Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop (2 page)

I swelled, full of compliments. “You should be a doctor, Mama. A doctor for plants.”

“You think so?” Mama asked.

I should have shut up then. I should have stopped trouble right there.

But I never realized trouble was coming— till it had bonked my head and kicked my behind.

So, like a fool, I said, “A doctor, yeah. For trees and flowers and stuff.”

Reuben stared like I had lost my mind. Mr. K. shot me a sly look. Wise to my strategy, maybe.

But Mailbags chimed right in. “The boy could be right, Grace. There's no denying, things grow for you. A plant doctor—why not?”

Listen to Mailbags helping me out!

“Oh, I don't know.” Mama shook her head. “I'm so busy with work.”

“And with Jackson.” Mr. K. hid a smile. Acting like I was a baby, with booties and drool.

“Huh,” I said, stung. “If Mama wanted to study to be a plant doctor, well, I could take care of myself.”

I would live to eat those words. Boiled, broiled, breaded, and baked.

Two days later, Mailbags knocked on our door and handed Mama a catalog. Handed? The man flourished that booklet like a gold candy box.

“A list of fall classes,” he said. “The college offers a program in landscape design.”

“What's landscape design?” I broke in. It sounded awful country.

“Oh, fixing up spaces with plants and trees. Making them look nice.” Mama turned to Mailbags. “I don't think—”

“Listen to your mama, refusing my present.” Mailbags winked at me. “Tell her it's not that hard, taking one class at a time.”

Mailbags should know. He has been going to college for years. Toting mail during the day and listening to teachers at night. Why would a grown man
want
to go to school? It's a mystery to me.

“Wasn't that thoughtful?” Mama murmured when he had left.

I pointed out that Mailbags lived in our apartment building, on the first floor. “He didn't have to trudge through snow or sleet or ice,” I said. “He brought that catalog in his little mail truck.”

Mama smiled. “I mean, well, he thought those classes might be important—”

“But they're not,” I interrupted. “You said you were busy.”

“I am.”

“You already know about flowers,” I continued. “Plus, there's my garden. You can doctor that!”

Mama laughed.

But she didn't throw out the catalog. And later, after she had watered her green babies, patted the ficus, and wished me good night, I saw Mama pick up that catalog and start to read.

The idea must have taken root in Mama's mind then. And grown like the stubbornest weed.

But I was too busy to try pulling it out.

School had started, and I had a big problem.

Name of the problem: Blood Green.

Actually, his real name is Howard. But he changed it to Blood about a year ago—and punched any kid who called him anything different.

Blood, huh. I'd like to stick that boy in a Nemo strip.
Pow! Bam!
The captain would take care of him. Blood would be
yowing
all over the page.

But this was real life. And I was trapped.

Blood had been away for the summer. Camp, I heard. Torturing other kids while we kicked back for three Blood-less months.

Now he was back.

And, of course, he started his trash talk immediately.

Not in school, though. Blood is never mean where a teacher might hear. The boy has strategy. He waits till grown-ups are gone— and then he lets you have it.

“Hey, Bouquet Jones!”

I winced. Reuben, Juana, and I were taking in the b-ball game after school. Big guys playing on the Evert Street blacktop. Maybe they'd let us shoot a few hoops.

Gaby and Ro scratched in the dirt close by. Building an ant fort, they said.

“Barn Boy, you hear me?”

For Blood's information, I have never been within twenty miles of a barn. The only cow I've seen comes on a milk carton.

Listen to that hollering fool. Blood better watch out. I'm gonna hone my b-ball skills till I'm so fine I can dribble his bald head down any court and slam-dunk it through any hoop.

“Hey, Jones.” Blood muscled up to me. “How's your little sweet pea?”

I stepped back, clenching my fists.

Ro wailed, “You
broke
our fort.”

“You didn't answer my question, Jones.” Blood rubbed his big shoe over Ro's little sticks.

“Stop it,” Juana commanded.

“Sweet pea.” Gaby snorted. “Jackson never grew one of
those.”

“Yeah.” Ro threw in his word.

Mama is always telling us big kids to watch out for the little ones.

But here was Miss Second Grade acting like she was watching out for me. And Mr. Kindergarten being all knight-in-shining-armor.

Pesky or protective. With Gaby and Ro, I don't know which is worse.

Blood kind of thickened and spread. Loomed over the little kids, crowded our space.

“Hey, Art Fart.” He sneered at Reuben. “You got your pink crayon ready? Gonna draw a sweet pea for your spaceman?”

