Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop (3 page)

“Easy there, little man.” Mailbags palmed Ro's head. “Fading's what happens this time of year. In a month or so, Jackson will have to cover his garden with straw, like a blanket. Bed it for winter.”

I could tell Ro was listening hard, sucking his thumb.

“In winter the earth gets quiet,” Mailbags continued. “It takes a rest.”

I looked down. I felt sort of sad saying goodbye to these little green guys. We had been through a lot. Blisters, weeds, Blood. But we had pulled through. And it hadn't been all bad.

Mailbags smiled. “Come April, the whole thing will be back. You'll see. Squash, roses, weeds. Life moves in a circle. Things grow, die; others take their place.”

I knew Mailbags was trying to toss out some wisdom. Talking that life-circle talk. But his words didn't make me feel better.

“It won't be the same,” I said.

Mailbags stood quiet a moment. “You're right,” he said. “Each year is different. You can plan and plant, but you can't know for sure. Gardens, well, they can surprise you.”

“Like presents?” Gaby asked.

Mailbags smiled. “Sure. Have a tomato— gift from the garden. Probably the last of the season.” He passed round the tomatoes, one for each kid. Tossed me another, for Mama.

As we stepped out the gate, Reuben nudged me. “Next year, if you wanted your garden … I could help.”

“Me too.” Juana nodded.

Did I want the garden again? Talk about work! Not to mention that plot's effect on my cool reputation. What b-ball ace grubs with worms? Messes with daisies?

I thought of Reuben's poke-poke-poke, careful, slow way of sticking seeds in the ground. Remembered Juana yanking weeds. I thought of Mama hurrying to the garden
after work. We had chatted with Rooters. Watched green stems shoot through the dirt.

Yeah, mixed in with trouble had been some good garden stuff.

Besides, I'd invested a LOT of money and time in my rosebush. When the prickly thing FINALLY bloomed, I planned to be around.

“Listen to you.” I grinned, spinning my tomato. “Two Farmers-in-the-Dell. Where's your pitchfork?”

Reuben fake-punched my arm.

“Next year, no zucchini,” I promised as we moved down the sidewalk. “Not one single skinny green bit.”

Reuben and I slapped skin.

“Hey, I almost forgot.” Reuben dug into his backpack. “I finished the first Nemo panel. The one with Unspeakable Z.”

“Boring!” Gaby sniffed. “Come on, Ro. Let's go look at
real
comic books.”

The two shot down the street toward the drugstore.

“Don't
squish tomato on anything,” Juana yelled, picking up her pace. “And
don't
spin the racks.”

I stopped to study Reuben's panel. Nemo was looking good. My man might take a loonng time to finish a strip. He might erase a million times. But his shading kept getting better. Look at the captain hacking that Unspeakable Z. The hairy vines choking the moon.

“Whatcha think?” Reuben asked.

“Weeelll.” I drew out the word.

Reuben glanced down shyly.

“I think it's the best Nemo ever!”

“Yeah?”

“For sure.”

Reuben took the paper from me, real careful. “I spent
hours
on those leaves. See the veins?”

“You know the plant drawings in Mama's books?” I tapped his panel. “This is just as good.”

Then I heard a voice.

“Yo, Art Fart. And Rosy Red Jones.”

Man, I hated that voice.

Blood Green materialized before us.

“You got something for me?” He eyeballed Reuben's panel.

My man hunched low over the paper. Like a daddy bird protecting his child.

“Leave him alone,” I said.

Blood didn't even look at me. He reached out. Plucked the paper.

“Look at the wittle fwower.” Blood's voice went all baby-squeaky. “And the wittle moon.” He ran his thumb over Reuben's careful work. “But Rosy, where is the cow?”

“Cow?”

“The cow that jumps over the moon.”

“Blood,” said Reuben, “give it back.”

“You want it?”

“Yeah.”

Blood held the paper in both hands. Slowly, he started to tear.

Slowly, slowly, Blood tore down the middle. Doubled the paper, tore again.

Tossed the pieces into the air.

That's when—
whoosh!
—a tomato whizzed by his arm.

Whump!
Another landed by his feet.

And a third smacked Blood in the chest.

What? Who? I glanced down the street.

Gaby, Ro, and Juana.

Gaby's aim had been off. Ro's, too.

Juana's had been perfect.

“You.” Juana spat at Blood. “I wish I had more.”

“Yeah!” yelled Gaby and Ro.

Juana grabbed the kids. Marched them into the drugstore. Her black hair waved, a Super J flag.

Blood just stood there, surprised. Seeds and juice dripped down his shirt.

That's when my survival instinct kicked in.

I ran.

Behind me, the pounding of feet. Reuben. His survival instinct was working, too.

I looked back once. Blood had disappeared.

Reuben and I didn't stop running till we reached our apartment building. His thoughts, I knew, were the same as mine.

Blood would pound us for sure.

Blood might poke Juana and the little kids. He might steal their lunches, call them names.

But he would come after Reuben and me. He couldn't look weak to other guys.

Reuben and I were dead meat.

We entered the elevator together; I pushed the button for the third floor.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Maybe.” Reuben's voice trailed off.

We didn't say anything else, just nodded as we stepped off the elevator. Reuben headed to 316; me to 302.

I flung open my apartment door. Threw myself on the couch. Almost squished the tomatoes, still clutched in my hands.

I dropped them on the coffee table. Why
had Mailbags given us those things? He should have known they'd cause trouble.

