Do Not Pass Go Read online

  DO

  NOT

  PASS

  GO

  Also by Kirkpatrick Hill

  Toughboy and Sister

  Winter Camp

  The Year of Miss Agnes

  Dancing at the Odinochka

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  DO NOT PASS GO

  KIRKPATRICK HILL

  Margaret K. McElderry Books New York London Toronto Sydney

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events,

  real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names,

  characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s

  imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Kirkpatrick Hill

  Photograph © 2007 Alamy

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole

  or in part in any form.

  Book design by Michael McCartney

  The text for this book is set in Bulmer.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hill, Kirkpatrick.

  Do not pass go / Kirkpatrick Hill.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When Deet’s father is jailed for using drugs,

  Deet learns that prison is not what he expected, nor are

  other people necessarily the way he thought they were.

  ISBN-10: 978-1-4169-1400-6 (hardcover)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-439-10412-5

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-1400-5 (hardcover)

  [1. Prisoners Fiction. 2. Fathers—Fiction. 3. Family life—

  Alaska—Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.

  5. Quotations—Fiction. 6. Alaska—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H55285Do 2007

  [Fic]—dc22

  2006003254

  FOR SEAN

  Merry-hearted boys make the best of old men.

  —The Bard of Armagh

  ONE

  Deet tenderly wiped the drips of new oil from the engine of the Mercedes and replaced the dipstick. The engine was spotless and elegant-looking, like the car. He used a clean corner of the rag to polish the carburetor cover before he shut the hood, which closed with a wonderful oiled snick. The Mercedes had California plates, not Alaska plates.

  “How come they brought this car in here?” Deet asked.

  Deet’s dad scooted his creeper out a little from under the car to look up at him, his eyebrows raised in pretend indignation. “What do you mean, in here, like it was a black hole or something?”

  Deet gave him a severe look. “You know what I mean. This is not a Mercedes kind of garage, it’s a truck kind of garage. Old trucks.”

  Deet’s dad laughed and with a quick lurch scooted the creeper backward to grab a wrench from a pile of tools behind him.

  “Yeah, well. This car belongs to an old friend of Dan’s from California. Otherwise it probably would have been taken someplace else.” He patted the silver door with appreciation. “Sweet, isn’t she.” He disappeared under the car again.

  Deet thought Dan’s Garage looked like the set for a fifties movie starring someone like John Travolta. Except for the gas pumps, which were very modern and didn’t look right with the white cement-block building.

  There was a pyramid of dusty oilcans in the dirty front window, and piles of dog-eared and greasy parts manuals sat on the counter next to an old cash register. There was a candy bar machine by the doorway leading to the shop.

  Various dingy display items were tacked up on the beaverboard walls—plastic windshield scrapers, keychains with tiny flashlights on them, and green felt pine trees to make your car smell better. The pine trees had been there so long the smell had gone out of them.

  Dan was the old guy who owned the garage, had owned it since he was young. He was really mellow, with all this wild white hair stuck under a duck-bill cap.

  As far as Deet knew, only one thing made Dan mad, and that was bumper stickers, and the kinds of slogans people stuck all over their cars. “I don’t want to know your politics, I don’t want to know your religion, and I don’t want to know what you do for a hobby!” he’d snarl at an offending car parked in one of the bays. Deet’s dad said if a car came in with too many stickers, Dan would refuse to work on it. “Too busy, got ’em stacked up,” he’d say, barely civil.

  One of the other mechanics, Willy, had been at the garage with old Dan since the beginning. You could see yourself on the top of Willy’s head, he was so cleanly bald. And then there was Deet’s dad, Charley Aafedt, and Bingo. Bingo the Bulk, Dan called him, because he was so big. Bingo and Deet’s dad had been there more than twelve years, so it wasn’t a place with a lot of turnover, except for the tire guys. The tire guys, mostly kids just out of high school, came and went pretty regularly, on their way to better jobs with a little experience under their belts.

  Gary was the new tire guy this winter, and he was a little older than most tire guys were, kind of beat-up—looking, but he was a ball of fire, loud and funny and full of energy. Deet didn’t get to see much of him, because Gary only worked in the mornings.

  Deet had been coming in to help since he was a little kid, since his mom had married Charley, and in that time nothing had ever changed in the garage. There was a grimy girlie calendar over the workbench that had been there, opened to the same month, for as long as he could remember. None of the guys were the naked-girl-calendar type and yet it hung there, year after year. When Deet asked Dan one day why he never took it down. Dan looked up fondly at the naked lady and said, “Because they don’t make calendars like that anymore.” Whatever that meant.

  All the guys had taught Deet a little of this and that. Even though he wasn’t old enough for a driver’s license, they let him drive the cars that were finished out of the bay and out to the back to wait for the customers. They let him change the oil, put on new wiper blades, check the radiators. And they called him to watch when something interesting was going on—a tricky transmission job, a creative radiator patch.

