Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns (4 page)

BOOK: Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns
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I was desperate. I pictured myself digging by the light of the moon. Alone. Lift, fling, lift, fling, lift…

“You boys need some help?” Mailbags Mosely loomed over us. Mailbags was the biggest man I knew. Gaby and Ro clung to him like goats to a mountain. His shovel would shame Paul Bunyan’s.

Mailbags stepped into the garden. Dig, dig, dig, dig. The garden rolled out like a black carpet. He had even redug the part that Reuben and I had dug.

“Maybe he’ll plant the seeds,” I whispered to Reuben.

Mailbags showed us how to mix fertilizer into the soil and how to draw a thin, deep line in the dirt. Then he helped us sprinkle the seeds into the line and cover them. He dug a deep hole and stuck in the rosebush.

“Turn on the hose.” He grinned at Gaby and Ro.

Fssst—the water shot out. Mailbags gave the seed lines a good wetting. Then he turned the hose on the little kids and washed their legs and feet while they jumped and chattered. Next he aimed the hose at our feet and had us hip-hopping. Last, he let the water rain down on his head. He looked like an elephant taking a bath.

“Again!” screamed Gaby and Ro.

“Gotta do my homework now,” said Mailbags. “You want me to flunk college?”

“Yes!”

Mailbags winked at Reuben and me. “You should see results in a few weeks.”

Great! I imagined blossoms waving gently in the breeze. One-dollar blooms and five-dollar roses.

Juana hauled the kids away from the water hose. They were spitting water like fountains.

“Juana,” I said, “Reuben and I were wondering if you’d do us a favor.”

“Like what?” She cuffed Ro.

“Could you talk to the seeds? You know, make them grow?”

“Do I look like a fool?”

“It really works,” Reuben said. “Jackson’s mother talks to her plants all the time.”

“Let her talk to these plants.”

“I don’t want her to see the garden until her birthday,” I said. “It’s a surprise.”

“I thought you were going to sell the flowers.”

“That’s
after
her birthday.”

“Selling your mama’s birthday present,” said Juana, “is pretty cheap.”

Stubbornness must run in the Rivera family,
I decided. Juana could be as ornery as Gaby and Ro.

“Just say a few words,” Reuben pleaded.

“Grow, plants,” said Juana flatly.

“Try again,” said Reuben, “with a little more enthusiasm.”

“I can’t scratch up a
shred
of enthusiasm,” said Juana, “for a present that will be sold as soon as it’s given.” She stuck her nose in the air.

I rolled my eyes.

But Gaby and Ro had gotten into the planting spirit.

“Grow!” they screamed at the bare earth. “Grow, you dumb seeds!”

I figured such a welcome would either cause an instant blooming or scare those seeds deeper.

R
euben and I visited the garden every day after school. The results were:

Day 1: Nothing.

Day 2: Nothing.

Day 3: Nothing.

Day 4: Me: “Do you think something’s wrong with these seeds?”

Day 5: Nothing.

Day 6: Reuben: “Maybe the seeds are dead.”

Me: “How can they be dead? They haven’t come alive yet.”

Reuben: “Maybe Mailbags drowned them with all that water.”

Me: “Maybe he’ll have to plant our garden again.”

Day 7: Nothing.

Day 8: All the other twenty-eight plots in the Rooter’s Community Garden were sprouting.

Day 9: One tiny green shoot.

Reuben grabbed my arm like he had seen a Gila monster. “Look at that!” he yelled.

Then he waded into that dirt patch. He leaned way over like he was going to give that piece of green a big kiss.

“Reuben, it’s just a plant.”

“Ain’t I got eyes?” he said, all huffy. “I can see it’s a plant.”

A one-dollar plant.

“Be careful, Bigfoot, you’ll stomp our investment.”

Reuben tiptoed out of the garden. “Maybe we should water it.”

“You think so?”

Reuben considered the seedling. “Must be hard work pushing out of the ground. It could use a drink.”

I stepped around the big puddle by the faucet, uncoiled the hose, aimed.

Water hit the seedling with the force of a hurricane.

Flattened it.

Reuben gazed into the mud. “You killed it, man.”

“Maybe it’ll pop up again.”

“That plant is a goner.”

I felt pretty bad. One dollar down the drain.

Reuben eyeballed me. “Ain’t you going to fix it?”

“How am I supposed to fix a dead plant?”

But Reuben just crossed his arms and kept eyeballing me.

I pulled off my Air Jordans.

Squidge, squidge. The cold mud squeezed between my toes.

I looked all around. I didn’t want anyone to see me cuddling a dead plant. I had my cool reputation to think of.

Juana was coming through the gate. Gaby and Ro hopped behind.

“Jackson Jones, Jackson Jones,” they
shouted happily, “eats some bread to make his bones.”

Juana shrugged. “They think they’re poets.”

“Juana, Juana, eats iguanas.”

Juana ignored them. She turned to Reuben.

“What’s Jackson doing?”

“Fixing a plant he killed.”

“I didn’t kill it. I watered it.”

Juana considered the plant. “Looks dead to me.”

Gaby and Ro shrieked, “Plant murderer.”

Very coolly I leaned over, dabbed some mud around the tiny shoot, straightened the leaves.

Whop! Something knocked me in the butt. The next thing I knew—mouthful of mud.

