This Journal Belongs to Ratchet (12 page)

Hunter's Mom

Turquoise everything

Sundress

Flip-flops

Ponytail holder

Earrings

Even her smile

Is

Bright blue

Hunter

Fun

Being together

Frustrating

Studying together

He

Doesn't

Remember

Anything

Back to the

Goodwill store

For matching

Anything.

Come close with the

Lime green tank top.

(Only a small brown stain.)

Dark green cutoffs.

(Missing a button.)

Olive green plastic flip-flops.

(Almost new.)

And a white scrunchie.

(Still in the package.)

When I stand at the mirror

I look better than usual,

But not as good as I had hoped.

Haven't really

Created

My own style

Yet.

(I'm writing my own memo this time.)

Day: Wednesday

To: Ratchet

From: Ratchet

Subject: Studying with Hunter

After studying for four days:

1.
Hunter knows the names of almost all the tools, but still looks like a preschooler with a toy tool kit when he uses them.

2.
He doesn't know the names of hardly any engine parts.

3.
He can take the engine apart but still has no idea how to put it back together.

4.
He couldn't explain the four-stroke cycle if his life depended on it.

5.
As a mechanic, Hunter is as hopeless as a spark plug without a spark.

Jewish Proverb:

“A mother understands what a child does not say.”

Ratchet's Response:

Dad doesn't notice

My almost matching clothes.

My ponytail looking neater

Than usual.

My waiting for Hunter to get home

From school.

A mom,

My mom,

Would've noticed all of this

And even more.

She would've noticed

I was excited,

Even a little bit nervous.

She would've noticed

How hard I was trying

To make a good impression.

She would've noticed

How important it was for me

To have a friend.

And she would've noticed

That having a boy like Hunter

Pay attention,

Really pay attention

Is a
really
big deal.

Hunter doesn't notice my clothes.

But

We don't study.

We play video games.

Hanging out like real friends.

It makes me feel as good on the inside

As I had hoped to look on the outside.

Scene: The garage. Tools and engine parts scattered everywhere. Oldies music playing in the background. Ratchet points to the intake valve on a small engine.

Ratchet
: What's this?

Hunter looks puzzled as if he's seeing an engine for the first time. He sighs.

Hunter:
I don't know.

Ratchet:
How can you not know?! We've been over this a thousand times!

Hunter shakes his head.

Hunter:
I've been studying all week long, and I still don't know half this stuff. I don't have a chance!

Hunter buries his head in his hands. Ratchet stands awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to the other wondering if Hunter's crying. The song “Daydream Believer” starts to play in the background. Hunter looks up and half smiles.

Hunter
:
“Cheer up, Sleepy Jean...”

Hunter and Ratchet both burst out laughing as they pretend to play air keyboard for the rest of the song. Finally, they fall on the floor of the garage laughing as a new song comes on the radio.

Ratchet:
I've got it! I know how you're going to pass the test.

Ratchet grabs a clipboard and a pencil. Hunter looks confused.

Ratchet:
What are your five favorite oldies songs?

Hunter:
What?

Ratchet:
Just tell me. What are they?

Hunter:
“Spirit in the Sky,” “Jailhouse Rock,” “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” “Born to Be Wild,” and “Proud Mary.”

Ratchet:
Now all we have to do is change the lyrics.

Hunter:
What in the world are you talking about?

We'll write new words to the old songs. Good-bye, love, heartbreak, and tears. Hello, spark plug, gasket, and flywheel. You're going to sing your way to an A.”

The scene fades as Ratchet grabs a clipboard from the workbench. Hunter looks over her shoulder as she begins to write.

Since I'm not doing many assignments anymore, if Dad asks to see my work, I can flash my language arts notebook at him, and when he sees all this writing, he'll think I'm in the running to be the top homeschool student of the year. It's amazing how someone so in touch with the environment can be so out of touch with reality.

For the last week I've been writing (or I should say rewriting) songs. It's Hunter's only hope. If he remembers the songs, he'll pass the test.

Here's one of my favorites:

“Piston Rock”

(To the tune of “Jailhouse Rock” by Elvis Presley)

The piston threw a party in the engine block.

The four-stroke cycle started and things began to rock.

The valve opened up, and fuel and air came in.

The flywheel got excited, and it began to spin.

Let's rock, everybody, let's rock.

Every part in the engine block

Was dancing to the piston rock.

Sitting at the kitchen table wondering

If Hunter knows enough lyrics to pass the test,

The phone rings and Dad answers it in the garage.

He yells, “Ratchet, bring me my keys!

I gotta go jump someone's car.”

I see the keys where they always are up on the windowsill next to his wallet,

And it hits me
—

The key to the lockbox is in Dad's wallet.

It's got to be.

When I pick up the car keys, my hand is so close to the wallet.

Going into Dad's wallet would be crossing a line.

A line I've never crossed.

The phone rings again startling me, and Dad's car keys clatter to the floor.

“Forget it!” Dad yells from the garage.

“They just got the car started.”

I put the keys back.

My hand touches the wallet, and I watch my hand pick it up.

I watch like it's someone else's hands

As they unfold the worn leather

And slide open the little zipper that's inside,

And someone else's index finger pokes into the tiny pocket,

But
my
finger feels the metal key.

The metal key that I know will open the lockbox.

A thumb and index finger dig it out,

And before I know it the wallet is back on the windowsill next to the car keys,

And THE key is in my shorts' pocket pressing into my thigh like it weighs a ton,

And I sit back down at the kitchen table wondering when I'll have the guts to use it.

It was dark outside by the time I went out to the garage to see what Dad wanted for supper, and he was lying on the creeper in the middle of the garage floor. His hair was wet with sweat, and his cheeks were bright red. He was just staring at the ceiling.

I asked him if he was okay.

He didn't answer, so I went over and knelt down next to him.

“Ratchet, go get my wallet. I gotta get to the hospital.”

I ran inside. My hands shook as I grabbed his wallet off the windowsill. This time it was
my
hands holding the wallet, and they were trying to save Dad. I hurried back out to the garage.

Dad asked me to help him up, and when I touched his arm, he felt like an overheated engine.

I asked him what was wrong.

“Don't know. I've just gotta get to the hospital.”

I asked if he could even drive.

“I'll manage. You better come with me.”

He started up the Rabbit, and the fried chicken smell made me want to throw up. Dad hunched over the steering wheel and accelerated toward the hospital.

Sitting next to Dad in the hospital room.

His IV drips slowly,

But my tears pour

Until a doctor

Finally tells me

He'll be all right.

“Are you sure?”

I keep asking.

And yes,

Everyone keeps saying,

So my tears slow to a drip

And keep time with the IV.

The infection happened

Because Dad

Worked in the garage

Too soon.

Teeny-tiny germs

Seeped through the bandage

And sneaked into Dad's hand,

Swam into his veins,

Spread throughout his whole body,

So with each drip of the IV

I silently apologize to Dad

Over and over again

Because my anger

Had already hurt him

On the outside,

And now it was hurting him

On the inside too.