Do Not Pass Go

DO
NOT
PASS
GO

Also by Kirkpatrick Hill

Toughboy and Sister

Winter Camp

The Year of Miss Agnes

Dancing at the Odinochka

Margaret K. McElderry Books

KIRKPATRICK HILL

Margaret K. McElderry Books New York London Toronto Sydney

Margaret K. McElderry Books
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events,
real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names,
characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's
imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2007 by Kirkpatrick Hill

Photograph © 2007 Alamy

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole
or in part in any form.

Book design by Michael McCartney

The text for this book is set in Bulmer.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hill, Kirkpatrick.

Do not pass go / Kirkpatrick Hill.—1st ed.

p.  cm.

Summary: When Deet's father is jailed for using drugs,
Deet learns that prison is not what he expected, nor are
other people necessarily the way he thought they were.

ISBN-10: 978-1-4169-1400-6 (hardcover)

eISBN-13: 978-1-439-10412-5

ISBN-10: 1-4169-1400-5 (hardcover)

[1. Prisoners Fiction. 2. Fathers—Fiction. 3. Family life—
Alaska—Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.
5. Quotations—Fiction. 6. Alaska—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.H55285Do 2007

[Fic]—dc22

2006003254

F
OR
S
EAN

Merry-hearted boys make the best of old men
.

—The Bard of Armagh

Deet tenderly wiped the drips
of new oil from the engine of the Mercedes and replaced the dipstick. The engine was spotless and elegant-looking, like the car. He used a clean corner of the rag to polish the carburetor cover before he shut the hood, which closed with a wonderful oiled
snick
. The Mercedes had California plates, not Alaska plates.

“How come they brought this car in
here?
” Deet asked.

Deet's dad scooted his creeper out a little from under the car to look up at him, his eyebrows raised in pretend indignation. “What do you mean, in
here
, like it was a black hole or something?”

Deet gave him a severe look. “You know what I mean. This is not a Mercedes kind of garage, it's a truck kind of garage.
Old
trucks.”

Deet's dad laughed and with a quick lurch scooted the creeper backward to grab a wrench from a pile of tools behind him.

“Yeah, well. This car belongs to an old friend of Dan's from California. Otherwise it probably
would
have been taken someplace else.” He patted the silver door with appreciation. “Sweet, isn't she.” He disappeared under the car again.

Deet thought Dan's Garage looked like the set for a fifties movie starring someone like John Travolta. Except for the gas pumps, which were very modern and didn't look right with the white cement-block building.

There was a pyramid of dusty oilcans in the dirty front window, and piles of dog-eared and greasy parts manuals sat on the counter next to an old cash register. There was a candy bar machine by the doorway leading to the shop.

Various dingy display items were tacked up on the beaverboard walls—plastic windshield scrapers, keychains with tiny flashlights on them, and green felt pine trees to make your car smell better. The pine trees had been there so long the smell had gone out of them.

Dan was the old guy who owned the garage, had owned it since he was young. He was really mellow, with all this wild white hair stuck under a duck-bill cap.

As far as Deet knew, only one thing made Dan mad, and that was bumper stickers, and the kinds of slogans people stuck all over their cars. “I don't want to know your politics, I don't want to know your religion, and I don't want to know what you do for a hobby!” he'd snarl at an offending car parked in one of the bays. Deet's dad said if a car came in with too many stickers, Dan would refuse to work on it. “Too busy, got 'em stacked up,” he'd say, barely civil.

One of the other mechanics, Willy, had been at the garage with old Dan since the beginning. You could see yourself on the top of Willy's head, he was so cleanly bald. And then there was Deet's dad, Charley Aafedt, and Bingo. Bingo the Bulk, Dan called him, because he was so big. Bingo and Deet's dad had been there more than twelve years, so it wasn't a place with a lot of turnover, except for the tire guys. The tire guys, mostly kids just out of high school, came and went pretty regularly, on their way to better jobs with a little experience under their belts.

Gary was the new tire guy this winter, and he was a little older than most tire guys were, kind of beat-up—looking, but he was a ball of fire, loud and funny and full of energy. Deet didn't get to see much of him, because Gary only worked in the mornings.

