This Journal Belongs to Ratchet

by Nancy J. Cavanaugh

  “I thought I was the only one who knew all the words to that song,” he said.

  I didn’t know what he was doing here.

  “I know we don’t have another class until the weekend,” he said, “but would you help me figure out how to get the keepers on the valves in my engine?”

  It took me one nanosecond to say yes.

  I yelled inside to Dad that I was going to Hunter’s.

  Hunter and I spent the next hour in his garage taking things apart, and step-by-step, putting them back together. Once we got it all back together, Hunter looked as happy as I felt. But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was that our hands touched three times.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Use dialogue to keep the action moving in a scene.

  When we finished working in Hunter’s garage, we used the hose on the driveway to wash our hands.

  “Thanks for all your help, Ratchet,” Hunter said.

  “No problem,” is what I said out loud, but what I was saying in my head was, “Are you kidding? I should be thanking you for asking me to help.”

  That’s when my hand slipped, and I squirted water right in Hunter’s face.

  “Hey!” he said, acting all mad.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  I couldn’t believe I’d gotten him so wet.

  Hunter wiped the water out of his eyes, but then he laughed, grabbed the end of the hose, and pointed it right at me. I yanked it away from him and sprayed him again. He ran to the front yard and turned on the other hose lying in the bushes.

  “Take that!” he yelled as he aimed and fired.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said as I picked up a nearby garbage can lid and held it up like a shield.

  “Not gonna work!” Hunter yelled, squirting his hose high into the air so it arched like a fountain over the top of my shield.

  “I’m soaked!” I screamed as the water poured down on me. I dropped the lid and squirted my hose right at Hunter, drenching him from head to toe.

  “What about me? Do I look dry?” Hunter asked.

  Both of us kept squirting our hoses and running around trying to dodge the spray raining down on us.

  When we were out of breath, and there wasn’t a dry spot on either one of us, we called a truce.

  Just then Hunter’s mom came out on the driveway.

  “Hunter, is that any way to treat a girl?” she asked.

  “Oh, Mom,” Hunter groaned.

  As I walked home leaving a trail of water on the sidewalk, all I could think was I hope it’s exactly how you treat a girl if you want her to be your friend.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal

  Dad had not only agreed to let the boys work in our garage, but he said he’d help them when he had time. I thought working with Dad again would help soothe my guilt, but the first thing Dad did when the boys got there was hold up his bandaged hand. I couldn’t look at anybody.

  “Doesn’t matter how good you are with the tools or how much you know about engines. What really matters?”

  The boys all mumbled the word “safety” because the safety rules were the first thing Dad had taught them, and now thanks to me, he had a great excuse to review them.

  “Accidents like this can happen to anyone, anywhere, anytime.”

  As Dad told the story of me “accidentally” lowering the jack too fast, I felt as if the weight of a semitrailer truck filled with the heaviest load it could possibly carry inched closer and closer to my chest getting ready to crush my soul.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal

  Today out in the driveway, Dad had all the boys in class try to start their engines. Everyone’s engine worked except Hunter’s. I didn’t know why his wasn’t working because I’d helped him with so much of it. Hunter tried and tried and tried. After the sixth time, he mumbled, “I gotta go,” and walked down the street toward home. I wondered if he was crying again. I couldn’t run after him. I wanted to. But I didn’t know if Hunter wanted me to. I didn’t even know if Hunter thought we were friends. And even if he did, I didn’t know if he wanted anyone else to know.

  If Dad were clued into more than just global warming, he might have realized that I would want to go after Hunter. But, since Dad’s head is always somewhere in the disappearing ozone layer, he told Jason to go get him, and I missed my chance.

  Jason came back by himself. He told Dad that Hunter just wanted to go home. So while the rest of the kids high-fived one another about their engines working, Hunter walked home by himself probably feeling like a failure. I wanted to find a way to make him feel better. Because I didn’t want to fail as a friend.

  If Mom were here I could ask her what I should do.

  These are the kinds of things moms know.

  Instead I sat wondering if Hunter even wanted my help.

  WRITING EXERCISES: Life Events Journal

  I didn’t have to wonder very long about Hunter. He came back after all the boys left. He told Dad and me that the other day when I’d helped him in his garage, he had been so excited about getting his engine together that after I left, he took the whole thing apart again so that he could put it back together by himself. Obviously Hunter hadn’t learned very much because his engine was a mess.

  When we looked at it together, I couldn’t believe how many things were wrong. He hadn’t even lined up the timing marks on the camshaft. There’s no way an engine will run if you forget to do this. How could he have missed that? He also had the oil rings and one compression ring in the wrong place. Half the things he did didn’t even make any sense.

  “Well, I’ve got some phone calls to make,” Dad said. “So Ratchet will have to help you.”

