This Journal Belongs to Ratchet (19 page)

Some Good News and Bad News

1.
Good
—
Dad is the happiest I've seen him in a long time. He hasn't stopped whistling and singing in the garage since we got the good news. He just keeps saying, “Justice is like a train that is nearly always late.”

2.
Good
—
Since the park is saved, the go-cart contest is back on. I'm really happy for the boys, especially Hunter. And Dad too.

3.
Good and Bad
—
The editor of The Blainesfield Beacon told me I have to accept my award at a formal ceremony. I have nothing to wear.

4.
Bad
—
If I have to dress up for the ceremony, then that means Dad does too. He has nothing nice to wear either.

5.
Good
—
I'm getting $50 for my essay, so I have plenty of money to go shopping for a new outfit.

6.
Bad
—
I have no one to take me shopping to buy something to wear. Or more importantly, someone to tell me it looks good.

BUT the best “Good” thing of all is that now I know that fixing cars isn't the only thing I learned from Dad. With a little help from Hunter and Ms. Wilkerson's son, my words of persuasion changed people's minds about something really important. I was even more like Dad than I thought.

If having a friend means

Having someone butt into your life

And take your stuff

And do something with it

You never wanted them to do

Without even telling you

Because they knew you wouldn't

And they knew it needed to be done

I guess it's a good thing

I
finally
have a friend.

If having a kind of crazy dad means

Having someone make your life

A little miserable

And make people stop and stare at you

When you don't want to be noticed

for all the wrong reasons

I guess it's a good thing

I have a kind of crazy dad

Because how else would I have learned

That sometimes saving something important

is the only way to save yourself

Who?
Ratchet

What?
Saved the park

When?
In the nick of time

Where?
Blainesfield

Why?
For Dad

Dad and I are the Three Musketeers minus one

Hoping to be victorious.

I am the Robin Hood's helper of Blainesfield

Trying desperately to save the day.

Moss Tree Park is the spoils

We long to divide and share.

We're thanking the Good Lord

For choosing to bless us all now.

It took me three days to get up the guts to ask Hunter's mom to take me shopping to buy a new outfit for the Moss Tree Park ceremony, but I couldn't believe how happy she was. She acted like I was doing
her
a favor. She said she always wanted to have a daughter. I kind of wanted to say, “That's funny, I always wanted to have a mom,” but I didn't.

We went to the mall in Redville, the next town over. Hunter's mom said she knew the perfect place. And she was right. She did. We found lots of cool clothes, and I tried on more outfits in one afternoon than I've tried on in my whole life.

At first I felt funny having Hunter's mom compliment me on how I looked each time I came out of the dressing room. I felt awkward standing in front of the three big mirrors in clothes that made me look like someone else. But after a while I forgot about acting shy. I got more excited with each new thing I tried on. Maybe I'd be able to create my own style after all.

We were having so much fun.

Hunter's mom brought me different sizes and colors when things didn't fit or look right. She hung up all the clothes that I'd already tried on. It was like I was a rich famous person with a personal shopper who was also my best friend.

And then something awful happened.

The saleslady came in when I was standing in front of the mirror in a flowered sundress trying to decide which print I looked best in and she said to Hunter's mom, “Here's a necklace that goes nicely with that. Have your daughter try it on.”

It's hard to remember what happened next because my head felt like I'd just gotten off a merry-go-round. My skin got cold and clammy, and the next thing I knew I was on the floor in a heap of tears and cotton floral print. It was as if a super magnet had pulled me to the floor, and I couldn't get up. I was scrunched up in a ball with my face in my hands sobbing so hard I almost couldn't breathe.

Hunter's mom crouched next to me and rubbed my back with one hand, while she dug some tissues out of her purse with the other. I knew this time I was going to have to tell her the truth.

I was crying about Mom.

“Let's go get something to drink in the food court,” she said.

So we did. That's when I told her that I had a mom who didn't care about me. And even though I was crying again when I said those words, once I said them out loud I felt like a transmission that had just been flushed.

The words were true. I couldn't change them. I couldn't change that Mom had left. But I had to change the way I thought about the person who had been my mom.

