Read an Excerpt

Writing Exercise: Write about your life.

Writing Format—FREEWRITING: Writing openly and freely on any topic.

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.