This Journal Belongs to Ratchet

Copyright © 2013 by Nancy J. Cavanaugh

Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Becky Terhune

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Cover image © hudiemm/iStockphoto

Internal Illustrations by Jillian Rahn

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Ratchet's
Homeschool Language Arts Journal

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

To Ron,
my best friend and biggest fan.

To Chaylee,
my gift straight from God.

And to my parents
for a lifetime of love and support.

Name:
Ratchet

Age:
11

If only getting a new life

Were as easy as getting

A new notebook.

But it's not.

Couldn't face another year

Writing on those

Long,

Yellow

Legal

Pads.

Dad found them at a garage sale.

They smelled like wet dog.

I bought this notebook

With clean white pages

Because this year I need

White pages.

This year I need

A cardboard cover

In cool colors.

This year I need

Something new to write on

And to happen.

Everything
in my life is old and recycled.

*
The kitchen table and chairs
—
Salvation Army.

*
Living room furniture
—
AMVETS.

*
TV
—
Motel 8's going out of business giveaway.

Even worse,
I
look like I belong in a museum of what
not
to wear with my Goodwill store clothes.

Dad's motto: “If the Good Lord wanted us to throw everything away, he would've put a Dumpster right outside the Garden of Eden.”

I want to say, “Not likely, Dad”; but I don't argue with him. Especially when he's talking about the Good Lord.

Even so, I wish we'd lose all this junk so we could start over. Because it's hard to look good in faded T-shirts that are too big. Jean shorts that are out of style. And my blond hair with no style at all thanks to coupons at Super Snips.

Today
could
be a day to start over. It's the first day of school for all the kids in the neighborhood. But not for me. I'm homeschooled. That means
nothing
new.

*
No new book bag.

*
No new clothes.

*
No new shoes.

*
No friends
—
new or old.

Just Dad and me and a bunch of smelly old textbooks from the library book sale. And a garage full of broken-down cars that need fixing.

So I sit at the chipped and dented kitchen table doing my assignments. Wishing I were in a
real
classroom. With
real
classmates. And a
real
teacher.

A teacher who says, “Good morning,” and smiles.

A teacher who reads my assignments and writes “Great job!” and “Way to go!” on my papers with glitter pens and funky colored markers.

Dad just glances at my work without really reading it. I know he doesn't really read it because one time for a social studies paper I wrote, “Abraham Lincoln's nose is bigger than his hat,” two hundred times. Dad put a check mark at the top of the paper and wrote, “Keep the engine running!”

It was proof that Dad did not really read my work and even more proof that Dad is really out there somewhere on some automotive planet all his own because who would write, “Keep the engine running!” on top of a paper about Abraham Lincoln?

As long as I do my homeschool work, Dad thinks he's being a great teacher.

Dad's out in the garage yelling, “Ratchet!”

I don't think he's ever called me by my real name,
Rachel
. At least not since I can remember. Says I've always reminded him of a ratchet the way my help makes all his jobs easier.

I've been fixing cars with him since I was six.

Dad yells again, “I could use a hand out here!”

So I'll put down my pencil, even though I hate to because it's new. It's real wood. (Not the fake plastic kind.) Purple sparkles. A super sharp point. And a perfect eraser. But I'll put it down anyway and go out to the garage and hand Dad tools for the rest of the afternoon.

What would I
rather
be doing? Getting off a
real
school bus with some
real
school friends after a
real
day of school.

What
will
I be doing? Maybe a brake job or a transmission flush or a fan belt replacement. Hopefully not another oil change. My hands are finally almost clean from the one we did last week.

None of the things an ordinary eleven-year-old girl
should
be doing. But when your nickname is Ratchet, you're not an ordinary girl.

Between bites of

Macaroni and cheese,

Dad talks

About

Torque wrenches and trees,

About

Oil rings and the ozone layer,

About

Gaskets and global warming.

I scrape the bottom

Of my bowl

Wishing for something.

Hoping for something.

Waiting for something.

Something I worry will never come.

I look at Dad's

Crazy, tired eyes

And wish

I didn't wish

For so much.

Because I know Dad

Tries real hard.

I have a silver chain with a blue stone on it. It's “my most important thing.” Not because it's expensive. (I don't even know how much it cost.) Not because I love jewelry. (I don't even wear jewelry. It clashes with my out-of-style clothes. Besides, safety rule number two, right after “Always wear safety glasses when working on cars” is “No jewelry in the shop.”)

The necklace is important because it was my mom's. And my mom is dead. This is the only thing I have of hers. She died when I was five. So I don't remember much about her. But when I hold the blue stone I remember her more. Like the feel of her hair. The smell of her neck. Her smile.

I have one photo of her. She's sitting on a rock at the beach. She's wearing a blue-checkered sundress. And the blue stone is hanging around her neck. The dark blue water and lighter blue sky are behind her. I wonder if this is why my favorite color is blue.

I touch the stone to my cheek and pretend I'm resting my head on my mom's arm. The necklace is “my most important thing” because it makes me remember things I never want to forget.

If I had more things like the silver chain with the blue stone that were Mom's, I bet I could remember more about her. I bet if I could remember more about her, I could be more like her. I bet if I could be more like her, I could somehow make things change.