This Journal Belongs to Ratchet (11 page)

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.