This Journal Belongs to Ratchet (13 page)

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.

“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.

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.

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.

A question without an answer:

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

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.

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.

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.)

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 Dad, 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.

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.

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.

I found more photos. Most were of Mom and Dad
—
one on their wedding day, another of them at the beach with the sunset behind them, one with them on a motorcycle. I could tell they weren't just smiling for the camera. Their smiles were from somewhere deep down. They looked
really
happy. I stared at each picture for a long time. Trying to see
something
. Something that would tell me more about Mom
and
Dad. Something I never knew.

I also found birth certificates for Mom, Dad, and me, and two pieces of folded-up paper that looked like letters. Before I had the chance to read them I smelled Dad coming, so I put everything back into the box and locked it. I put it back in the bay window seat and laid the cushion on top.

By the time Dad got inside, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing division with remainders.

Now the question without an answer gets even harder to answer:

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