Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop (6 page)

They were two hundred years old.

It gave me a weird feeling to think of my thorn tree living that long.

Then I remembered: It couldn't. The bulldozers were coming next week.

We drove home in silence. Dark clouds gathered over the tight-packed buildings, the few city trees. “We're in for a storm,” Mama said.

I barely noticed. I was thinking of Rooter's. That funny mishmash of twenty-nine plots.

It might not be finicky like a knot garden.

But, in its way, it was just as fine.

Mama had fed me so many facts about Tudor Place that I felt like their Web site. The house and gardens were a historic museum, she had told me. The knot garden was protected. No one could ever bulldoze or build on it.

I knew about other safe land, too. The government protected those forests Mama and I had visited. Those forests with that nasty poison ivy. Called them national parks. Those parks had LOTS of land and trees, even whole mountains.

I just wanted to save a small patch.

By the time Mama and I got home, my brain felt like a knot garden. My thoughts were jumbled into a maze. And I still hadn't come up with a good rescue strategy.

But Juana had.

That girl must have been training her Super J eyes on our door. She materialized as soon as Mama unlocked it.

“Ready?” She hitched her backpack.

“Juana,” I said, “I don't think a night march—”

“You're absolutely right,” she replied seriously. “I have a better idea.”

What now? I wanted to discover the details
before I dove into the plan. “Tonight's not good.” I tried to stall. “It's my turn to cook—”

“Oh.” Mama broke in as Juana's face fell. “You two go ahead. I'll make dinner. Jackson, can you be back in an hour?”

“Sure,” Juana agreed for me.

“Sooner if it rains?”

“Sure.” Juana grabbed my sleeve and trotted me down the hall. Her backpack clinked and clanked.

“Easy, easy.” I smoothed my jacket. “What's that noise?”

The backpack clanked even louder as Juana handed it to me. “Listen, Jackson.” She punched the elevator button. “This is the plan.”

For the second day in a row, I headed to Rooter's. This time I wasn't toting a sign. I was carting a backpack.

Full of candles in teeny glass cups.

Juana had bought twenty-four candles from her church. Her plan: to hold a vigil.

“What's that?” I asked, clanking down Evert.

Juana explained that a vigil was like a wish or a prayer. People stood together and thought the same thing. Maybe they wanted world peace or they mourned someone dead.

“In our case,” Juana said, “people hope to save the garden.”

“What
people?” I said. “Where's Reuben? Where's Gaby and Ro?”

“You know Mr. Careful.” Juana unlatched Rooter's gate. “Reuben won't go anywhere with the kids and a box of matches. He said Rooter's would burn for sure.”

She unzipped the backpack. “And Gaby and Ro refused to come. They figured I was going to church with these candles.”

“So we have a two-person vigil?”

“It's a start.” Juana handed me the first candle. “People will join us, you'll see. Tomorrow we'll call all the Rooters.”

I didn't see how candles and wishes could help the garden. But I kept my mouth shut. Juana had paid for those lights with her own money. I figured I could stand and hope for a while.

Juana and I set out the twenty-four candles. Funny how they could hang so heavy in the backpack—but form only one little row.

“Never mind,” Juana said. “The flames will glow like a … a sign of hope.”

The hard part, though, was making them glow. A breeze blew out each flame. We tried three times before we succeeded in lighting one candle.

Great. Twenty-three to go.

Finally
the last candle flamed. Juana and I stepped back, surveying our work. The row of soft lights shone.

I had to admit: The teeny candles did look hopeful, flickering there.

That's when I realized our mistake. Juana and I had focused on the ground—and forgotten to check out the clouds.

“Uh-oh,” I said, “I felt a raindrop.”

Boom.
Thunder.

The skies suddenly opened.

For the second day in a row, I trudged home in wet clothes. Only this time I clanked.
Juana and I had thrown the drenched candles into the backpack.

“At least we tried,” I said when we reached our building.

Juana shouldered the backpack. “We return tomorrow,” she said.