“You big stupid.” Gaby rolled her eyes. “I
told
you—Jackson doesn't grow sweet peas.”
She spoke very slowly. “He grows roses. Big. Red. All smelly good.”

“Roses!” Blood threw back his head and laughed.

He laughed so hard, all over himself, that he opened a space.

Reuben and I squeezed by.

“Rose Jones!” Blood hee-hawed. “Big, red, smelly-good Jones.”

Reuben and I picked up our pace. No sense sticking around. I could tell by his hunched shoulders that my man felt just like me.

Small. Silent. Filled up with shame.

Blood did that to a person.

The spring before, when I had gotten my plot, Blood had stepped up his usual meanness. On a mean scale of one to ten, he now measured thirteen. Smirking, name-calling, punching. Who knew why? Mailbags says Blood acts mean for a reason. He says that boy must be wanting—and wanting bad.

Well, whatever Blood was wanting, I wished he'd get it soon. And save my body some pain.

“Jackson!” Gaby hurried to catch up. She tugged on my sleeve. “I
rescued
you.”

I tried to shake her off. “You didn't exactly rescue—”

“I did! I did!” exclaimed Gaby, skipping along.

“Me too!” shouted Ro, grabbing my other sleeve.

“Blood would have beat you up—
creamed
you!” hollered Gaby. “Did you hear me tell him off?” She sniffed. “That fool didn't know a rose from a sweet pea.”

“Yeah.” I was walking so fast I was puffing. I sure hoped the guys on the blacktop couldn't hear Gaby. Talk about embarrassing.

Juana poked me. “Jackson, you really should thank Gaby. She did help, after all.”

Juana. Did I say she was a Super J? Know what the
J
stands for?
Justice.
Juana is
obsessed
with fairness.

But in what kind of just world does a fifth grader (me) have to thank a second grader (Gaby)? It would never happen to Captain Nemo.

Juana gave me her stubborn, you-know-I'm-right look.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

Reuben palmed Gaby's head, then Ro's. His way of saying thanks.

Gaby beamed. Now maybe she and Ro would forget the whole rescue.

Instead, Gaby continued to skip, happily singing all the way home: “Jackson grows roses. Jackson grows roses. Big, red, smelly-good ROSES.”

The school year was not off to a good start.

But the year was bound to get better, right?

That evening Mama sat me down for what she called “a little talk.”

Usually we only had these talks when I was in trouble. Or when my grades were bad.

I wracked my brain. Nope. I could safely say I hadn't bounced on, bounced off, or broken a thing in the past few weeks. As for grades, school had just started. We hadn't even had a pop quiz.

So I was cool going into our talk. “What's up?”

“Jackson,” Mama said, “you've gotten so big. Ten years old.”

Huh, I thought. Where was this headed?

“I looked into Mailbags's college.”

College?

“And, well, I registered.” Mama waved a piece of paper.

“You've already been to college,” I pointed out. “Aren't you sick of school?”

“Not this school.” Mama smiled, mentioning her classes. One on plants of North America, another on garden history.

Personally, I'd be snoring. But Mama was as happy as a well-tended ficus.

She told me she was in a special program since she already had a business degree. She wouldn't have to take as many classes.

Mama's worry frown appeared. “These classes aren't cheap, let me tell you. We'll have to watch our spending—” She hesitated. “And, Jackson, since I'll be working
and
going to school, I might need more help at home.”

I looked round the apartment. How hard could that be? After all, I was double digits. The Big 1-0. Man of the House. We could do it, Mama and me.

“We can take turns fixing dinner,” I said. “I can cook fish sticks. Soup from a can.”

No more sliced, diced, baked, broiled zucchini. No more gazpacho.

Mama's eyes were so shiny-happy, I just had to tease. “Plant doctor.” I rolled the words off my tongue. “You'll need a green ambulance.”

Two weeks later I figured the first plants to need Mama's doctoring were mine. My garden sure looked sorry. In fact, the other twenty-eight plots looked bad, too. Even Mr. K.'s lettuce slumped.

Reuben and I watered the squash vines, lifted their leaves, let go.

Droooooop.

Juana fingered a leaf. “What if you talked to ‘em? Like your mama does.”

“I'll
sing,”
Gaby volunteered. She started in on that dumb Jackson-grows-red-roses song she'd made up two weeks before.

“That's okay,” I said quickly. “I don't think singing will help.”

“You're right.” Mailbags moseyed over, carrying some tomatoes. “Those daisies are dying.”

Dying? All that work and weeding that summer—and my plants were just giving up?

“Will you bury them?” Gaby asked.

Ro started to cry.