This Journal Belongs to Ratchet
Page 6
WRITING EXERCISE: Practice writing similes.
Writing Format—SIMILE: Comparisons using “like” or “as.”
Like a car that ran out of gas, like a tire without air, like a compressor without any pressure, like a radio without any batteries, like I had been punched in the stomach, like I had been hit over the head, that’s how I felt when I looked in the recycle bin after breakfast.
On top of all the other junk was the cardboard from a flattened-out box. Not just any cardboard from any box, but the cardboard from The Box. The one from the laundry room cupboard. The mystery box. It wasn’t a box anymore. It was as flat as a pancake.
I recognized the cardboard because it was discolored and the tape was melted into it from being taped shut for so long.
I dug underneath it to see if Dad had dumped out what was inside the box too, but all I found were flattened cereal boxes and old newspapers. Where was the stuff from the box? Had he dumped it somewhere else?
Dad’s crazy work for the Good Lord and him not agreeing to teach the go-cart class were one thing, but this was something else. Something that would change things between Dad and me forever.
As sure as an engine will burn up without oil, that’s how sure I was that if Dad destroyed what was in the box, I would never, ever forgive him.
WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry
My silent anger
Turns into
Shutting
Cupboards,
Doors,
And
Drawers
A little too hard,
But that isn’t
The only thing
Slamming shut.
The door to
My
Heart
And
My
Soul
Slams
So
Hard
It comes off
The hinges.
WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal
Today I stood on the driveway hosing off some old hubcaps Dad found at the junkyard yesterday. I looked up and saw Hunter coming down the street on his bike. I wondered if he still felt weird about the other boys teasing him about me.
He stopped at the bottom of the driveway where I stood in a puddle of muddy water.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.”
Neither one of us said anything after that.
It was always easy to think of things to say when I was helping the boys with their go-carts. But now, what was there to talk about?
Finally Hunter started talking.
He told me about how he kept asking his dad if the two of them could rebuild an old car together, like the ones at those car shows up at Mama Mack’s on Friday nights. Maybe a ’57 Chevy—bright red or that cool turquoise blue.
I wondered why he was telling me all this?
Then he asked if my dad had ever rebuilt an old car like that.
And when I told him about the ’55 Thunderbird, the ’59 Cadillac, and the three Mustangs Dad had done, Hunter went crazy.
“Are you serious?! That’s awesome!” Hunter said.
When I told him about Dad’s ’64 Mustang under the tarp on the side of the garage, I thought he was going to have a heart attack.
He asked what Dad was going to do with the Mustang, and I told him that my dad always said he had big plans for that car—whatever that meant.
Then Hunter told me his dad always says they’ll rebuild a car together someday, but Hunter said, “I bet we won’t. He’s always too busy working to do anything cool and fun like rebuild a car.”
Hunter should just be glad his dad wore a suit every day and had a regular job.
Hunter told me he’d see me later, and as he pedaled away, I stood wondering if the other boys could be right about Hunter because it seemed like he had just stopped by to be nice.
WRITING EXERCISE: Write a riddle poem.
Writing Format—RIDDLE POEM: A creative question used to entertain.
What am I sitting in
Wishing I could rebuild
So that I could show it to Hunter?
Answer: Dad’s ’64 Mustang parked on the side of the garage.
WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal
I rode my bike to the library today to do my schoolwork there instead of doing it at home. I needed a break from you-know-who. I told him I had to do research for a social studies project. He just smiled like he was the proudest parent of an overachieving homeschooler. For someone so smart, Dad can be really dense sometimes.
Because I’d left, I didn’t have to help Dad with the transmission job he was working on. I was glad. Why should I help him all the time when he may have ruined my only chance to find out more about Mom?
On my way home, I turned down my street early so that I could ride by Hunter’s house. I knew I probably wouldn’t have the guts to stop, but maybe I could wave and say hi to him if he was outside. When I got close, I slowed down, and I noticed Hunter was out in his garage. He was crouched down on the floor with his back to the driveway. As I got closer, I saw him throw something at the garbage can. Whatever it was made a loud thud and clanged to the floor. It sounded almost like a hammer or something. I stood behind some bushes by the curb with my bike and watched. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Hunter was wiping his eyes. Hunter was crying.
A few weeks ago I never would’ve believed it. But now that Hunter wasn’t with Evan all the time, it wasn’t as hard to believe.
