Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop (4 page)

And see a knot garden? Whatever that was. I
don't
think so.

“Got plans with Reuben that day,” I answered quickly.

“Ah,” said Mama. “I didn't mention a day.”

Whoops.

“You do NOT want to visit the KNOT garden.” Mama smiled. “So I will NOT expect you to come.” She tugged my ear. “Like my plant humor?”

“Not,” I said.

Mama laughed, then asked gently, “You okay? I can clean up.”

No, Mama had to write about some boring
garden. I was the Man of the House. I'd do my part.

Besides, we had an agreement. Before Mama started classes, we used to clean up together. Now the cook also cleaned. This had been my idea, since I usually needed only one pan for canned soup, say, or fish sticks.

But tonight my strategy had backfired. That's what I got for cooking fancy. My scrambled eggs had stuck to the pan. Tomato bits were all over. Each pulpy seed reminded me of Blood.

I scraped and scrubbed, sponged and washed. Finally I turned out the kitchen light.

“Jackson,” Mama called from the computer. “Could you give the ficus a drink?”

What was I, a guy Cinderella? But I didn't say a word. Mr. Helpful Man of the House filled a jug and lugged it over.

By the phone, the tree kind of drooped. Maybe feeling a little lonely. Mama was spending so much time with her book plants that she was forgetting her real ones. No more pep talks or songs. Just a quick “hi” when she watered.

“You think you've got it bad,” I murmured, patting the ficus. “I know a whole garden that's gonna be bulldozed. And a person that's gonna get creamed.”

I meant to cheer up the tree. But it only drooped worse.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Over the next few days, the ficus and I spent a lot of time together. I was always dodging its leaves to answer the phone.

Most of the calls came from Mr. Kerring. I could hear the worry each time he barked a command.

He told Mama and me about his talk with a lawyer, who said there was nothing we could do. He had talked to another lawyer, who gave the same answer. The garden could be sold, bulldozed, developed. Drane and Company's action was legal.

That still didn't make it right.

What might save the garden? I thought and
thought. Tried to come up with a strategy. We needed one soon.

Another strategy I needed soon: a way to save myself. And Reuben.

Word of the tomato incident had spread through school faster, well, than Juana's throw. These days kids snickered whenever Blood swaggered by. They whispered, “Tomato Head.” Blood's bullying had caught up with him.

And he was waiting to catch up with me.

Blood had strategy, though. He started spreading on niceness, thick as jam. “Hello, Jackson” in the halls. “How's it going?”

The boy was as friendly as a welcome wagon.

He wouldn't strike at school, I knew. Too many teachers. Too easy to get caught.

No, Blood had gone underground. Like a mean snake in a burrow.

But Reuben and I refused to be gophers. Two gophers waiting for that snake to strike. We had our own strategy: going to and from school a different way each day. If he couldn't predict our movements, Blood couldn't jump us.

Captain Nemo might fight his villains. He'd punch the Flawt, whomp the Cerebral, tackle the Unspeakable Z. But this was real life. Reuben and I tried to avoid the enemy.

On Saturday, I was still in avoidance mode. Reuben and I had worked out a plan. I'd go to the garden early to clear out my stuff, before the bulldozers came. Blood would still be asleep. Then I'd meet Reuben back at our apartment building. I'd pick up my b-ball, and we'd head for the blacktop. Shoot hoops for the rest of the morning. If Blood found us, he might launch some mean names, but he wouldn't touch us. Too many people around.

At seven o'clock, I was moseying down the street. Turning the corner onto Evert.

Morning mist silvered the garden. A breeze rustled through. Two birds started a chirp conversation.

That's when I saw them.

Big. Red.

My rosebush had finally bloomed.

I opened the gate, hurried over.

Four roses! From a thorny stick to a blooming
beauty—that bush had come a long way. Wait till Mama saw it.

“You stubborn thing.” I tapped a flower. “Deciding to look nice—right before being bulldozed.”

“Got yourself some roses,” came a voice.

Talk about embarrassing. Had the person heard me? I was as bad as Mama, talking to plants!

Hunkered in his neat plot was Mr. Kerring. Surrounded by two buckets, three plastic bowls, about twenty paper cups.

His garden was full of holes.

Mr. K. shifted stiffly, peering at me. He looked like an elderly groundhog.

“June roses are a dime a dozen,” Mr. K. humphed. “Everything blooms in summer.” His spade scratched into the earth. Dig. Dig. Dig. He slowly filled one of the bowls.

“But a fall rose is special,” he continued. “Coming right before winter. Promising spring.”

I didn't want to remind Mr. K. about the next spring. When it came, Rooter's would lie under some building.

Mr. K. stopped, resting a moment. Smoothed back his wispy hair.

Quickly I reached for the spade.

Mr. K. held tight. “I can do it,” he barked.

I held on.

“Okay, but just for a minute,” he grumbled. “Treating me like an old man.”

Dig, dig, dig. I filled one of the buckets.

Dig, dig. I started on a bowl.

The sun was warm on my back, the dirt rich and black. An earthworm slithered away.

