Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop (5 page)

“But they're part of the garden, too,” I pointed out.

Besides, I thought, a few grown-ups might give our protest some dignity. I'd seen marches on the TV news. Grown-ups shouting, waving signs. Would people pay attention to kids?

“We need to march
now.”
Juana tossed her black hair. “The bulldozers come next week.”

Seemed to me Juana was rushing things.
Super J bent on righting a wrong. I wished some of Reuben's slow, careful style would rub off on her.

“What do you think?” I whispered to Reuben.

“Juana thinks people will join us,” he whispered back. “She thinks they'll want to help the garden.”

“But what do
you
think?”

Reuben shrugged. “I think it's impossible to stop Juana.”

Juana lined us up, passed out signs. “Too bad we don't have matching T-shirts, with fists.”

“Pink ones,” shouted Gaby.

“Blue,” yelled Ro.

I rolled my eyes. Who would notice five kids? No matter what we wore.

You'd be surprised.

One part of Juana's strategy worked fine. People did notice.

“Look at those kids!”

“So cute.”

“What garden you trying to save?”

“Rooter's on Evert Street.” Juana proudly hoisted her sign.

Yeah, we hadn't even reached the garden and we were being noticed.

One person who noticed: Blood Green.

He fell into step beside me. The only one to join our march.

I hadn't seen Blood this close since the tomato incident. Man, the
size
of his chest. No wonder Juana hadn't missed. The boy was as big as a battleship.

Blood glanced at my sign, reading slowly: “Mother … Nature … Now.”

That stupid slogan. Juana's idea.

“Mother … Nature … Now.” Blood drew out each word.

I knew how Blood's brain worked. He'd add Mother Nature to his list of mean names. He'd holler it at the blacktop, at school. Rose Jones. Barn Boy. Mother Nature.

Reuben and Juana moved closer in case I needed help.

“You're crowding me.” Blood's eyes narrowed. “Don't want me in your parade?”

“This is not a parade,” Gaby corrected. “It's a
protest.”

“A big one,” said Ro. “To save the garden.”

“Five kids?” Blood sneered. “You look like fools.” He snapped his fingers under Juana's nose. “But I can help.”

“We don't want your help.” Juana's jaw was set.

“But I wuv wittle fwowers.” Blood pouted. “And I know just what to do.”

With a flip of his big hand, he was gone.

That syrup-sweet meanness was worse than his usual style.

Reuben cocked his head. “Blood's messing with us.”

“Come on,” Juana said. “He can't jump us all.”

No, Blood wasn't planning on jumping us. He wanted something worse. Something, I bet, that would last a loonng time.

“Garden! Garden!” Gaby and Ro chanted as we meandered down Evert Street.

Rooter's stretched out. Dots of color mixed with brown stems. Purple pansies, yellow marigolds, my four red roses.

Toting our signs, we circled the entire garden.

Circled again.

“Garden! Garden!” hollered Gaby and Ro.

Neighbors waved. A dog barked. Birds chirped, fell silent.

No one joined us.

“My feet hurt,” whined Ro.

“Then sit and shout,” said Juana.

“I'm
thirsty.”

“So, get a drink.” Juana continued to march.

Gaby and Ro scampered to the faucet. They turned it on, grabbed for the hose. The long thing whipped like a snake.

Whoooosh.

Water hit my face, shirt, jeans.

“Whoops,” said Ro.

“Sorry,” Gaby said, then giggled. “Jackson peed his pants.”

“You okay?” Reuben asked.

I nodded, wiping my eyes.

“Oh, Jackson.” Juana frowned at my dripping clothes. “Now we'll have to stop or you'll catch a cold.”

“Hey, it wasn't my fault.”

Juana swept us with her Super J look. “We return tomorrow.”

Gaby and Ro groaned.

Thunk. Thunk.
The quick-dribble sounds of a b-ball game reached me. I sighed. Reuben and I never had made it to the blacktop.

“What are you sighing about?” Juana asked.

I shrugged, trying to wring out my shirt.

“There,” Juana said. “You sighed again.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Juana,” I said, “it's like you're ob
sessed
. On a twenty-four-hour rescue or something.” I put on a deep Captain Nemo voice. “We return tomorrow. Prepare for action. All ready for mission … Mission Greentop.”

“More like Browntop.” Reuben glanced at the garden.

Juana crossed her arms. “Well, if
you
want to quit …”

I crossed
my
arms. Couldn't Juana tell that her plan wasn't working?

“What happens tomorrow?” I asked.

“In your spaceman comic”—Juana sniffed— “things change all at once. This is real life. A protest can take a long time.”

But it turned out Juana was wrong. Things can change in a day, an hour, a minute.
Rattle. Splutter.
Coming down Evert. Things were about to change.

A black car pulled to the side of the street. Coughed to a stop.

A guy jumped out. “Nathan Aramack. Local news,” he announced, striding through the gate.

Someone had called the media.

Reuben eyed Juana nervously.

“Not me,” she said.

Nathan Aramack dropped his pen. Scrambled for it in the squash vines.

We stared curiously. This was a news guy? He seemed awful young and gawky, with his camera string twisted round his neck. Where was that silver-haired man from the evening news? Where were the big TV cameras?

Finally Nathan recovered his pen. “Jackson Jones?”

“That's me,” I answered, surprised.

“You called about a protest march.” Nathan dug out a notepad. “Something endangered.”