  Deet was good at mechanical stuff, but it couldn’t be said that he really liked working on cars. He was glad to know how the engines worked, the way he was glad to know everything, but it wasn’t what he had in mind for himself. He wanted to be a scientist. Or do some kind of work that lasted, that you didn’t have to do over again in a few months.

  Deet picked up the used oilcans and took them to the trash bin. He washed his hands in the chipped sink, then went over to the corner by a pile of old tires and made a sort of chair for himself with two tires under him and one behind his back. He always put his book bag there when he came in, and when he was finished helping the guys, he’d start his homework.

  Mr. Hodges had given them all paperback quotation books in English class today. He had written the first quotation on the board:

  It’s a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations.

  —WINSTON CHURCHILL

  Of course Mr. Hodges had to take a lot of flak from the girls about the word man, and then some more about calling the kids in the class uneducated, because what had they been spending all these years doing, anyway, if it wasn’t getting an education, but it was all very good-natured. Everyone liked Mr. Hodges, who jittered around like a terrier, clutching what was left of the hair over his ears in mock despair over their questions and answ
ers.

  The quotation book was divided into subjects. You could find a quotation about almost anything. Every week they were supposed to pick out two they liked and write short essays about what they thought the quotations meant, and this would take the place of their regular Thursday homework on vocabulary. Deet thought this was going to be very interesting, like everything Mr. Hodges had them do.

  He looked up “mechanics” first, to see if there was anything that applied to the guys in the shop. Nothing. That was strange. Millions of mechanics all over the world, keeping everything running, and nobody had a quote about them? Talk about the unsung hero.

  Deet looked up at Bingo and Willy, working in the bays. Born mechanics, that’s what people like them were called. If a kid was born two hundred years ago, you couldn’t have said he was a born mechanic, because that hadn’t been thought of yet. What was there before mechanics? Maybe a kid like that would be interested in wagons, or horses. No, horses would be a whole different thing. Maybe cotton gins and spinning wheels. Deet wasn’t quite sure what either of those things were, but it sounded like they had moving parts.

  Deet flipped through the quotation book, looking for inspiration. Every category in the world besides mechanics: birds, causes and consequences, knowledge, liberty, love, education. Buying and selling.

  Socrates, walking in the marketplace, had said:

  How much there is in the world I do not want.

  He could just see Socrates in that white sheet thing—toga in Rome, but he forgot what it was called in Greece—walking in his sandals, walking with his students. What kind of thing would the Greeks be selling that Socrates had no use for? Deet wasn’t sure. He opened his notebook and wrote the quotation down at the top of the page in his small, precise printing, all the lowercase letters just the same size, each word spaced the same as the others. Then he looked up Socrates in his dictionary. 470-399 B.C. Under the quotation he wrote:

  Socrates wrote this twenty-four hundred years ago, and I feel like this every time I go through the mall and look at all the junk there is to buy. Like phony diamond lizard key chains, and cookie jars shaped like Elvis, and lamp bases that bubble colored oil or something. To think of people spending their lives in factories making this junk. How could you have job satisfaction doing something like that? I used to like those books about pioneer days, the people in houses they made themselves, with just what they needed around them. Just enough furniture, and a quilt made of goose feathers, and carefully carved shelves, and when they needed something they couldn’t make themselves they’d sell their butter or eggs or wood they’d cut and they’d get their sugar and tea and flour, just enough to last the winter. It seemed like a good way to live. It sounded like a good way to be happy. I guess that’s why they call this the throwaway culture.

  Deet read what he’d written. This kind of writing was so free, just say what you think. He looked through the book for another quotation.

  Man is Nature’s sole mistake.

  —W. S. GILBERT

  That would make a good bumper sticker. Come to think of it, a lot of quotations would make good bumper stickers. Bumper stickers, the poor man’s quotations. Wonder what Dan would make of this book.

  Or:

  The world is beautiful, but it has a disease called man.

  —FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

  That was a good one. Pollution and killing all the animals off, and all that.

  Deet’s dad rattled out from under the Mercedes. It was almost closing time. Deet put his books and notebook back in his book bag and pulled on his parka.

  Dad wiped his oily hands on a rag and then jerked his head at Deet.

  “Come and look at this.”

  Deet had a pretty good idea what was coming. It was Wednesday, and that was the day the Snap-On tool guy came by with his truck to sell mechanics new tools. Dad couldn’t resist them.

  Deet looked at Bingo, who was still working in the next bay, sweat beaded on his fat face. Bingo winked at him, so Deet knew he was right.

  Dad pulled open the top drawer of his toolbox and put the tools he’d been using back inside. The toolbox was as oily as everything else in the shop, and tools were piled higgledy-piggledy on the top of the chest. Deet wanted to wipe down every tool with gasoline and shine them up, clean out every drawer and line the bottoms with clean paper, line up all the tools in neat rows. He hated disorder and mess.

