This Journal Belongs to Ratchet (8 page)

Rachel or Ratchet

Am I just a person who knows

Which way to turn a screwdriver?

Today I asked Dad about the mystery box. I wasn't planning to ask him about it. I don't know why I did it.

Maybe it was because lately I'd been holding Mom's blue stone while I fell asleep at night wishing there was something else of Mom's I could hold on to. Or maybe it was because Dad hadn't been gone at all this week, and I'd never had the chance to be home alone so that I could drag that box out from under the sink and open it up. Or maybe it was just because I was dying to know what was in it.

Dad and I were working on a blue Chevy. Changing the fuel filter. And I just blurted it out.

“So, Dad, what's in that taped-up box under the sink in the laundry room?”

I knew by the look on his face I shouldn't have asked the question. But I couldn't take it back.

He stopped what he was doing. Put down his tools. Brushed off his pants.

“I gotta run for some parts.” And he disappeared in the Vegetable Rabbit.

At first I felt like crying. Dad never ignored me when I asked a question.

But then I got mad. The box was in our house. It was probably Mom's. I should be allowed to know what's in it.

A
I am hurt. I am
mad
.

A
At all the silence I get from
Dad
.

B
About the mystery box he's
hidden

B
And all the memories he's
forbidden
.

C
Losing Mom is so
unfair.

C
He doesn't even seem to
care

D
That keeping her box away from
me

D
Makes things worse than they have to
be
.

(I wished I had the guts to show this poem to Dad.)

I went under the sink in the laundry room to get more rags for the garage, and the second I opened the cupboard, I knew something was wrong.

Bottles, cans, and jars of junk were scattered every which way. My heart pounded because my gut told me Dad had been in there, and it had been for one reason only. So when I crouched down and crawled partway into the cupboard, I wasn't surprised to see that the mystery box was gone.

I knew Dad had taken it, but I still turned everything upside down under there hoping by some miracle it would be hidden somewhere, but it wasn't.

Why would he move it? Did he think I'd try to open it? I should've opened it when I had the chance.

Now I'm REALLY MAD at Dad. (internal rhyme)

Operation Mystery Box
starts today.

I'm going to find that box if it's the last thing I do.

And when I do, I'm not going to waste any time opening it.

Staticky talk radio buzzing,

Butter knife on toast scraping,

Newspaper pages rustling,

Cornflake spoon clinking,

And not much talking

Usually.

But lately,

The usual quiet

Filling up the breakfast noise

Feels quieter

Than usual,

Feels fuller

Than usual,

And so it feels

Unusual.

I used to not talk

Because

I'm not a morning person.

Now I don't talk

On purpose

Because

Of Dad

And the box.

I looked up from the tire I was filling with air, and there they all were
—
the boys from the go-cart class
—
parking their bikes on the driveway. Thankfully, I didn't see Evan with them.

“Hey, Ratchet!” Jason said. “Is your dad here?”

I told them no.

They groaned, and Sean whispered to Jason, “Just ask
her
.”

“
You
ask her,” Jason whispered back.

But it was Hunter who asked, “Do you think your dad would teach us to build our go-carts here in your garage?”

I asked them what happened to Evan's brother.

“He's a doofus,” Sean said.

“And he doesn't have a clue,” Jason added.

I felt a spark somewhere inside me. It felt like hope.

“I'll ask him,” I said.

Tension filled kitchen: the city council had just announced more bad news about the park. Ratchet's dad was scheduled to pick up trash in the morning. And Ratchet had been punishing her dad with silent anger for the last week. All this made it tough for Ratchet to ask her dad about teaching the go-cart class in the garage.

She thought sloppy joes would be the perfect supper to pave the way for her dad to say yes. But she was wrong.

“Ratchet, if you haven't noticed, I'm a little busy. There's a lot going on right now,” her dad said.

She knew it hadn't been the right time to ask, but she was afraid to wait. She was afraid the boys might change their minds or find someone else to do the class.

But she wasn't just afraid. She was excited too! Excited for the chance to be noticed again in a good way. That's what made her keep asking, which is something she never did.

“C'mon, Dad,” she begged. “They really need you. They can't build the go-carts without you.”

