This Journal Belongs to Ratchet (9 page)

A normal day in the garage. Oldies music playing in the background.

Dad:
Let's jack this car up and check the front brakes.

Ratchet:
(Remains silent)

Ratchet adjusts the jack and cranks it four times. Chut, chut, chut, chut. And the car is off the ground. Dad puts the safety stands under the car.

Dad:
Hand me the air gun.

Ratchet:
(Remains silent)

Ratchet hands Dad the air gun, and Dad uses it to remove the tire.

Dad:
I can't get a good look. Grab the light and plug it in.

Ratchet takes the light from the workbench, hands it to Dad, and then plugs it into the extension cord. Dad turns on the light and looks inside the caliper.

Dad:
Yeah, they're worn. Put this one on the list for tomorrow.

Ratchet:
(Remains silent)

Ratchet grabs the clipboard, and while she writes on it, she wonders if Dad even notices that she hasn't said one word.

Being noticed

For something

You're good at

Feels almost

As good

As the cover girls look.

Actually,

I think it feels

Even better

Because

The cover girls

All look alike

And there are lots of them,

But there's only one

Me.

So I'll

Tell Dad

I'm still going

To “Get Charmed,”

But instead

Go down to

Hunter's house

And in the garage

Charm the boys

Into building go-carts.

And who knows?

By the time I'm finished,

I may be on my way to

Creating my own style.

The next afternoon, while Dad was out picking up garbage, I walked down to Hunter's house. He was out in his garage. Thankfully by himself. (Actually it would have been nice if his mom had been there. I always liked to see what she was wearing.)

“How about I help you guys with your go-carts down here
—
in your garage,” I said from the end of the driveway. I was afraid if I got too close, Hunter might be able to hear my heart pounding. I didn't know if I was more nervous about talking to Hunter or about doing something behind Dad's back.

Hunter looked up and walked toward me. “Really, you would? But what about your dad?”

“I'll figure it out.”

I tried to sound cool about it, but I wondered if my voice gave away the fact that hearing Hunter be so excited about me agreeing to do this was almost more than I could take.

“All right, how about tomorrow?”

“Okay, see you,” I said, and as I walked home, I thought about how surprised I was that it had been so easy.

Now all I had to worry about was Dad.

When we met in Hunter's garage the next day, the boys kept thanking me over and over again.

“Ratchet, if it weren't for you, we would've had to crawl back to Evan's brother,” Sean said.

“Yeah,” Jason added. “And none of us wanted to do that.”

“Evan told us we were crazy when he found out you were helping us,” Sean said. “But we'll all be surprised if Evan and his brother can even build a go-cart that works. His brother is so full of it.”

I felt full of it too, but I didn't let it show.

Later while they were working on their engines, Sean said, “Hey, Hunter, stop hogging Ratchet. She's here to help all of us!”

“Maybe he's only
pretending
to need her help so much,” Jason said. Then Jason raised his eyebrows up and down.

And the rest of the boys said, “Ooooh!”

Hunter's face turned red, and he didn't ask for any more help after that. I wondered if he was embarrassed about needing so much help or about the boys thinking maybe he liked me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.