“I've worked this plot since I was ten,” Mr. K. said suddenly. “My grandma taught me how to build up the soil, how to stake a tomato. No, Jackson.” He shook a finger. “You'll get a blister holding the spade that way.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, continuing to dig. I tried to picture Mr. K. as a boy. No wrinkles, no gray hair. Bossy as ever. Somehow, though, his commands didn't crab me as much. His words slid off me like rain off a leaf.

“Things were different back then,” Mr. K. went on. “Victory gardens all over the city. On
balconies, in windows. Every patch of dirt held some green. Americans had to grow their own food during the war. We had to free up factory food for the troops.”

He cut me a sly look. “I remember a LOT of zucchini.”

“Some things don't change,” I replied.

Mr. K. chuckled. “Turnips. Parsnips. Rhubarb. You ever eat rhubarb without sugar?”

Rhubarb? Sounded like a villain for Captain Nemo.

“Sour.” Mr. K. stuck out his tongue. “And sugar was rationed. My grandma used to stick that nasty stuff in a pie. Call it dessert.”

I glanced round the garden as I dug. Brown and dry, most of it. Some pansy faces still shone, though. Marigolds still hung out their colors. My roses were full and red. Strange to think of plants and people coming and going for years on this one patch of ground.

Suddenly I stopped. Mr. K.'s garden had gone from the prettiest in Rooter's to the ugliest. Even my weed jungle looked better. The man now had a gopher city.

“Mr. K.,” I said slowly, “what are we doing?”

His eyes turned stubborn. Like Juana's when she feels she's right. “It's my dirt,” he said. “I prepared it, fertilized it. I set out earthworms I bought myself.”

I could see it now: me and Mr. K. arrested for vandalizing. For stealing Drane and Company soil.

“The whole thing will be plowed up.” His old voice cracked. “In a few weeks, this will be gone. You think I'm gonna waste this rich dirt?”

Mr. K. protectively gathered his bowls. “I'm gonna start an indoor garden.”

I thought of Mailbags's talk about seasons. How earth rested in winter, grew more plants in spring. Mr. K.'s dirt would keep creating—even when Rooter's disappeared.

“Mr. K.,” I said, “can I use a cup?”

He smiled. “Gonna grow your own zucchini?”

“Only if you eat it.” I smiled back. Knelt in my plot. Dig, dig, dig.

I filled one cup for me.

Dig, dig. I filled four extra. For Reuben,
Juana, Mama, Mailbags. Dirt from Plot 5-1. Guaranteed to grow the city's best weeds.

I ran my sleeve over my face. Talk about hard work.

But the hardest part was still to come.

Mr. K. planned to trundle his dug-up plot home in a teeny wire cart. In this rickety basket with two skinny wheels.

But two buckets, three bowls, and twenty dirt-filled cups didn't fit.

I sighed and hoisted the buckets. Mr. K. tugged his cart.

We struggled down the street. Slow as two ancient turtles.

Of course, when we passed the b-ball blacktop, the big guys had to comment.

“Jackson! Look at you.”

“All that dirt—you making a cornfield?”

I gave them a nod. Trudged on.

The sun was getting higher in the sky. And I was getting nervous. I was late to meet Reuben.

Blood would already be on the move.

I sure didn't want to see Blood. Not hauling
two buckets, like some baby Jack-and-Jill rhyme. Not with Mr. K.'s squeaky cart.

I picked up the pace.

If I had known what was waiting, I would have slowed down. Way down.

Huh, if I had known what was waiting with Reuben, I would have stopped. Turned around. Gone back. Buckets, squeaky cart, and all.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

Waiting for me were noise and confusion.

I had just dropped Mr. K. off at his place. Mr. K. and his gallons of dirt. In a few weeks, when the first seeds sprouted, his one plant would have company. LOTS of company.

Mr. K. turned stubborn when I asked about his building's rules. “They got rules on wall color, carpet, the number of pictures,” he grumbled. “But I never read one word about dirt.”

Climbing the steps to my apartment building, I flexed my fingers. Those five paper cups were hard to hold. And a blister was starting
to form. It better not mess with my blacktop action. After being Farmer -in-the-Dell all morning, I needed a b-ball game.

But when I pushed open the door of our building … noise pushed back at me.

Gaby and Ro were stomping round the lobby.

Reuben screeched his marker on a big square of paper.

Juana directed his writing.

Uh-oh. Juana had that J-for-justice look in her eyes. And there was no basketball in sight.

When they saw me, Gaby and Ro rushed over. “We're practicing!” they yelled.

I glanced at the finished signs. Reuben's letters were large, black, and clear.

Save the Garden

Root for Rooter's

Mother Nature Now

“Jackson,” Juana greeted me. “Listen, I've got a plan.”

That's how I found myself back on the sidewalk, headed to Rooter's.

This time toting a sign.

Before setting out, I'd had a chance to stash my dirt-filled cups in my apartment, under the ficus. “Wish me luck,” I whispered to the tree.

Yeah, I was going to need LOTS of luck. Juana's plan called for a protest march.

And that girl wanted to put her plan into action
immediately.
No waiting for Mama, who'd gone to the library. No waiting for Mail-bags, who was delivering Saturday mail. No calling any of the other Rooters.

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