And Juana? What was with her? Had Reuben and I asked for help? No! First Gaby and her Jackson-grows-red-roses comment to Blood. Then tomato-throwing Juana. Those Rivera girls—their rescues just made life dangerous.

I thought of Blood. His yellow shirt oozing red juice. Huh, he had asked for it. Tearing up Reuben's panel. That boy
lived
to be mean.

It was my turn to cook dinner that night. But I couldn't make myself move. My mind kept playing that picture of Blood being plastered. Fast-forwarding to him creaming me.

Should I tell Mama? She'd just worry and call Blood's mother. I shuddered. I'd seen what Blood did to kids who told.

Mama came out of her bedroom with her college stuff. These days she was always toting some book or tip-tapping on the computer. Before she started taking classes, I had cruised the Internet whenever I wanted. Checked out sports scores, got the scoop on
players. Now I had to make an appointment for a three-minute search.

The computer might help me come up with a strategy, a way to keep Blood off my back.

“You're sweating.” Mama gave me a kiss. “Play some basketball after school?”

I wished.

“And those tomatoes—big as beach balls!” Mama continued. “You slicing them for dinner?”

I shook my head.

“Putting them in a salad?”

“Right now,” I said, “tomatoes are NOT my favorite vegetable. I'll scramble some eggs.”

“Actually, the tomato is a fruit.” Mama smiled. “It's even called the apple of love.”

“Not by me,” I grumbled.

Just then the phone rang. Blood had me so edgy, I jumped. The boy wouldn't call, I reasoned, reaching through the ficus for the phone. Huh, that tree was growing as big as a redwood. Why hadn't Mama rescued a teeny violet, say, or a stray basketball?

I pushed back a twig. “Hello.”

Mr. Kerring answered.

Answered? The man
commanded
me to listen. He read aloud a letter from a company called Drane.

Even through the ficus rustling, I caught the news.

Seemed the tomatoes today were just the start of trouble.

And Mailbags's talk of garden surprises? Well, Rooter's was getting a surprise, according to the Drane and Company letter. And it wasn't good.

I handed the phone to Mama. Tried to make sense of Mr. K.'s news.

No more garden.

Rooter's was going to be shut down. Plowed up. Developed.

An apartment building put there.

I thought of how my plot—number 5-1— had looked during the summer. Bees coming and going. Birds touching down. Flowers snug on their stems, beets fat in the ground. Okay, my rosebush had never bloomed. Maybe it was taking its time.

Now its time had run out.

Mama hung up, brushed past the ficus. Sat beside me on the couch.

“It's not right,” I said.

“But it's legal.” Mama leafed through the mail and opened our letter from Drane. “The company owns that land. We only rented it.”

I leaned close, reading, too.

The letter was full of fancy words and polite “please's.” I had to read it twice to figure its meaning. Drane and Company had bought Rooter's six years ago. They didn't want a garden, though. They wanted to build on that land. And now they wanted us out.

Six years. Huh. Mr. K. had been a Rooter since 1944. More than sixty years! I bet the company knew nothing about that land. To them, the garden was just a bunch of rental checks.

“Mr. Kerring will talk with a lawyer,” Mama continued. “Maybe we can stop the development.”

“Let's buy the garden!” I sat up straight. “Each Rooter can chip in.”

But I knew that would never happen. It's hard enough to make your rent in the city. People didn't have money to rescue gardens.

“They plan to bulldoze in two weeks.” I
scanned the letter again. “They want us to remove all our tools. I'll pick up the tomato stakes on Saturday.”

“Bulldozing the garden.” Mama shook her head sadly.

I glanced at the address at the top of the letter. Drane and Company was located downtown, on the same street as Mama's office.

Yeah, I remembered that street. Mama had hauled me to her office last year for Bring Your Daughter to Work Day. She said that sons, too, should see how the bills got paid. I had to wear my church shirt and drive in with her. I sat in her work cubicle. Spun in her chair. Checked out the people in suits.

But where were her plants?

“Not enough room,” Mama had explained, perched on the edge of her desk. “And green leaves don't fit the color scheme.” She waved. “Notice, please, the gray walls, gray ceiling, gray carpet.”

“Tan computer,” I said.

“My spot of color,” Mama had joked.

Holding that letter, I guessed I could understand Mama better. Could see why she
wanted to be a plant doctor so bad. I wondered if Drane and Company was as gray as Mama's cubicle.

I remembered the best part of visiting that downtown office. Mama had taken me to lunch. And she had let me order
two
chocolate puddings. “After all,” she had said, laughing, “Bring Your Daughter to Work Day calls for celebration.”

My mama, huh. She thinks she is one funny lady.

She wasn't joking now, though. The worry frown was deep between her eyes. She set down her college book. “You want me to make dinner tonight? So you can relax?”

“No way.” I slid off the couch. “Didn't I promise scrambled eggs?”

Mama wanted to ease my sadness, I knew. But how could I relax with all this bad stuff? Blood tearing up Captain Nemo. Juana's tomato tearing into Blood. Mr. K.'s phone call. The Drane and Company letter. The garden soon to be bulldozed. Destroyed.

That was just today. What might happen tomorrow?

I sliced Mailbags's two tomatoes for Mama. Thick, the way she liked them. Served toast and scrambled eggs.

Mama ate fast, then headed to the computer. Her big paper was due soon, she said. She had to trace the history of a local garden.

Boring.

“Look at this Web site, Jackson.” Mama clicked the computer mouse. “Tudor Place has a knot garden, one of the oldest in the country. Want to visit with me?”