Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns (3 page)

Then I got another brilliant idea. More than brilliant—spectacular.

Mama’s birthday was in June.

I would give her the garden for her birthday.

Or, rather, her birthday present would be her first glimpse of all those marigolds, zinnias, and roses. Then I would chop them off and sell them for a profit.

I figured I must be a genius.
Plus
an excellent businessman.
Plus
a wonderful son.

I grinned. I could hardly wait for planting time.

I surveyed the rows of hoses, gloves, planters, hoes, shovels, and minishovels in Juniper’s Hardware. And the prices: $6.95, $4.95, $.89, $8.57.

With his artist’s eye Reuben was checking out the seven neat rows of seed packets.

Gaby and Ro were running around a tin garden shed, with Juana chasing them.

Immediately, a salesman materialized. One minute—nothing. Next minute—Poof!—some frosty-face Joe pops up like a magic trick.

“Stop that,” he hissed.

That just made Gaby and Ro run faster.

Salesclerks come in two varieties: the kind that get cute with kids and the kind that treat kids like JDs. Frosty Joe was the second type. “Juvenile delinquent” flashed in his eyes when he looked at me.

I eyed all those hoses, hoes, et cetera, et cetera, again. Mr. Frosty Joe tapped his shiny shoe. Then I unfolded my list—as slooowwly as Reuben on his slowest day.

Gaby and Ro suddenly shot past and swarmed up the shelves. They dug their sneakers into the coiled hoses as if they were scaling a cliff.

Juana hurled some Spanish up at them. They spat words back. I’d catch a “
diablo
” and an “
agua
” once in a while but pretty
much lost the conversation. I vowed to learn more Spanish.

I smiled my friendliest smile at Frosty Joe. “I’d like to see your rose seeds, please.”

“Roses grow on bushes, young man.” Frosty Joe squinted past me to Reuben. He figured I was trying to distract him while Reuben stuffed the seeds into his pocket. I felt mad, but I kept cool.

“Show me the bushes, then.”

Frosty squeezed up his eyes like he had a headache and led me to a shelf crammed with bags of thorns.

Now I was suspicious. “Where’s the flowers?”

“You want instant roses”—he actually sniffed—“go to a florist.”

Reuben waved a seed packet at me and mouthed, “Zinnias.”

Frosty Joe squinted at Reuben and then at me, like he was trying to crack a secret code.

He opened his mouth.

At that moment Gaby and Ro launched themselves from the fourth shelf. BANG! They hit that tin shed like Dorothy’s tornado in
The
Wizard of Oz
. The shed folded in perfectly, like a box.

Salesclerks swarmed up the aisles. Frosty’s face froze into the color of a grape Popsicle.

But Gaby and Ro had strategy.

They held tightly to Juana’s hands. Tears slipped down their cheeks. Ro sucked his thumb artistically.

The salesclerks turned as sweet as pudding.

“Poor dears,” cooed a saleswoman. Ro squeezed out a few more tears.

“Should we sue?” Gaby whispered to Juana.

The saleswoman enfolded each kid into a hug.

Juana escaped.

“Are Gaby and Ro okay?” Reuben asked.

“They’re indestructible,” said Juana. “They were trying to be raindrops, you know, falling on a window. Like in that kid’s song.”

“They’re more like bombs dropping from the sky.”

I hefted a minishovel.

“That’s a spade,” hissed Frosty.

Brrrr. It’s April and the atmosphere in Juniper’s Hardware is definitely
not
spring. I grabbed a book called
Easy Gardening
and a few seed packets and asked Reuben to help me lift a bag of fertilizer.

Reuben read the fine print on the bag. “Hey, man,” he blurted, “this fertilizer is nothing but—”

“I know.”

“You’re going to pay four dollars for doo-doo?”

“It’s an investment,” I said. “The flowers grow bigger.”

“What’s that thorn tree?”

“Rosebush.”

Reuben flicked the $4.95 price tag. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I gritted my teeth. Sometimes Reuben’s sloooww carefulness got on my nerves. But it’s best not to argue with a business partner, so I kept my mouth shut.

Gaby and Ro scampered up with suckers and pawed Juana.

“Let’s get out of here before they wreck something else,” Juana whispered to me.

I waved good-bye to Frosty Joe.

He didn’t wave back.

Outside the store Gaby and Ro screamed to the end of the sidewalk, teetered on the curb, screamed back, circled us three times. Screamed.

“Don’t they ever run into traffic?” Reuben asked, dragging the fertilizer.

“They have the survival instincts of sewer rats,” Juana replied.

I held the rosebush straight out in front. It looked like a hostile being from Captain Nemo’s planet.

One more block to the garden.

Before you knew it, those flowers would be shooting up.

And I’d be shooting hoops.

Yeah.

“Hey, Jones.” The familiar voice shook me out of my daydream.

“Hey, Joooonesy.” The voice squeaked into high pitch. “Has Joooonesy got hisself a cutesy flower?”

Gaby and Ro stopped screaming and stuck their thumbs in their mouths.

Reuben and Juana halted.

“Oh, Joooonesy,” the voice continued. “I’m calling youuuu.”

I hated that voice.

T
hat voice belonged to Blood Green.

His real name was Howard, but about a year ago he changed it to “Blood” and beat up anyone (except his mother) who called him Howard. Since he’s a year older and built like a killer machine, we all call him Blood.