I also had to change the way I thought about Dad. Yeah, he was weird
—
he didn't comb his hair or look like other normal dads and saving the planet for the Good Lord sounded kind of crazy to most people
—
but Dad was mine. He was my most important person. He loved me. He always stuck by me. And he always did what he thought was best for me. Even though most people thought he was crazy. I knew that deep down a lot of people thought he was smart. Most importantly I did.

Hunter's mom just listened as I talked. First about Mom. And then about Dad. I couldn't always look at her as I talked through my tears. But every time I looked up, she was looking right at me. And she kept her hands on top of mine as she listened.

When I finished talking and crying I felt like I'd just run a marathon. I was so exhausted. I could've put my head on the food court table and fallen asleep right there in the middle of all the burgers, fries, and ice cream.

Then Hunter's mom said the smartest, nicest thing. “Ratchet, you're a wonderful girl. And no matter how many wrong things you think your mom did, there's one thing she did that was an absolute miracle, and that was to have a daughter as beautiful and as smart as you.”

I told Dad.

I guess I shouldn't have.

But I did.

Because I had to.

Talking to other people is fine.

But Dad is my most important person.

I have to be able to tell him.

He has to be able to listen.

He listened all right. But then, he threw a wrench across the garage. Not at me. Not at anything really. But it was still scary.

Dad yells a lot at all kinds of people about all kinds of things. But I've never seen him hit anyone or throw ANYTHING. I didn't think me talking to Hunter's mom about Mom leaving would make him do that. I guess I was wrong.

I wish I could be more excited about the ceremony to accept my award, but Dad's up on the roof, and I don't know if he's ever coming down.

After throwing the wrench, he took a box of shingles up there and he's been pounding ever since. Now my head is pounding too.

I'm going over to Hunter's in a while. His mom's going to help me fix my hair. I'm already wearing the outfit we bought. We went back and bought it after we talked at the food court the other day. But wearing the new outfit, having my hair look good for a change, and finally feeling like I look a little normal on the outside won't mean anything. Not if Dad doesn't show up. Because without him there, I won't feel normal on the inside.

The editor told me I should have a short acceptance speech ready, and I wrote one. But it's not for the audience. It's for Dad. So if he doesn't come...

Normal might be good

For some people

But I must not be one of them.

I go to the ceremony

With Hunter and his mom.

I look the most normal

I've looked in my whole life.

My clothes are just right.

My hair looks good.

So how come I feel out of place?

I fan myself with a program

While I turn around in my seat

Looking for Dad.

He's always easy to spot,

But I don't see him anywhere.

The microphone buzzes with feedback,

And Mayor Prindle heads for the stage.

I look at Hunter and his mom

Sitting on either side of me.

I'm with normal-looking people.

But I still don't feel like I fit in

Until I turn around in my seat

One last time

And see my dad

Standing way in the back

At the edge of the park.

I could tell

He had
tried
to comb his hair.

(But he still looked like Albert Einstein.)

He had
tried
to shave.

(But he must have used a very dull razor.)

He had
tried
to wear something nice.

(But his sports jacket was way out of style

And didn't fit at all.)

But it's the T-shirt he has on

Under the sports jacket that makes me smile

And makes me feel like I fit in right where I'm supposed to.

The T-shirt says, “Everybody needs a Ratchet.”

I had given it to him for Christmas

When I was eight.

I didn't even know he still had it.

Dad did
not
look normal,

But he was there.

And he had come for me.

He
was my normal,

So I give the speech

I wrote for him.

Louisa May Alcott:

“What do girls do who haven't any mothers to help them through their troubles?”

Ratchet:

The Good Lord gives them a dad who loves them like my dad loves me.

A week later at the Moss Tree Park Go-Cart Races, Dad was the guest of honor.

Not only because he had been the first one to really care about saving the park, but also because he was the reason all the boys in his class had the coolest go-carts the race had ever seen.

They were all made out of recycled materials: two-liter soda bottles, old crates, hubcaps, bicycle seats. You name it, you could find it somewhere on some car. Jason had made his entire car out of wood from an old dresser. He actually sat in a drawer to drive the thing.

It made me proud to have a recycle-crazy guy for a dad.