  And Dad went inside, leaving me with Hunter and his messed-up small engine. Maybe Dad’s head wasn’t as far up in the ozone layer as I thought.

  At first Hunter was real quiet, and the only sound was Dad’s oldies station playing in the background. I think Hunter was embarrassed about needing so much help again, but by the time we got the engine apart and were ready to put it back together again, Hunter seemed to be in a better mood. And by the time we were putting in the spark plug, we were singing to the radio.

  Hunter sang the chorus of “Hang on Sloopy” into the end of a wrench.

  I tapped out the beat with a screwdriver and some pliers.

  And we both laughed.

  I knew Hunter had lots of friends and probably goofed around like this all the time, but for me, this moment was a dream come true.

  We finally got Hunter’s small engine running. It was the kind of thing Dad and I did every day; but for Hunter, this was his dream come true.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a memo to a group of people you know.

  Writing Format—MEMO: A brief written message that asks and answers questions, gives instructions, describes work done, and reminds people about deadlines and meetings.

  A few days later, Dad reviewed the safety rules again, and then he handed out this memo.

  Note: Since Dad still can’t use his hand to write, he told me what to write for this memo. So technically, I’m cheating. I think the word is “plagiarism.” But I’m sure, if by chance, Dad actually reads this, he won’t care.

  Day: Saturday

  To: Go-Cart Class

  From: Mr. Vance/aka Raccoon Dog

  Subject: Engine Test Next Saturday

  1.You must know:

  *Safety rules

  *Names of tools

  *How to use them

  *Names of engine parts

  *How to take engine apart

  *How to put engine back together

  2.Ratchet and I have taught it. You’ve practiced it. Now we test it. And, hopefully, you prove it.

  3.You pass the test: We all go to the junkyard to find parts. You build your car. And race at Moss Tree Park.

  4.You don�
��t pass the test: No trip to the junkyard. No building a car. No race at Moss Tree Park.

  5.Today we’re going on a field trip to Moss Tree Park. In order to have the race, we have to save the park. If we keep the park clean, we have more chance of saving it. Fill up one plastic bag with garbage, then go home and study.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal

  Dad handed out the engine test memo. The boys complained about picking up trash. Then moaned and groaned “pretending” to be worried about the test, but Hunter freaked out. He was NOT pretending. He said he’ll NEVER be able to pass the test. The worst part is he’s probably right. He still doesn’t know a crankshaft from a piston. And I keep wondering, How can that be?

  How in the world will he ever pass the test?

  WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry

  Scattered among the leaves and twigs,

  Resting in the grass and moss,

  Lazy people’s trash.

  Plastic bottles, empty bags,

  Straws, and tin cans.

  Rowdy boys

  And one quiet girl

  Fill up plastic bags.

  But the girl finds

  Something else left behind

  From a long time ago

  In the bark of a tree.

  Carved letters leave

  A mark of love.

  Just one more reason

  This park and these trees

  Should be saved.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal

  Today Dad sent me up to Gas Gulp to fill up our gasoline container. He needed it to test an old riding mower someone had dropped off for him to fix.

  He wasn’t supposed to be working in the garage yet, but he said, “You know what they say—idle hands means an idle mind, and the Good Lord gave me too many brains for that.”

  I was thinking the Good Lord should’ve given Dad the brains to listen to the doctor.

  Marty, the owner of Gas Gulp, really wasn’t supposed to sell gas to a kid, but Dad had fixed his car for free a bunch of times, so Marty would’ve even delivered the gas to our house if Dad wanted him to.

  I liked running errands for Dad because it got me out of the garage, but my timing was really bad. I was filling up the container when Hunter and Evan showed up on their bikes. Probably to buy candy. Marty sold candy bars real cheap, to drum up more business.

  He always said, “The way to a man’s wallet is through his gas tank. The way to get him to fill up that tank at your station? Give him a reason to stop. Candy bars are a good reason, and cheap ones are an even better one.”

  That’s why Gas Gulp was always more crowded than Pump It Up at the other end of town. Pump It Up was the station Pretty Boy Eddie owned, so Dad never went there.

  Seeing Hunter would’ve been fine. Nice even. But he was with Evan, so I wasn’t sure what would happen. I hadn’t seen Evan since I’d started helping the boys with their go-carts.

  I knew there was no chance that Hunter and Evan wouldn’t see me, so I braced myself for Evan’s insults. At the same time, I tried not to think about how it would hurt even more now if Hunter went right along with Evan and his mean jokes.

  “Look, Hunter,” Evan said. “Now Ratchet’s a gas girl.”

  Hunter got off his bike but didn’t look at me.

  I concentrated on the numbers as they flipped on the gas pump.

  Evan made some crack about me cleaning the gas station bathrooms as he kicked down his kickstand.

  Then I heard, “Shut up.”