Hunter was actually pretty nice. And a teeny-tiny part of me couldn’t help but hope that maybe Hunter might actually like me, especially after the way he stopped by the other day. Not that it really mattered because he’d never be able to let anyone else know if he did.
What did matter was that Hunter was a terrible mechanic. Definitely the worst in the class.
I didn’t want Hunter to know I saw him crying, so I made some noise. I waited a minute. Gave him some time to stop crying. Then I hopped on my bike and rode partway up the driveway.
“Hi, Hunter,” I called. “What’s going on?” I tried to sound like I had no idea what he was doing.
“I’m trying to put the piston into my engine block,” he said without turning around.
I asked him if he wanted some help, and I was so glad when he said yes.
First, we worked on putting the connecting rod onto the crankshaft. I’d helped Hunter lots of times before, but here in the garage by ourselves, without the other boys, it felt different.
While I held the piston in place, our hands touched. I wondered if Hunter noticed. And if he did notice, I wondered what he thought.
Then Hunter said something. Something that surprised me more than if he’d punched me in the nose.
“You’re lucky, Ratchet.”
Me? Lucky?
“Your dad taught you all this cool stuff. I bet you could build anything. My dad doesn’t even know what a screwdriver is.”
Hunter didn’t know what he was talking about. Hunter didn’t know how good he had it. Hunter didn’t know that if he had a dad like mine he would want him to trade in his screwdriver for a suit any day.
WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry
They say a picture is worth a thousand words,
But sometimes a few words can tell a lot more.
More than a thousand pictures.
A picture is only what you see,
But words can describe
What you hear,
And smell,
And taste.
But most importantly what you feel.
Not what you feel when you touch something,
But how you feel on the inside
When something touches you.
WRITING EXERCISE: Choose a word and write a definition poem about it.
Writing Format—DEFINITIO
N POETRY: Poetry that creatively defines a word or an idea.
A Friend
Someone
You’re happy to see,
Who’s happy to see you.
Someone
You like for who they are
Not just for what they can do for you.
Hunter.
(I hope.)
WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal
Dad was gone for a long time last night. A big city council meeting about Moss Tree Park. AGAIN.
I was sitting in the built-in window seat of the new bay window trying to rub lotion into my rough, calloused hands. The skin was so dry and cracked it was like rubbing oil into cement.
I could finally see out the front window. Replacing the glass was only one of the many jobs Dad needed to do in our current “Handyman Special,” and he’d finally done it. I could see through the window for the first time ever because I’d just cleaned the new glass.
After sitting there for a while (I was actually waiting to see if Hunter’s mom walked by. Hoping to get a look at what she was wearing), I laid back on the cushion, but when I did, the cushion slid to one side. I got up to straighten it and saw hinges. I realized the window seat opened up like a chest. When I lifted the lid, there it was—a tan metal lockbox. It might as well have been gold. My heart pumped like a piston in a race car because I knew what had to be inside. It had to be the stuff from the mystery box.
I lifted the box out of the window seat and set it down on the floor, ready to finally see what was inside, but I looked at the clock. Dad would be home any minute. I’d have to figure out how to get it open later.
WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry
Funny how finding the lockbox
Helps me find a way to
Forgive Dad for something
He hadn’t really done.
I feel my heart’s door
Becoming hinged
Again.
So that maybe
I might be able
To open it again sometime.
Maybe sometime soon.
WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting
“The proper tool for the proper job,” is what Dad always says. A flathead screwdriver is not the proper tool to open a lockbox, but when you don’t have the key to a box you want to open—a box you need to open, you have no choice—you try to pick the lock, but it’s impossible, so you have to find the proper tool—the key.
My mission: to find the lockbox key. I will stop at nothing to find it.
WRITING EXERCISE: Write a friendly letter to someone you haven’t spoken to in a while.
Writing Format—FRIENDLY LETTER: An informal letter to a friend or a relative.
Dear Mom,
Even though I don’t remember what it was like when you were here, I feel like something’s missing now that you’re gone. Like the feeling you have when you get your hair cut real short after having it long. You keep touching your neck and the back of your head wondering if you’ll ever get used to how different it feels. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how different it feels without you.
Dad takes good care of me. But a dad is not the same as a mom. It’s like the difference between riding in a beat-up old Jeep instead of a brand-new fancy car. Both can take you where you want to go, but the ride just isn’t the same. Because having a mom would make all the difference in the world.
I found the box that (I think) has some of your things in it. I’m hoping I’ll find out more about you when I open it. Maybe if I know more about you, I could be more like you. Being like you might make me miss you just a little bit less.