  Taped on the open top lid of the box was a curling picture of Deet’s mom, taken a few years back, when she was all dressed up.

  When she got all dolled up, she looked so happy with herself. She’d do a little twirl on her high heels, earrings swinging. “How do I look?” His little sisters would be radiant with admiration, and Dad would look almost as tickled. But the way his mom dressed made Deet uncomfortable.

  Dad pulled out a bottom drawer and took out a very big drive ratchet. “Three-quarter inch,” he said. “Feel how heavy that is.” Deet hefted the ratchet, watching Dad’s face. It wasn’t anything he’d want to drop on his foot, that was for sure.

  “How much?” asked Deet.

  “Seventy-five.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Don’t tell Mom!” Dad looked about eight years old for a second, his long blond hair falling into his eyes. Deet couldn’t help but smile at him.

  They were both like that, his folks. They spend money on things they didn’t need and sometimes didn’t have enough left to buy what they did need. Whenever they got really broke, his folks would go out and buy something big. Like that red Corvette they’d had that didn’t have enough room for all of them without squeezing up.

  And it wasn’t just money, it was planning and organization that got messed up. Things that needed doing on time, like getting the furnace cleaned, or the snow cleared off the roof. Warnings were never followed. Film was left in the glove compartment to fry, videocassettes were left on top of the television to de-magnetize, the kitchen filled with smoke because greasy spills were not immediately wiped off the bottom of the oven.

  Deet could tell when something was going to go wrong, could tell when the money was going awry, when things had been done just too carelessly, when fixing was needed, or attention paid to details. He could tell, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it because he was only a kid.

  Sometimes Deet felt like he was the only grown-up in the house.

  TWO

  Deet was rereading the quotation essays he’d written the night before for English class, eating his oatmeal kind of sideways so he wouldn’t spill on his notebook, trying to imagine what Mr. Hodges would write about his comments.

  The best thing about Mr. Hodges was that if you handed in your homework before first period, he’d have it corrected for you by English class at sixth period. And he didn’t just write “good,” or “needs more thought” at the top of the page. Mr. Hodges would write a lot, sometimes half a page. It was like having a great conversation with him.

  The second best thing about Mr. Hodges was that he never made you talk in class if you didn’t want to. Deet didn’t like to talk in class.

  And another good thing was that if you did extra stuff for class Mr. Hodges was glad, not upset like some teachers because it meant more to correct. Deet had done four quotations instead of two, and he felt like he could have done dozens more, it was so much fun.

  He’d done the man is a disease quotation and a good one by Mark Twain:

  Good breeding consists of concealing how much we think of ourselves and how little we think of the other person.

  (Out loud: Oh, Mrs. Jones, what a wonderful dress. To herself: My god, that woman’s dresses are awful. I’m so glad my mother raised me to have taste.)

  Jam and P. J. were having breakfast too, and the Formica tabletop was crowded with milk cartons and boxes of horrible cereal, Cocoa Puffs and Fruit Loops. Deet made himself oatmeal every morning, because he didn’t approve of cold cereal.

  Deet was into Good Food, and he despaired when his mother didn’t
seem to take such things seriously. She gave the girls potato chips for snacks and juice that wasn’t too percent juice. Too much candy, too. He brought home printouts from his health class and made a few pointed comments, but that was all he could do. Both Mom and Dad were so agreeable, so uncritical, that it seemed wrong to find fault with them.

  Once he’d complained to his mom about the National Enquirers she bought at the supermarket. (Teenager gives birth to a chicken. Elvis’s molecules found on Mars.)

  “That stuff isn’t true, you know,” he’d said severely.

  She had thrown a quick look at him, a small furrow between her eyes. “Well, they wouldn’t print it if it wasn’t true, would they?” She’d quit buying the Enquirer, though, and then Deet felt guilty that he’d spoiled something for her. It was like the time he’d tried to explain to her the difference between lie and lay, which she didn’t use correctly. Now she hesitated and looked at him every time she used them. He didn’t correct her English anymore.

  P. J. was examining the cereal box in front of her through a haze of blond uncombed hair. “I can read this box!”

  “Read it, then,” said Jam.

  “Fruit Loops,” said P. J.

  Jam opened her mouth to protest that that wasn’t reading when Deet threw her a look. “That’s good, Peej. You’ll be reading the whole box at the end of the year,” he said.

  “I can read the whole box,” said Jam.

  “Well, I hope so. You’re in the third grade.”

  Deet’s mom scurried around the little kitchen in her pink bathrobe, her curls bobbing, packing the girls’ lunches. Deet had made his the night before, as he always did. He never did things at the last minute if he could help it.

  He took his bowl to the sink and rinsed it.

  Jam suddenly put down her spoon and let out a wail.

  “Mom, I forgot, I’m supposed to bring a picture for our family posters! A picture of our whole family!”