What she didn't say was, “Dad, I really need you to do this for me because it's my chance for something different to happen.”

“Ratchet!” her dad snapped.

His voice had turned city council stern.

“I've got twenty hours a week on the road picking up garbage, meetings every night this week with the mayor and his puppets, and cars parked up and down both sides of the driveway. What do you want me to do?”

Ratchet blinked in surprise at her dad's reaction. She wanted to say, “Pay attention. I. Want. You. To. Pay. Attention.”

But she didn't say that because she knew her dad
was
paying attention, but to all the wrong things.

Her dad got up and said, “Thanks for supper, Ratchet,” and kissed the top of her head before he walked back out to the garage.

Ratchet knew he felt bad. She knew he was stretched tighter than a fan belt on a pulley, but she was still mad. She was mad at him for saying no and mad at herself for not being able to tell him she needed him to save the class as much as he needed to save Moss Tree Park.

In the quiet kitchen she whispered, “Dad, I really need this,” but no one was there to hear her.

Opinion
: Teaching the go-cart class in our garage by myself is a good idea.

Supporting facts
:

1.
The boys need a teacher. (Proven fact)

2.
I know how to build a go-cart. (Proven fact)

3.
Dad won't mind if I help the boys build the go-carts as long as we don't get in his way. (Not so proven fact)

Today all the boys came up the street pulling wagons full of their engine parts. Thankfully, Dad was out on garbage duty at the time.

They had never come back to see if Dad had agreed to let them have the class in our garage. I guess they thought if they just showed up, he couldn't say no.

“Is your dad gone again?” Jason asked, looking around.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“Well, did you ask him?” Sean asked.

“He said it was okay,” I answered quickly before I gave myself the chance to chicken out. “He told me to get you guys started without him.”

“Cool,” Sean said.

“Let's do it,” Jason added.

So the boys sat down on the garage floor, and I explained the four-stroke cycle using Jason's small engine to demonstrate it. When I finished, everyone started working on their engines, and they seemed to forget all about Dad coming back. Everyone that is, but me. I really didn't know what he would do if he came home and saw all the boys working in the garage. Thankfully, they left before he showed up in his orange vest, so I didn't have to find out.

The next afternoon the boys came back, and this time Dad
was
home. I was helping him check the struts on someone's Oldsmobile when the wagons came squeaking up the driveway.

“Hi, Mr. Vance,” they all said.

Dad looked at me.

I looked at my worn-out Keds.

Before Dad could even say anything, the boys were taking their engines out of the wagons and spreading them out in the garage.

“Ratchet, I think I get the four-stroke cycle now,” Sean said, pulling a folded-up piece of notebook paper out of his pocket. “I drew a diagram of it last night, so I'd remember how you explained it.”

I didn't say anything, but I didn't have to. Dad did.

“I don't know what you kids are doing here, but I've got work to do,” Dad said. He didn't sound mean about it, just matter-of-fact.

The boys stood frozen, hovering over their engines not knowing what to do. I felt them staring at me, but I couldn't look up.

“What if Ratchet helps us?” Hunter asked.

That's when I did look up, and I saw Hunter looking right at me.

“That'd be hard for her to do when she's already helping me. Ratchet's my right-hand man out here in the garage.”

That's when I felt my silent anger at Dad turning into something I'd never felt before.

“Go on, boys,” Dad said. “Take your engines back up to the rec center. I hear they've got another teacher for y'all over there.”

As the boys put their small engines and engine parts back into their wagons, my heart pounded in my ears. I still hadn't looked at Dad. But by the time the boys' wagons were so far away I couldn't hear them squeaking anymore, I stared right at Dad, who stood in the middle of the garage adjusting the wrench he held in his hands.

I pulled off my navy blue lab coat, which I wore now in hopes of keeping my new Goodwill clothes a little cleaner, and threw it on the floor.

“You can fix the struts yourself,” I said.

I said it so quietly I wasn't sure Dad heard me, but I know he heard me when I slammed the door as I went inside. He had to
—
the kitchen windows rattled, and I heard the wrench Dad had been holding in his hands clatter to the floor.