Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop (7 page)

This was it. My heart dropped. Landed somewhere near my stomach. What if Mr. Drane had seen me and Rooter's on the news?

Bad publicity for the company, Mr. K. had warned me. They'll be hard on you.

“Mr. Jones,” said a voice as I opened the door.

“Why”—the voice rose—”you're a child!”

And Mr. Drane was a woman.

Okay, we were both surprised.

With her poofy hair, Amelia Drane didn't look like the usual bad guy. She wasn't a scary Flawt or an Unspeakable Z. When she asked me to sit, a smile slid briefly across her face. Her perfume hung in the air like a net.

Turned out Amelia Drane had seen Rooter's on TV—but didn't think our march was important. She hadn't even remembered my name.

“A protest that lasted one day?” she asked briskly.

“There was a vigil, too,” I tried to explain, “but the rain—”

“And
you
are the Rooter's representative?” she interrupted.

I could tell she didn't think much of a kid representative.

“Mr. Jones.” Amelia Drane spoke from behind her desk. “I run a business. That little
piece of land has been losing money for years. The taxes are enormous.”

She spoke slowly, as if I wasn't very smart.

I started feeling mad. But I held back. Amelia Drane didn't know what I knew.

Besides, Mr. K. had given me LOTS of practice in handling bossy people. I let her words slide off me. Drip, drip, drip. Like water off a leaf.

“Finally there's a chance to build,” continued Amelia Drane. “Tell me why I shouldn't.”

Her desk hulked before me like a fort.

That's when I opened my briefcase.

I guess I should say that's when I
tried
to open my briefcase.

One of the latches was stuck. I fiddled and poked and pried.

Amelia Drane clicked her nails on the desk. I could tell she didn't think much of Rooter's, my briefcase, me.

“There!” I shouted as the latch popped free.

“Mr. Jones”—she made a big show of checking her watch—”I have an appointment at eleven.”

“Wait, wait.” I frantically pulled out papers.

Handed her a huge stack.

Amelia Drane glanced at a few pages. “This
is information on historic places,” she said, “with the National Park Service.”

“Rooter's has
historical significance.”
I had memorized the key words. “It's a victory garden, more than sixty years old. It should be preserved.”

Rooter's was like that famous knot garden. It was the past, still alive.

Amelia Drane raised her brows.

“You should give Rooter's to the government,” I continued. “You just have to fill out some forms.”

Amelia Drane sucked in her breath. Then she spoke
very
slowly. She must have thought I was an idiot.

“I won't fill out any forms.”

“Then I will,” I said.

Amelia Drane opened her mouth. Struggled.

“You?”
she finally got out.

I smiled.

Over the past three days, when Mama wasn't on the computer, I had searched, scanned, downloaded. I had read LOTS of teeny print.
Most of it was confusing. But I could understand some.

A place with historical significance can be reviewed by the National Park Service. Maybe protected forever. And if the owner does not ask for a review, someone else can.

“Maybe not me exactly,” I explained to Amelia Drane. “But my mama. Or a lawyer. Anyway, there's no bulldozing till after a review.”

“It could be months till we start!”

“Or maybe never,” I said.

Amelia Drane eyeballed me. She was flipping through strategy fast.

Her smile slipped back into place. “A new apartment building means homes for more people.”

“You can build on other land.”

“I've seen that garden. It's full of weeds.”

I winced. Probably my weeds. I quickly tossed out some of Mailbags's life-circle talk. “The garden's fading now,” I explained. “Soon we'll bed it for winter. Just watch, the flowers will return in the spring.”

I crossed my arms. Maybe Juana's Super J had rubbed off on me. “The garden could be good publicity for you—or bad,” I said. “There's a TV guy interested in what happens.” I thought of Nathan Aramack, with his twisted-string camera.

Amelia Drane paused.

I waited.

“It
is
such a small piece of land,” she finally said. “Maybe it's not worth developing.”

“There would be a nice plaque on the gate.” I made up strategy as I talked. “Your name would be listed.”

Amelia Drane gazed across her blue carpet, as if seeing a vision. “For years this company has been linked with progress. Now we can be champions of the past.”

The woman sounded like a commercial.

“Does this mean you'll fill out the forms?”

Amelia Drane swept a rain cape over her shoulders. “Oh, yes.”

“And you'll send me copies?”

She looked amused. “I promise,” she said. “Don't worry, Mr. Jones, your garden is safe.
This is
excellent
publicity. We go from big, bad developers to preservers of history and nature.”

Amelia Drane tucked her poofy hair into a plastic bonnet. “A time like this calls for celebration. Mr. Jones, may I take you to lunch?”

All this Mr. Jonesing. Like I was a bigshot businessman.

“What about your appointment at eleven?” I asked.

“Oh,
that,”
she replied, waving her hand.