“What ya doin’, Jones?” Blood’s voice dropped back into its usual Blood growl.

One thing about Blood, he’s impartial. He hates everyone. Except he hates me more than most. Don’t know why. I puzzle and figure and still don’t find the answer. Miz Lady says life is full of mysteries. I guess Blood’s meanness is one of them.

“A garden!” Blood squeaked and clapped his hands. “How loooovely. What are we going to plant?”

I hoped those sudden switches from growling to squeaking would hurt his voice. You know, permanent laryngitis.

“Woses,” said Ro, unplugging his mouth. “We’re planting woses.”

“Woses!” Blood howled. He slapped his leg. He laughed so hard, I thought he’d pee himself.

Gaby unplugged her mouth. She surveyed Blood.

“You’re a giggling fool,” she pronounced. Pop!—the thumb went back in.

“What?” Blood advanced.

Gaby unplugged her mouth. “You’re a—”

“Never mind,” I said.

“But he
asked
.”

“What’s the matter, Flower Boy? Afraid to let your little friend talk?”

“Jackson’s not my friend,” said Gaby. “He’s Juana’s.”

“Juana’s
boy
friend!” Blood clapped his
hand over his heart. “Jonesy, you never told me!”

“Really?” asked Gaby, gazing at me. “Do you kiss?”

“Shut up,” hissed Juana.

Blood’s palm shot out like a shovel blade and lightly smacked my cheek.

“You better keep your little friend in line.”

“He’s
not
—” Juana’s hand clapped over Gaby’s mouth.

Blood sauntered down the street, turned, and threw back: “Send me a rose, Bouquet Jones.”

“His name’s
Jackson
,” Ro shouted.

I wheeled on Juana. “You said these kids have survival instincts.”

“Giggling fool,” muttered Gaby.

Juana grabbed Gaby’s hand.

“Whyn’t you hit him back?” Ro asked.

My face stung.

“Strategy,” Reuben cut in. “Jackson’s a
thinking
fighting man. He plans before he counterattacks.”

“Huh,” said Ro.

“Here’s the garden,” I said, to change the subject.

I flipped the catch on the Rooter gate. The little kids ran through screaming, “Bouquet! Bouquet Jones!”

Reuben clapped me on the back. “Blood—what kind of name is that? Boy should be called Beetle-dung.”

“Birdbrain.”

“Burp.”

We belched together. Loud.

Still, my face stung. “Bouquet Jones,” shrieked Gaby and Ro. I hoped that stupid nickname didn’t stick.

Reuben’s eyes swept over the garden. I knew with his artist’s eye he was seeing the green shoots against the smooth black earth.

Me, I was seeing all the work.

We found a stick with a small sign that read
PLOT
5–1. My garden. A heap of tangled grass and weeds. Twenty-nine plots in Rooter’s and mine was the weediest.

Then I looked down at my shoes. My Nike Air Jordans. Still almost new-shoe white.

I had wanted these shoes so badly. “Too
expensive,” Mama had said. This is how I convinced her:

Me: “These shoes will save you money.”

Mama: “How’s that?”

Me: “They’re school shoes, basketball shoes, church shoes—all in one pair.”

Mama: “Whoa, Jackson. Are you going to wear sneakers to church?”

Me (patiently): “Not sneakers. Air Jordans. There’s a big difference.”

Mama (snorting): “Yeah, look at the price.”

But she had bought them for me.

In that garden was dirt just waiting to mess with my shoes. I pulled off my Air Jordans and stepped into the plot.

Reuben unknotted the precisely tied bows in his laces. (Mama says every bow Reuben ties is a work of art. She asks him to tie things just to marvel at those bows.)

Reuben goose-stepped into the garden as if it were cold water. I pulled a handful of weeds and shook the clump.

“Hey, can we do that?”

Gaby and Ro tore off their beat-up sneakers and leapt into the garden feet first.

The little kids shook weeds at one another and giggled. The air smelled like onion grass and black dirt.

“Now we dig,” I said.

Gaby lifted the spade. “What are we digging for? Treasure?”

“We’re making a garden.”

“Boring,” said Gaby, walking away.

Ro paddled behind.

“
Don’t
pick the flowers,” Juana screamed after them.

Reuben and I decided to take turns digging.

I riffled through the first ten scoops.

Reuben dug the spade in deep, lifted the mound, turned it. Earthworms slithered off. One. The spade sank again, lifted, turned. Two.

My turn. The spade bit, flung, bit, flung, bit, flung. Finished.

Reuben’s turn. He sank the spade, lifted it, turned the mound of earth.

Man, Reuben was slow. S-L-O-W. The weeds would be sprouting again before he finished. To take my mind off Reuben’s slowness
I watched Gaby and Ro bugging Mailbags Mosely in his garden.

My turn. Lift, fling, lift, fling. My back ached from bending. The unturned dirt seemed to stretch out for about a mile.

“Jackson, all you’re doing is throwing dirt around.”

“At least I’m doing it faster than you.”

“At least I’m doing it right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You do it so good,” I said, “do it all yourself.”

Reuben paused. He grinned a big, big grin. He said, “It’s your garden.”

“Aren’t we partners?” I said. “Sharing profits? Fifty-fifty?”