunter’s mom. She picked up her car yesterday. The problem was only a bad spark plug wire. She paid Dad with a check. But she also brought us cookies. She still smelled like lilacs.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a limerick.

  Writing Format—LIMERICK: A silly five-line poem with a specific rhyming pattern.

  There was a young girl named Ratchet.

  She had skill and no one could match it.

  She wanted to be

  More stylish and carefree,