  I whipped my head around to look at Hunter. He was staring right at Evan, and he had just told him to shut up.

  “What?” asked Evan.

  “I said, shut up,” Hunter said louder.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Evan said.

  “No,” Hunter said, throwing his leg back over his bike. “I’m not kidding, and I gotta go.”

  And Hunter was gone before Evan could say anything else.

  I turned back to the gas pump and finished filling my container, then put it in the milk crate on the back of my bike and took off. I never even looked back to see what Evan did.

  It didn’t matter.

  The only thing that mattered was what Hunter had just done.

  It mattered a lot.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a list poem about a task you must do.

  Helping Hunter Get Ready for the Big Test

  Make flash cards.

  Put labels on tools.

  Put labels on engine parts.

  Make a diagram of an engine.

  Make a four-stroke cycle poster.

  Review everything with Hunter.

  Make up a quiz.

  Give Hunter the quiz.

  Cross my fingers...

  WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting

  Dad’s working like crazy trying to catch up on all the repairs that got backed up because of the accident. I hate to see him have to work with his hand all bandaged up—it makes everything harder, so I’m helping him even more than usual.

  I feel so guilty when I see that big white bandage, but as the guilt turns over and over in my mind like a combination wrench, I find my anger on the other end of it—my anger at Dad about the mystery box—the anger that caused this whole thing to happen.

  I still don’t know what’s in the box, and Dad won’t tell me.

  I don’t know where the key is to the box, so I still haven’t opened it.

  It feels like my guilt and anger make the big empty space inside me get bigger and emptier every day.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting

  Yesterday we changed a fan belt and a water pump and did a brake job. All in one day. And to use a corny pun—I’m running out of gas. As Dad’s hand gets better, my guilt does too, but my anger gets worse. Does Dad really think he can tell me to leave well enough alone and believe for a minute that I’ll forget all about the box that obviously has Mom’s stuff in it?

  So I’ve decided not to do any of my homeschool assignments. I’m supposed to be a full-time student. Not a full-time mechanic. If Dad’s going to overwork me in the garage and not answer a really important question, then I’m going to do whatever I want when he finally lets me take a “break” (as he calls it) to study. I’m doing my journal writing and some language arts assignments (only the ones that look like fun) because that IS a break. Making a time line of important world events for social studies or doing long division with remainders for math ISN’T.

  Besides, with all the extra time I’m spending helping Hunter study for the go-cart test, I don’t even have time for my assignments. The worst part is I feel like Hunter hasn’t learned a thing. Today better be the day that “the fuel gets to the engine,” as Dad puts it. Otherwise I don’t know what I’m going to do. Test day will be here soon.

  But at least I’m getting something out of it. We’ve studied at Hunter’s house a couple of times. It’s been great! His mom is always floating around doing nice things. Smiling. Bringing us juice boxes. (Hunter rolled his eyes when she did that. Said his mom was embarrassing him. He doesn’t know what embarrassment is until he’s lived with my dad.)

  Yesterday she even made butter cookies with sprinkles on them. (Hunter didn’t mind when she did that.) They were even better than the chocolate chip cookies she brought over when we fixed her car. She gave me a whole bunch to take home. Since I’m so mad at Dad I was thinking about hiding them when I got home so I could eat them all myself. But when I saw Dad on the garage floor still lying on his back underneath someone’s Jeep changing the oil, I decided Hunter’s mom’s butter cookies were something Dad really needed. The same way I really needed someone like Hunter to be my friend.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry

  Hunter’s Mom

  Turquoise everything

  Sundress

  Flip-flops

&
nbsp; Ponytail holder

  Earrings

  Even her smile

  Is

  Bright blue

  Hunter

  Fun

  Being together

  Frustrating

  Studying together

  He

  Doesn’t

  Remember

  Anything

  WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry

  Back to the

  Goodwill store

  For matching

  Anything.

  Come close with the

  Lime green tank top.

  (Only a small brown stain.)

  Dark green cutoffs.

  (Missing a button.)

  Olive green plastic flip-flops.

  (Almost new.)

  And a white scrunchie.

  (Still in the package.)

  When I stand at the mirror

  I look better than usual,

  But not as good as I had hoped.

  Haven’t really

  Created

  My own style

  Yet.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Do-Over Assignment: MEMO

  (I’m writing my own memo this time.)

  Day: Wednesday

  To: Ratchet

  From: Ratchet

  Subject: Studying with Hunter

  After studying for four days:

  1.Hunter knows the names of almost all the tools, but still looks like a preschooler with a toy tool kit when he uses them.

  2.He doesn’t know the names of hardly any engine parts.

  3.He can take the engine apart but still has no idea how to put it back together.

  4.He couldn’t explain the four-stroke cycle if his life depended on it.