“I didn't.”

“Your name Jackson?”

“No,” I said. “Yes. What I mean is”—I shifted uneasily—”I'm Jackson, but I didn't call.”

“You're all wet.”

I sighed, not wanting to explain.

Nathan craned his neck. Maybe searching for hidden protestors. Or for something endangered. A panda or bald eagle.

“This is the march? Five kids?” He capped his pen in disappointment. Turned to leave.

Stepped right into one of Mr. K.'s holes.

After we helped him up, Nathan told us why he had come. He was a college student working at the news station once a week. The call about the protest had come in, and the big news guys had sent him to investigate. Thus far, our protest was his only story.

It hit me then.

This was the work of Blood Green.

He had called the news station, pretending to be me. He wanted the media to see us— and decide our march was worthless.

He wanted to prove that saving the garden was stupid.

Blood was making us into fools.

“Excuse me.” I stepped my wet-shoe self closer to Nathan. “There are five of us, yeah. But the number's not important. What's important—” I waved my arm, flinging drops. “Whoops. Sorry.” I waited while Nathan wiped his face. “What's important is this garden. Sixty years old.”

“Next week,” Juana added, “it will be gone.”

Nathan started asking questions then.

Questions about the garden's history. The other Rooters. Drane and Company's actions.

We led Nathan round the garden as he wrote and snapped photos. I talked about victory gardens, rhubarb, leeks. Explained how good soil creates, year after year.

Luckily Nathan didn't ask any questions about Mr. K.'s holes. I didn't want the old man to get into trouble for taking soil—even though he claimed it was his.

I pointed to my four fall roses.

They appeared on TV that night.

Huh, my thorn tree sure looked important, there on the evening news.

The TV picture also held Gaby and Ro, grinning. Reuben clutched a sign. Juana fixed the viewer with her Super J gaze. I was as wet as a fish, with two fingers raised. Two fingers forked into a
V.

V
for
victory.
Victory garden, that is.

The silver-haired newsman mentioned our protest. Described our mission. The garden got two minutes, tops.

It was over so fast, I thought probably no one saw.

Then the phone started ringing.

It rang.

And rang.

And rang.

I got a workout that evening, ducking under the ficus to answer the phone.

At the computer, Mama smiled. “Who knows what might happen now?”

The phone kept ringing.

Mailbags congratulated us on our strategy.

Mr. K. asked about Drane and Company.

“Prepare yourself, Jackson,” he barked. “This is bad publicity for a hotshot company. They're going to be tough on you.”

When I hung up, I sat under the ficus awhile. Mission Greentop had gotten complicated.

What would Drane and Company say when they called?

And what would I say to them?

By the next morning, Mama and I were sick of the phone.

Ring. Ring. Ring.
Mama couldn't study. I needed a break from answering questions.

Juana had been one of our earliest callers. She told me she was busy with church stuff all day.

“But we'll march in the evening,” she promised. “Bring a flashlight.”

Mission Greentop would continue.

I sighed, spooning my cereal. Juana was zooming ahead, as usual. How would a night march help the garden? Who could see us in the dark?

“You feeling stressed, Mr. Celebrity?” Mama
asked. “Want to visit Tudor Place with me? A little piece of country in the city.”

Mama made her research trip sound fun— but I knew better. When I was little, Mama was always dragging me to green spaces. Big, little, indoors, outdoors. We wandered through teeny city squares and walked down too-long forest trails.

Mostly the trips had been okay. I learned more about poison ivy than I'd ever wanted to know. But when I turned eight, I needed weekends for guy stuff: planning Captain Nemo with Reuben, shooting hoops, reading the Sunday comics. Mama had a whole jungle at home. That was enough green for me.

But at least going with Mama today would save me from the phone. A knot garden. Why not?

On the drive through the city, Mama talked about Tudor Place. The land was purchased in 1805, she told me, and the mansion completed in 1816. The first owner had been the stepgranddaughter of George Washington. The same family had owned Tudor Place for six generations.

“Mama,” I teased, “you sound like their Web site.”

She laughed as she parked the car. “I printed it out.” She patted her folder. “I knew you'd have LOTS of questions.”

We passed through the gate and—just like that—the city disappeared. No traffic, no sirens, no honking horns.

My first thought: Reuben had to see this.

A garden laid out so perfect. Careful as a Nemo drawing by Reuben.

The teeny hedges were clipped like poodles and lined up just so, making fancy designs. The hedges seemed to cross over each other, like the neat way Reuben looped his shoelaces. I could picture old-time rich people strolling around. Checking out the time by the sundial.

This was the famous knot garden.

Mama and I moseyed down white gravel paths. We sniffed the boxwood, fingered the holly, and caught the
trickle-trickle
of the lion fountain. We sat in the teahouse for a while, like old-time rich people, and took in the huge, plush lawn.

“When you finish your classes, you gonna doctor big gardens like this?” I asked.

Mama shook her head. “I want to work with small spaces, outdoors and indoors,” she replied. “Places where people live and work. Nursing homes, schools, offices. People need green, peaceful spots.”

Huh, Mama's gray office better watch out. It was due for some color.

“And I want to start my own business,” Mama added.

“With a plant stethoscope?” I teased. “And a green ambulance?”

Mama smiled. “Exactly.”

We found a tulip poplar tree, one hundred feet tall. And rosebushes tucked close to the mansion. All planted by the first owners, Mama told me.