This Journal Belongs to Ratchet

by Nancy J. Cavanaugh

  5.As a mechanic, Hunter is as hopeless as a spark plug without a spark.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a personal response to a well-known proverb.

  Jewish Proverb:

  “A mother understands what a child does not say.”

  Ratchet’s Response:

  Dad doesn’t notice

  My almost matching clothes.

  My ponytail looking neater

  Than usual.

  My waiting for Hunter to get home

  From school.

  A mom,

  My mom,

  Would’ve noticed all of this

  And even more.

  She would’ve noticed

  I was excited,

  Even a little bit nervous.

  She would’ve noticed

  How hard I was trying

  To make a good impression.

  She would’ve noticed

  How important it was for me

  To have a friend.

  And she would’ve noticed

  That having a boy like Hunter

  Pay attention,

  Really pay attention

  Is a really big deal.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry

  Hunter doesn’t notice my clothes.

  But

  We don’t study.

  We play video games.

  Hanging out like real friends.

  It makes me feel as good on the inside

  As I had hoped to look on the outside.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a realistic one-act play.

  Writing Format—A PLAY: The stage representation of a scene or a story.

  Scene: The garage. Tools and engine parts scattered everywhere. Oldies music playing in the background. Ratchet points to the intake valve on a small engine.

  Ratchet: What’s this?

  Hunter looks puzzled as if he’s seeing an engine for the first time. He sighs.

  Hunter: I don’t know.

  Ratchet: How can you not know?! We’ve been over this a thousand times!

  Hunter shakes his head.

  Hunter: I’ve been studying all week long, and I still don’t know half this stuff. I don’t have a chance!

  Hunter buries his head in his hands. Ratchet stands awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to the other wondering if Hunter’s crying. The song “Daydream Believer” starts to play in the background. Hunter looks up and half smiles.

  Hunter: “Cheer up, Sleepy Jean...”

  Hunter and Ratchet both burst out laughing as they pretend to play air keyboard for the rest of the song. Finally, they fall on the floor of the garage laughing as a new song comes on the radio.

  Ratchet: I’ve got it! I know how you’re going to pass the test.

  Ratchet grabs a clipboard and a pencil. Hunter looks confused.

  Ratchet: What are your five favorite oldies songs?

  Hunter: What?

  Ratchet: Just tell me. What are they?

  Hunter: “Spirit in the Sky,” “Jailhouse Rock,” “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” “Born to Be Wild,” and “Proud Mary.”

  Ratchet: Now all we have to do is change the lyrics.

  Hunter: What in the world are you talking about?

  We’ll write new words to the old songs. Good-bye, love, heartbreak, and tears. Hello, spark plug, gasket, and flywheel. You’re going to sing your way to an A.”

  The scene fades as Ratchet grabs a clipboard from the workbench. Hunter looks over her shoulder as she begins to write.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting

  Since I’m not doing many assignments anymore, if Dad asks to see my work, I can flash my language arts notebook at him, and when he sees all this writing, he’ll think I’m in the running to be the top homeschool student of the year. It’s amazing how someone so in touch with the environment can be so out of touch with reality.

  For the last week I’ve been writing (or I should say rewriting) songs. It’s Hunter’s only hope. If he remembers the songs, he’ll pass the test.

  Here’s one of my favorites:

  “Piston Rock”

  (To the tune of “Jailhouse Rock” by Elvis Presley)

  The piston threw a party in the engine block.

  The four-stroke cycle started and things began to rock.

  The valve opened up, and fuel and air came in.

  The flywheel got excited, and it began to spin.

  Let’s rock, everybody, let’s rock.

  Every part in the engine block

  Was dancing to the piston rock.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a ballad.

  Writing Format—BALLAD: A poem that tells a story.

  Sitting at the kitchen table wondering

  If Hunter knows enough lyrics to pass the test,

  The phone rings and Dad answers it in the garage.

  He yells, “Ratchet, bring me my keys!

  I gotta go jump someone’s car.”

  I see the keys where they always are up on the windowsill next to his wallet,

  And it hits me—

  The key to the lockbox is in Dad’s wallet.

  It’s got to be.

  When I pick up the car keys, my hand is so close to the wallet.

  Going into Dad’s wallet would be crossing a line.

  A line I’ve never crossed.

  The phone rings again startling me, and Dad’s car keys clatter to the floor.

  “Forget it!” Dad yells from the garage.

  “They just got the car started.”

  I put the keys back.

  My hand touches the wallet, and I watch my hand pick it up.

  I watch like it’s someone else’s hands

  As they unfold the worn leather

  And slide open the little zipper that’s inside,

  And someone else’s index finger pokes into the tiny pocket,

  But my finger feels the metal key.

