Saturday at the Clock Shop
1My name is Hana, and every Saturday I help my grandfather in his clock shop on Bell Street. The shop is narrow and dim, and it smells like oil and old wood. Dozens of clocks hang on the walls, and they all tick at once, like a room full of tiny drummers. Grandpa Kenji has fixed clocks for forty years, and he can tell when one is running slow just by listening. My job is to sort the tiny screws and springs into glass jars on his workbench.
2One Saturday in March, the bell over the door jingled before we had even turned on the lamps. Mrs. Delgado hurried in with a wooden box in her arms. Inside was a small brass clock that had belonged to her mother. It had stopped ticking, and she needed it fixed by four o'clock that afternoon so she could give it to her granddaughter at a birthday party. Grandpa looked at the clock for a long moment, and then he nodded.
3As soon as Mrs. Delgado left, Grandpa opened the back of the clock and frowned. One of the gears had a broken tooth. "I need a new gear exactly like this one," he said, "and I am not sure I have one." He handed me a magnifying glass, and together we searched drawer after drawer of spare parts.
4By noon, my eyes were tired, and we had not found a match. Then I remembered the dusty tin on the top shelf, the one marked BRASS. I climbed the step stool, pulled down the tin and poured the parts onto a tray. Near the bottom, a tiny gear sparkled under the lamp. Grandpa held it next to the broken one. They matched perfectly.
5For the rest of the afternoon, I watched Grandpa fit the new gear into place with his tweezers. At ten minutes to four, he wound the clock and set it on the counter. Tick, tick, tick. When Mrs. Delgado came back and heard it, she pressed her hand to her heart and smiled. On the walk home, Grandpa told me that next Saturday I could help fix a clock myself.