Gaby screamed with laughter.

Reuben leapt after her.

I jumped up, hit the garden path running. Yow! The wood chips dug into my bare feet. Gaby was a blurred dress weaving in the flower beds. Hop. Hop. Yow! Yow! I’d get her.

“Jackson’s dancing,” Ro screamed.

I dived. Reuben swiveled. We pinned Gaby like a muddy wildcat.

“Jackson loves Juana,” Gaby howled.

“Leggo my sister.” The voice was quiet, clipped. I looked up.

Legs apart, jaw set, Ro dangled one white shoe over the brown, oozing puddle by the faucet.

My Air Jordan.

“Juana,” I yelled.

Juana leapt.

The next thing I saw: Juana clutching one white shoe.

The other sinking in the mud.

“You
hurt
me,” Ro howled.

Then a familiar voice growled: “Bouquet Jones, looks like you done turned into a seed.”

Very funny, I thought. I shook Gaby off. Refused to look over by the gate at that Blood Green.

“Boooo-kay loves Juana,” Gaby screamed.

Head up, shoulders loose, I just kept walking. Very coolly. Yow! Yow! Those wood chips dug into my feet.

I picked my shoe out of the mud, wiped it on the grass.

“We were just leaving,” said Juana.

“Me too,” said Reuben.

I didn’t answer.

As Juana herded the kids out, Gaby softly chanted: “Boo-kay’s sneakers in the mud. Boo-kay’s sneakers smell like crud.”

Blood had already left. Gone to spread the news of my new name.

As I thumped my dirty shoe to the gate, Mailbags called, “I see you have your first weed.”

“What do you mean, weed?”

“That weed.” Mailbags thumbed at the one green shred in my garden. “You should pull it out. You don’t want weeds crowding your flowers.”

Great. I had killed a weed and then rescued it.

F
irst one plant (weed), then two plants (weeds), then green leaves bombing all over the ground. Maybe weeds. Maybe… flowers.

“Dollar flowers,” I said, surveying my business empire.

Only one corner of my empire was not cooperating. That rosebush. It looked like a pile of mean sticks.

“This thing should be busting with flowers.” Reuben examined the thorns. “Maybe your mama should talk to it.”

“Then my mama would be talking to her
birthday present. And I don’t want her talking to her birthday present
before
her birthday.”

Reuben kicked some wood chips. “I’m tired of this garden. Mud, plants, water. Water, plants, mud. When we gonna see some roses?”

Mailbags moseyed over. His garden looked as perfect as a picture in one of Miz Lady’s magazines.

“Boys, you better pick out those weeds. Otherwise they’ll choke your flowers.”

“More work?” Reuben looked horrified.

“Which ones are the weeds?” I asked.

“Look for the biggest plants.” Mailbags grinned.

My spirit dropped to the bottom of my Air Jordans, but I pulled off my shoes and waded into the garden.

“There’s got to be an easier way,” Reuben moaned.

“Just pull.”

“Why don’t we shoot a few hoops first?”

“Pull.”

“Let’s get a Mars bar. I got fifty-nine cents.”

I kept leaning, pulling, tossing.

“I quit,” said Reuben.

“You can’t quit, you’re a business partner.”

“I quit anyway. Jackson, man, all you think about are these one-dollar greens. You are ob-
sessed
.”

I kept pulling.

“This garden is nothing, man. Look at that rosebush. A puddle of thorns.”

Lean, pull, toss.

“I got some good ideas for Captain Nemo.”

Lean, pull, toss.

“I guess I’ll do the next Captain Nemo adventure myself.”

I straightened. I was plenty mad. “Captain Nemo is nothing without my writing.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Besides, it’ll take you forever to do the next story.”

“Will not.”

“Forever and a Sunday,” I said. By now I was boiling mad. “You are slow, Reuben. S-L-O-W. We could have done a
thousand
Captain Nemo comics by now, but you’re so slow.”

“What do you mean, slow?”

“Look at your shoelaces,” I said. Reuben looked down. “Such finicky perfect bows. I’ve
seen you tie one bow six—no, eight times until it’s perfect. Why don’t you just
tie
your laces?”

Reuben kept looking down at his perfect bows. Then he turned and, still looking down, walked to the gate.

“I’ll buy out your share of the garden,” I yelled.

Reuben opened the gate.

“I don’t care if you take over Captain Nemo,” I hollered.

Reuben, looking down at those finicky bows, disappeared around the corner.

“Fine,” I screamed.

“Fine,” I muttered to the next weed. Yank.

Puddle of thorns. I’d show him. Yank.

Thinks he can write Captain Nemo—Ha! Yank.

I showed those weeds no mercy. Yank. Yank. Yank. What kind of best friend quits a business, takes over your writing, and insults you all in one Saturday afternoon?

No kind of best friend. Reuben and I were quits as business partners, Nemo creators,
and
best friends.

Finally, I limped home. My back ached. An interesting blister had formed on my thumb.

“Oh, Jackson”—Mama beamed—“you are enjoying your garden so much.”

Yeah, right.

Mama set out some dinner. “I can hardly wait to see what’s growing there.”

“Mostly weeds,” I muttered.

But to myself, I added: That garden’s growing nothing but trouble.

A
nd that garden continued growing trouble. Trouble and weeds.

BOOK: Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns
8.9Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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