  The metal key that I know will open the lockbox.

  A thumb and index finger dig it out,

  And before I know it the wallet is back on the windowsill next to the car keys,

  And THE key is in my shorts’ pocket pressing into my thigh like it weighs a ton,

  And I sit back down at the kitchen table wondering when I’ll have the guts to use it.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal

  It was dark outside by the time I went out to the garage to see what Dad wanted for supper, and he was lying on the creeper in the middle of the garage floor. His hair was wet with sweat, and his cheeks were bright red. He was just staring at the ceiling.

  I asked him if he was okay.

  He didn’t answer, so I went over and knelt down next to him.

  “Ratchet, go get my wallet. I gotta get to the hospital.”

  I ran inside. My hands shook as I grabbed his wallet off the windowsill. This time it was my hands holding the wallet, and they were trying to save Dad. I hurried back out to the garage.

  Dad asked me to help him up, and when I touched his arm, he felt like an overheated engine.

  I asked him what was wrong.

  “Don’t know. I’ve just gotta get to the hospital.”

  I asked if he could even drive.

  “I’ll manage. You better come with me.”

  He started up the Rabbit, and the fried chicken smell made me want to throw up. Dad hunched over the steering wheel and accelerated toward the hospital.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry

  Sitting next to Dad in the hospital room.

  His IV drips slowly,

  But my tears pour

  Until a doctor

  Finally tells me

  He’ll be all right.

  “Are you sure?”

&n
bsp; I keep asking.

  And yes,

  Everyone keeps saying,

  So my tears slow to a drip

  And keep time with the IV.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry

  The infection happened

  Because Dad

  Worked in the garage

  Too soon.

  Teeny-tiny germs

  Seeped through the bandage

  And sneaked into Dad’s hand,

  Swam into his veins,

  Spread throughout his whole body,

  So with each drip of the IV

  I silently apologize to Dad

  Over and over again

  Because my anger

  Had already hurt him

  On the outside,

  And now it was hurting him

  On the inside too.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Poetry

  Awake

  My neck stiff

  My mind foggy.

  Where am I?

  A dim hospital room

  With the TV muted

  And Dad sleeping in the bed.

  His cheeks already looking

  Their normal color.

  My legs stick to the plastic recliner I lay in.

  I stretch to get more comfortable

  And I feel the key.

  The small silver key

  That I secretly dug out of

  Dad’s beat-up, worn-out wallet

  While he was outside

  Lying on the garage floor.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal

  “I thought the Good Lord might’ve been calling me home yesterday,” Dad said when he woke up. “Glad he’s letting me stick around for a while.”

  I thought I had used up all my tears, but when Dad said that I knew I had more.

  Later Dad sent me home in a cab and said he’d be home as soon as these crazy doctors let him go. I knew Dad well enough to know that he felt grateful for the crazy doctors who probably saved his life. The only person who felt more grateful than Dad was me.

  Dad told me if he wasn’t home by the time the boys came for class that I should give them the engine test, which was lying on the workbench.

  I didn’t go down to the hospital lobby until I found out from a nurse what Dad needed to do at home. Antibiotics every day and no working with his hand for two weeks.

  The antibiotics would be easy, but the rest would be impossible.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting

  The boys left after taking their test. Dad wasn’t home from the hospital yet. I still had the key in my pocket. Should I use it? I knew Dad didn’t want me to, and I’d already hurt him so much, but didn’t I have the right to know what was inside the box?

  As I slid the key into the keyhole, that deep down place inside me felt like something was finally going to happen.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a concrete poem about a recent discovery.

  The Mystery Box

  After turning the key, I lift the lid and I peek inside to see the photos of Mom and me when I was born. And me lying next to Mom in bed. And Mom holding my hands and helping me walk. So many photos of us. More stuff in the box. But I smell fried chicken. Dad is home so I lock the box and hide it again for now.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting

  A question without an answer:

  Why would Dad not want me to see what’s in the box?

  WRITING EXERCISE: Write a postcard greeting.

  Writing Format—POSTCARD: Form of writing used to stay in touch or send a short message.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting

  I wonder sometimes if the Good Lord realizes everything Dad tries to do to help him because sometimes it sure doesn’t seem like it. Dad’s thumb getting crushed, another trip to the hospital, and now we’re losing the park. After all Dad’s done?

  I’m still mad at Dad about him keeping the box from me, but it sure doesn’t seem like he deserves all this.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting

  Thankfully Dad is an optimistic environmentalist. I guess that’s one advantage to thinking the Good Lord is on your side.