I sighed. Juana sure was determined. That's great in a superhero, like Captain Nemo. But in a real person … I mean, I appreciated Juana's help and all. I just wished she'd mix some careful with her take-charge style.

When I opened my apartment door, though, I forgot about vigils and rain. A spicy smell tugged me into the kitchen. Pizza! Mama was always talking about the expense of delivery pizza. “We can pick it up ourselves,” she would say. “We can make our own.”

And now she had surprised me.

Her way of saying thanks, I bet. She was grateful that I cooked and cleaned and watered the ficus so that she could tip-tap on the computer.

I swelled, full of good feeling. Yeah, Mr. Man of the House.

I prepared myself for a flat, steaming box.

Instead Mama trotted out … four English muffins. They were dabbed with red sauce and cheese strips.

Fake pizza.

My hungry stomach growled like a Saint Bernard.

“What's wrong, Jackson?” Mama set down the pan. “I thought you liked pizza.”

“That's
not
pizza,” I said.

“Well, it's dinner,” Mama replied. “I've got too much work to cook anything else.”

“You always have too much work,” I muttered.

“That's not true,” Mama said. “What about today?”

I pointed out that a knot garden wasn't exactly Disney World. We had visited because Mama was researching a paper. It wasn't like she had planned a fun day for me. I reminded her of all my cooking and cleaning.

“And you're neglecting your plants,” I finished. “Look at the poor ficus. I'm the one talking to it.”

Mama led me, sopping wet, to the couch. “You've been very helpful, Jackson,” she said.

My stomach rumbled.

“I never meant for you to become a … a guy Cinderella.”

I squirmed. “It's not that bad.”

At least I didn't have to mop floors or wrestle an old-time stove. We had a car, not a pooping horse. With her luck, Cinderella was probably stuck pruning the family knot garden. I'm glad I didn't live in the past.

The idea hit then. A way to save Rooter's.

My strategy wasn't brilliant.

But maybe it would work.

I jumped off the couch. “Can I use the computer?”

“I thought—” Mama paused, puzzled. “I thought you wanted to talk about your chores.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Can we do that later?”

Right now I was on a mission.

Three days later, I was staring at gold words on a door.

Drane and Company.

I tugged at my church shirt. Set down my briefcase, an old one of Mama's. Shook the wet off my jacket hood.

For the past three days, it had rained. Gray, steady. Rain, rain, rain. Juana had to call off all marches and vigils. And the bus ride downtown this morning—downright dangerous. All those poking umbrellas.

On the sidewalk, I had splish-splashed through puddles. Passed the building where Mama worked. Good thing her cubicle didn't
have windows. If she caught me skipping school …

I had memorized the address I was searching for—the address on the letter about bulldozing Rooter's.

I read the door's gold words again.

Drane and Company.

I swallowed. Tried to think what Nemo would do. The captain would zoom in, laser blazing.

The captain never felt fear.

Maybe I should have brought Reuben, my slow, careful bud. Or Juana, with her take-charge style. But, for sure, I'd get in trouble for skipping school. I couldn't bring them down, too.

And my new strategy … I wasn't sure it would work.

That's why I hadn't told a grown-up. Mama, Mailbags, Mr. K.—they would say we needed lawyers and more time to plan.

And there wasn't time. The rain might postpone the bulldozing. But not for long. I bet Drane and Company would act quickly.

I hoisted my briefcase.

Stepped into an office that was nothing like Mama's.

The carpet was thick and blue, the walls a soft white. I felt upside down. Standing on sky, surrounded by clouds.

Suddenly a voice spoke from a desk. “You selling something?”

I jumped. “Me? I'm here to see Mr. Drane.”

“Mr. Drane?” The receptionist cocked her head. “This should be … interesting. What's your name? Company?”

“Er, Mr. Jones,” I said, trying to sound grown-up. “My company—I guess it's Rooter's.”

“You have an appointment, Mr. Jones?”

I shook my head. “But my, um, business is urgent.”

The receptionist spoke into her phone.

“Go right in,” she finally said. “Second door to the left.”