The cover girls were there admiring the boys' go-carts and trying to get the boys to admire them. I was thankful Hunter wasn't paying attention to any of the girls, and I was glad I had ended up creating my own style instead of “getting charmed.” I felt comfortable and thought I looked sort of cute in the capris and fitted T-shirt Hunter's mom had helped me pick out when we went back to the mall for a second shopping trip. I guess I wasn't completely like Dad. I still cared about what people thought of me. Especially Hunter.

That day at Moss Tree Park was one of the best days of my life for lots of reasons.

One of the funniest things was Evan's go-cart. His brother wanted to make sure Evan's car was better than anyone else's because he was even more of a show-off than Evan, but his plan backfired in more ways than one.

His car looked ridiculous next to all the recycled cars because it was all shiny and new. It looked like a toy model that a little kid put together. The other cars were creative and had personality.

But the way Evan's car looked was only part of the problem. Evan's go-cart literally
did
backfire at the starting line because just after the beginning of the race, he blew a gasket. The car didn't get more than ten feet down the track. The recycled cars left him in the dust. It was great!

Even though Dad was the guest of honor, most of the people there watching the race still thought he was a little nuts. He was dressed in a T-shirt the boys had given him that said “Genius at Work” on the front and “Real Men Recycle” on the back. Dad cheered his head off as the boys' go-carts circled the track. Every time one of the boys finished, he jumped up and down like a five-year-old at the circus, and after all the boys crossed the finish line, they surrounded Dad, slapping him on the back and saying things like, “You're the best, Mr. Vance!” and “We couldn't have done it without you!” Hunter had been right. I
was
lucky to have a dad like Dad. The Good Lord had given me a break after all.

Before Dad even stopped jumping up and down, Hunter and the other boys came over and handed me a big, flat box.

“What's this?” I asked.

“Just open it,” Jason said.

So I did. Inside was a long, skinny sugar cookie with squiggles of frosting all over it. It looked like a sword or a dagger or something, but I knew what it was supposed to look like
—
a ratchet.

“My mom helped us make it,” Hunter said.

“And we all signed it,” Jason added.

“We just wanted to say thanks,” Hunter said.

I didn't care what the cookie looked like. I didn't care what it tasted like. I didn't care that I couldn't read one single name written on it. None of that mattered when you finally have real friends.

My life really wasn't all that different than it had always been, but somehow it sure felt like something had changed. It felt like my new style wasn't just about the way I looked on the outside. It had more to do with how I felt on the inside. Finding out the truth about Mom wasn't easy, and it sure didn't make me feel more normal, but I would never have known how much Dad loved me if I hadn't found out Mom left.

After the race, we planted trees to replace the ones that had been cut down, and we celebrated as if it were Herman Moss's birthday with a great big cake. The best part was that thanks to Ms. Wilkerson, the trees we planted had been donated by Eddie J. She had shamed him into donating them by telling him it was the least he could do after being such a big bully.

Then we all ate burgers compliments of the owners at Mama Mack's, who had set up a booth in the park. Marty from Gas Gulp had frozen candy bars available, not for free, but for a very cheap price, of course. Hunter's dad was even there, and Hunter had more fun showing his dad how the engine in his '57 Chevy go-cart worked than he did driving his go-cart in the race. His dad seemed really impressed with everything Hunter knew about his engine, and I had a feeling the two of them might just get around to rebuilding a car after all.

Ms. Wilkerson and I sat in the shade at a picnic table and ate lunch. Her son Adam had hired a van from her nursing home to bring her out to the park. He thought she should be there since she was the one who put her teacher's voice to work one last time to try and help save the park, and even though it took a little more than a stern teacher's voice to do it, she deserved some credit.

While Ms. Wilkerson and I finished our burgers and sat licking our melting candy bars, I watched Dad, who was too busy to eat. He was following the mayor around and telling him about a new solar-powered air-conditioning system. He wanted the mayor to put it in all the town's public buildings.

Ms. Wilkerson saw me watching Dad and said, “You know, your daddy reminds me so much of Herman Moss, and you remind me a little bit of myself. Don't be like me and let the world fool you into thinking your daddy's not a good man. He may never be the mayor or have the kind of job you think makes him
look
good, but I can tell you, his heart's in the right place, and that's what really matters.”

The thing is, I didn't need Ms. Wilkerson to tell me that. My heart already knew it.

Turns out I didn't really need a new life
—
I already had a pretty good one
—
not a perfect one
—
but one that I could feel all right about.