Deet had been coming in to help since he was a little kid, since his mom had married Charley, and in that time nothing had ever changed in the garage. There was a grimy girlie calendar over the workbench that had been there, opened to the same month, for as long as he could remember. None of the guys were the naked-girl-calendar type and yet it hung there, year after year. When Deet asked Dan one day why he never took it down. Dan looked up fondly at the naked lady and said, “Because they don't make calendars like that anymore.” Whatever that meant.

All the guys had taught Deet a little of this and that. Even though he wasn't old enough for a driver's license, they let him drive the cars that were finished out of the bay and out to the back to wait for the customers. They let him change the oil, put on new wiper blades, check the radiators. And they called him to watch when
something interesting was going on—a tricky transmission job, a creative radiator patch.

Deet was good at mechanical stuff, but it couldn't be said that he really liked working on cars. He was glad to know how the engines worked, the way he was glad to know everything, but it wasn't what he had in mind for himself. He wanted to be a scientist. Or do some kind of work that lasted, that you didn't have to do over again in a few months.

Deet picked up the used oilcans and took them to the trash bin. He washed his hands in the chipped sink, then went over to the corner by a pile of old tires and made a sort of chair for himself with two tires under him and one behind his back. He always put his book bag there when he came in, and when he was finished helping the guys, he'd start his homework.

Mr. Hodges had given them all paperback quotation books in English class today. He had written the first quotation on the board:

It's a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations
.

—WINSTON CHURCHILL

Of course Mr. Hodges had to take a lot of flak from the girls about the word man, and then some more about calling the kids in the class uneducated, because what had they been spending all these years doing, anyway, if it wasn't getting an education, but it was all very good-natured. Everyone liked Mr. Hodges, who jittered around like a terrier, clutching what was left of the hair over his ears in mock despair over their questions and answers.

The quotation book was divided into subjects. You could find a quotation about almost anything. Every week they were supposed to pick out two they liked and write short essays about what they thought the quotations meant, and this would take the place of their regular Thursday homework on vocabulary. Deet thought this was going to be very interesting, like everything Mr. Hodges had them do.

He looked up “mechanics” first, to see if there was anything that applied to the guys in the shop. Nothing. That was strange. Millions of mechanics all over the world, keeping everything running, and nobody had a quote about them? Talk about the unsung hero.

Deet looked up at Bingo and Willy, working in the bays. Born mechanics, that's what people like them were called. If a kid was born two hundred years ago, you couldn't have said he was a born mechanic, because that hadn't been thought of yet. What was there before mechanics? Maybe a kid like that would be interested in wagons, or horses. No, horses would be a whole different thing. Maybe cotton gins and spinning wheels. Deet wasn't quite sure what either of those things were, but it sounded like they had moving parts.

Deet flipped through the quotation book, looking for inspiration. Every category in the world besides mechanics: birds, causes and consequences, knowledge, liberty, love, education. Buying and selling.

Socrates, walking in the marketplace, had said:

How much there is in the world I do not want.

He could just see Socrates in that white sheet thing—toga in Rome, but he forgot what it was called in Greece—walking in his sandals, walking with his students. What kind of thing would the Greeks be
selling that Socrates had no use for? Deet wasn't sure. He opened his notebook and wrote the quotation down at the top of the page in his small, precise printing, all the lowercase letters just the same size, each word spaced the same as the others. Then he looked up Socrates in his dictionary. 470-399
B.C.
Under the quotation he wrote:

Socrates wrote this twenty-four hundred years ago, and I feel like this every time I go through the mall and look at all the junk there is to buy. Like phony diamond lizard key chains, and cookie jars shaped like Elvis, and lamp bases that bubble colored oil or something. To think of people spending their lives in factories making this junk. How could you have job satisfaction doing something like that? I used to like those books about pioneer days, the people in houses they made themselves, with just what they needed around them. Just enough furniture, and a quilt made of goose feathers, and carefully carved shelves, and when they needed
something they couldn't make themselves they'd sell their butter or eggs or wood they'd cut and they'd get their sugar and tea and flour, just enough to last the winter. It seemed like a good way to live. It sounded like a good way to be happy. I guess that's why they call this the throwaway culture.

Deet read what he'd written. This kind of writing was so free, just say what you think. He looked through the book for another quotation.

Man is Nature's sole mistake.

—W. S. GILBERT

That would make a good bumper sticker. Come to think of it, a lot of quotations would make good bumper stickers. Bumper stickers, the poor man's quotations. Wonder what Dan would make of this book.