Huh, I bet Amelia Drane had made up that appointment just to get rid of me and my briefcase.

The woman had more strategy than a bad guy in a Nemo strip. But I had faked her out.

“Lunch?” I grinned. “I know a place that has great chocolate pudding.”

Two chocolate puddings later, I caught the bus back home. The rain had stopped. The sky was as blue as Drane and Company's carpet.

Wait till I told Reuben and Juana. I could picture it now: high fives all around. Nathan Aramack would get a good news story. Mr. K. could return his gallons of dirt. Huh, I'd even help. I bet Mailbags would, too.

Maybe Mama wouldn't be too mad about me skipping school. I decided to smooth on some strategy. I would plant myself by our phone, tuck my arm round her tree. “Mama,” I'd say, “you rescued a ficus. Me, I saved a whole garden.”

I would probably be grounded. Mama worried when I broke the rules. But she might smile a little at my success.

High fives, dirt-toting, Mama-chatting—all that could come later. Right now I just wanted to mosey down Evert Street. Pass the blacktop. Lean on Rooter's gate.

Yeah.

V
for victory.

Mission Greentop: accomplished.

I headed for my soggy plot.
Squish-squish-squish.
Mr. K.'s holes were full of muddy water.

And my bush—a puddle of thorns.

The roses, though, were still hanging on. Rain had pounded them for three whole days—but they had survived. One of those garden surprises.

Then I got another surprise.

Rolling down Evert. Built like a tank.

Blood Green.

He was forever skipping school. But why'd he have to miss the same day as me?

“Jones.” Blood's mouth screwed into a smile. His arms bulged in his T-shirt.

Blood unlatched the gate and entered.

I was trapped. Surrounded by fence too high to leap.

Blood rammed through gardens.

Plowed straight toward me.

His mission: to destroy.

I held my ground, brain whirling. Maybe I could make a break for the gate. Zigzag through the garden.

No one would hear me holler for help. Kids were still in school, the blacktop empty.

Squosh. Squosh. Squosh.
Blood's big shoes.

Squosh. Squosh.
Through Mailbags's garden.

Blood stopped in Mr. K.'s plot.

“Jones,” he said. And he lunged.

Things happened fast then. Blood stepped into a hole. Teetered.

Splot.

Face first in the mud.

He lurched to his feet like some Nemo monster.

Leaped at me again.

Slid. Right into the rosebush.

“Yow!”

Blood had jumped my fierce pile of sticks.

“Yow!” He flailed wildly. Arms, legs, stems— everything churned in the mud. Rose petals flew through the air.

Finally Blood lay still. Gripped by thorns, a mud-covered Shamu. Petals floated around him.

“Jones,” he whimpered.

Talk about garden surprises.

I gazed down. What should I do?

I could leave Blood there. School would be out soon. The sidewalks would fill with kids heading home. Kids that Blood had bullied. Wouldn't they
love
to catch him like this?

I could mess with Blood the way he messed with Reuben and me.

I could haul off and hit him. He'd get a taste of what he dished out.

No, I wanted to do something that would last a loonng time.

At my feet, two eyes narrowed. “Jones,” Blood spat, “you better help.”

“On one condition,” I said.

Slowly, slowly I worked the thorn from Blood's shirt.

“Hurry, man.”

“Hold still,” I commanded. “When you thrash around, the thorns twist tighter. And the mud slimes everything.”

“I should sue,” Blood grumbled.

Listen to the boy. All that big talk? Nothing but air.

“One down,” I said, moving to the next thorn. “About twenty to go.”

“Faster,” Blood demanded.

I had to smile. What strategy! If Reuben was here, we'd be slapping some skin.

See, before I agreed to help, before I started on the first thorn, I had laid out the options for the big lump of mud.

1. Blood could stay trapped. Maybe kids passing by would help. Maybe not.

OR

2. He could promise to lay off Reuben and me. No punching or pushing. No “Rose Jones” or “Art Fart.” No picking on Juana, Gaby, and Ro.

“If the punching starts again,” I had continued, “the whole school might be
very
interested in how you lost a fight—to a rosebush.”

The Blood-lump had growled.

“Reuben will draw a picture.” I tapped my chin, thinking it through. “We'll pass out copies. Two or three hundred. The school newspaper would get all the details.”

What could Blood do but promise?

And when I had worked my way down to the last six thorns, I knew he would keep that promise.

See, Blood liked to wear big jeans. The kind that barely hold to the hips. In the tussle, his
jeans had ridden low … low … down to his knees.

The last six thorns—well, each had grabbed a chunk of Blood's underwear. They had poked and ripped and slashed.

Those thorns had whipped Blood's sorry butt.

“Huh,” I said, peeling back muddy cloth. “This how you got your name?”

“Jones.” Blood glared.

“Mr.
Jones,” I corrected.