♥ Love,
Ratchet (Rachel)
P.S. Did Dad call me Ratchet when you were alive?
(If Dad read this, I bet he’d be sad.)
WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting
Maybe it was the thought of that lockbox locked up tight inside the bay window seat. Maybe it was my heart wanting so badly to forgive Dad and give him a second chance. Maybe it was the growing ache inside me for something.
But it didn’t matter what it was that made me ask the question. It didn’t matter because Dad said, “Ratchet, leave well enough alone,” when I asked him about the lockbox.
“But, Dad—” I started to say, but never finished because he interrupted with, “It’s nothing that concerns you. You hear me?”
And I felt my anger closing the door again on forgiveness.
WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry
The mute button
Has been pressed.
Again.
Every day
Life is still happening—
Eating meals,
Fixing cars,
Sneaking off
To build go-carts
With the boys,
But the sound
Between Dad and me
Is turned off.
I’m not sure if he
Even notices.
WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting/Poetry
Maybe
It isn’t an accident
When the jack slips
And Dad screams,
“JACK IT UP!
JACK IT UP!”
And I do,
Right away!
But it’s too late.
Blood is everywhere.
Dad’s thumb,
Crushed.
I’d been lowering a car with the floor jack. To rest it on the jack stand. Something I’d done hundreds of times. Even so, Dad had reminded me, like he always does, “Take it slow...Take it slow...” And I did take it slow. At first. But then something happened. Did my hand slip? Did the car slip? Or did I go too fast? On purpose? Because I was mad. So mad at Dad.
But now I see him
Holding his hand,
The hand that knows how to
Tighten bolts and loosen screws,
Squeeze pliers and connect hoses,
Remove gaskets and stretch oil rings into place
Without even looking.
The hand that knows how to do everything.
He’s holding it out like it’s on fire.
And I’m crying,
“Dad, Dad,
I’m sorry,
I’m sorry!”
“Hurry!
Get the first aid kit!”
And I do.
Ripping it open,
Fumbling through it,
Finding some gauze,
And watching my hands shake
As I unwrap it.
“Ratchet, it’s okay.
It was an accident.
Don’t worry,”
Dad says as the white gauze turns bright red
As blood seeps into its woven strands.
And now my tears
Come from somewhere else.
A place so deep,
A place so deep
I never even knew it was there.
And I feel myself breaking from the inside.
Later,
Dad’s stitches
Hold the skin
Between his thumb
And index finger together,
But it tears my insides apart.
Seeing it
When he changes the bandage
Makes my chest
Feel tighter than Dad’s skin looks.
And my head throbs every time I think about what the doctor said. “Stay out of the garage for at least a week. This thing gets infected, and you’ll really be sorry.”
I am much sorrier than that already.
WRITING EXERCISE: Define a vocabulary word with a situational example.
VOCABULARY WORD—Remorse: feeling sorry or regretful about something that has happened or about something you have caused to happen.
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I knew why I was sorry, but for some reason, Dad seemed sorry too. I’m not sure about what, but he told me to tell the boys it was okay to build the go-carts in our garage.
“That way you can use our tools when you help them,” Dad said.
Somehow he had known all along that I had been helping the boys. It made me think he might know other things too: like how bad I felt about dropping the car. It made me feel good to think he knew that, but if he somehow knew that, did it mean he knew there was a chance the accident hadn’t really been an accident? If he knew that, I knew my sorry would never be enough.
WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal
Dad couldn’t work in the garage, so he was inside making phone calls. Talking to anyone who would listen to him go on and on about Moss Tree Park.
Dad had found paperwork on Herman Moss’s other parks. He thought that was proof that there had to be the same paperwork for Moss Tree Park, but something—something not so ethical, as Dad put it—had happened to the Moss Tree Park paperwork. Dad kept telling people that “someone,” probably that crooked excuse we have for a mayor, and his buddy, Pretty Boy Eddie, decided to take matters into their own hands because they’re so greedy and all they think about is money. Of course, the city council members, who are all friends with both of them, didn’t see it that way.
Dad kept saying in this weird ominous voice, “You can run, but you can’t hide, especially not from the Good Lord. The truth is going to come out.”
Every time I looked at the big bandage on Dad’s hand, I felt like his voice was for me. I couldn’t listen to that voice of doom anymore, so I was out sweeping the garage. Singing along with a Beatles song trying to let the lyrics fill up my head.
Then I heard someone else singing too. I turned around, and there was Hunter.