  He says he’s not giving up on Moss Tree Park. Not yet anyway. He still hopes to find some way to prove that Mr. Moss never wanted a strip mall on his land.

  So everyone’s still building their go-carts. I was worried. If there was no race, maybe there would be no go-carts. And that might mean there would be no Hunter. I’m glad Dad’s not giving up.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal

  I watched the public access channel tonight. I had to. Everyone in the go-cart class went to see Dad. Dad assigned it for homework because he was scheduled to talk about Moss Tree Park at the city council meeting that aired live at 7 p.m. Maybe his last chance before the bulldozers moved in.

  It’s hard to sit in your living room watching your own dad yell at people who look a lot smarter than him. I know Dad’s smart. But the way he dresses and talks makes everyone shake their heads and roll their eyes as if to say, “This guy CAN’T be for real.”

  I guess all the boys in Dad’s class wanted extra credit because they didn’t just show up at the meeting, they held a big sign that said, “Listen to Mr. Vance! Give Moss Tree Park a Chance!” It was kind of a clever saying, but the sign looked dumb. Whoever wrote the letters didn’t sketch it out with pencil first so the letters got smaller and smaller because they ran out of room. Still, I couldn’t believe they’d all shown up.

  Hunter was there. I wondered why he hadn’t asked me if I was going. I guess he still wasn’t crazy about letting the other kids know we were friends. It didn’t matter. I never would’ve gone to the meeting anyway. Watching Dad on TV was embarrassing enough.

  When it was Dad’s turn, he stood up at the microphone. His glasses perched halfway down his nose so he could see over them to give the city council members his I’m-so-disgusted-with-you-people-I-don’t-know-what-to-do look. He wore his T-shirt that said, “In the Land of the Blind, the One-Eyed Man is King.” (I don’t even know what that means, but he saved this shirt for the really big meetings.)

  He started by saying, “I have no choice. I’ve got to rant and rave because you people don’t respect reason, and you stare truth in the face and scoff at it. You’re idiots!”

  I wondered what all the parents of the boys from Dad’s class were thinking when Dad called everyone idiots. I hoped Hunter’s mom wasn’t watching.

  “Stealing from the future and disrespecting the past. Do you really think you’ll be heroes to your children when you ruin every last thing the Good Lord has given us?”

  The cameraman kept going back and forth from Dad to the boys holding the sign. And every time Dad finished a sentence, the boys clapped.

  “History is the architect, and you people don’t listen to logic.”

  That was the problem with Dad. He always talked like this. Why couldn’t he just say things in plain English? How about, “Save the park,” or “We need more green space,” or “Let’s not forget the legacy of Herman Moss”?

  But no, Dad had to go on and on with his strange way of saying everything.

  He continued, “Oh, I love suburbia”—I could tell by his voice that he had saved his most sarcastic remark for the very end—“they cut down the trees and then name streets after them.”

  It was a wonder they even let Dad have a turn at the microphone.

  (If Dad read this, he would beam with pride at his performance.)

  WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal

  Dad reminded me today that I better get busy with all my homeschool work for this quarter. It’s almost time for him to send my final assignments and tests to the homeschool evaluation committee. I knew this day was coming. I have tons of stuff left to do. I don’t know why I did this to myself. I stopped doing my work because I was mad at Da
d, but all I’ve done is punish myself.

  My final assignment in language arts is a real paper. A persuasive essay. Yuck! Besides that, I have to write a modern day fairy tale, do another summary of a newspaper article, and make another graphic organizer.

  Then I’m going to have to figure out what’s due in all the other subjects. I haven’t opened any of my books for weeks.

  If I don’t get my work done, next quarter Dad will be on me like an oil ring on a piston.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Freewriting

  I haven’t seen Hunter since Dad’s TV appearance. Now I’m really starting to wonder if he only used me. Maybe I was just someone who could help him get what he wanted—a passing grade on the test and a chance to build a go-cart. I’m telling myself it doesn’t matter, but deep down it does.

  I’m trying to concentrate on my assignments, but I’d rather be doing work for Dad, especially since he’s got three cars out in the garage that he can’t even work on because of his hand. Dad won’t let me out there until I have some of my assignments ready to send in. I never thought I liked working on cars until I had to sit at the kitchen table for days at a time without so much as picking up a screwdriver.

  The worst part: Hunter hasn’t stopped by once.

  WRITING EXERCISE: Life Events Journal

  Dad got a call this morning. Some guy’s car broke down so he left to go help him. I made him promise he’d only look at it and not fix it.

  As soon as I heard the Vegetable Rabbit squeal out of the garage, I headed straight for the mystery box before the fried chicken smell was even gone. I took out all the things I’d already seen to get to the new stuff.