Jackson started. “The Author? You work for the Author?”
Burt nodded.
“We are talking about the same Author? The one who created everything?”
She put a hand on her hip. “Duh.” She examined her perfectly pink nails. “We need to continue with the tour now.”
The path led to an arbor that was covered with climbing roses. Burt opened a little white gate and led Jackson on a path that circled around a white gazebo. Inside the gazebo were a black wrought-iron table and two black wrought iron chairs. On top of the table was a red-and-white checkered table cloth with two place settings.
“This looks kind of familiar,” Jackson murmured to himself as he walked toward a chair.
A death grip snatched his arm. Jackson stared at Burt in surprise.
“It’s not for sitting,” she hissed.
“I’m sorry?”
“No need to apologize. I’m sure you didn’t know.” Her snarl turned into a bright smile. Jackson suspected it was forced.
“Why can’t I sit down?”
“Because you’ll get it dirty.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No need to apologize.”
Jackson grunted in frustration. “Why would it get dirty? I’m not that dirty. And it’s a chair. An outside chair!”
“Well …” Burt’s voice trailed off as she looked him up and down. She sniffed disdainfully. “I’m sure you’re a very nice boy and all, but I can’t have you messing things up.”
“Why is this table and chairs set up then?” he argued. “So one can sit and eat a snack in the garden.”
“Does anyone actually come and sit and eat a snack?” he asked.
Burt’s laugh tinkled the air. “Of course not! Then it wouldn’t be neat and pretty and perfect anymore! What a silly thing to do!”
“But we could sit down and have a snack, and I could help you clean up afterwards,” said Jackson. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Or you could just not sit down and we’ll continue with the tour and then you can go away,” said Burt.
“What’s the point of this being set up if you can’t sit down?” Jackson’s voice rose, his cheeks turning pink with frustration.
Muffy’s hackles rose and he began to growl. Burt smiled sweetly at Jackson. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to raise your voice at me. Muffy doesn’t like it when my feelings are hurt. Does he, my little Muffy-puffy?” she sang.
Jackson sighed. “This is ridiculous.”
“You just don’t know what you’re talking about. Only an ignoramus wouldn’t understand why things have to be perfect here.” (Ignoramus is what you call someone who clearly has no clue what’s going on. But it’s not really nice to call them that.) Burt patted Muffy’s head and walked on.
Jackson was starting to get annoyed. Could you blame him? (His empty stomach probably wasn’t helping his mood.) Burt was being ridiculously difficult. But some elves are just like that.
“Let’s pretend I am an ignoramus. Why do things need to be perfect here? It’s a very pretty garden, and aren’t gardens for enjoying?” Jackson followed Burt down the path.
Burt raised her eyebrows. “The Author made this garden. He made the garden perfect. He made it to be kept perfect.”
“What?”
Burt’s hands began to wave in the air. “Because he’s perfect! How can you not understand? Look. The Author made everything, right? You, me, Muffy, this garden, the world. And he is so wonderful that he never ever makes a mistake.”
“Right, but …” Jackson began.
“So if I am in charge of his perfect garden, then I need to keep it perfect.” Burt sniffed and raised an eyebrow as she glanced at Jackson’s shoes. “You’ve dropped a piece of lint. Pick it up, please.”
Jackson looked down and picked up a piece of lint that had fallen from his shirt.
“Put it in your pocket for now,” said Burt. “You can place it in the garbage receptacle on your way out. Don’t worry,” she continued. “With more hard work, you can be as perfect as I am.”
Jackson burst out laughing. “Are you serious? You’re not perfect! No one is!”
Muffy growled. Burt smiled sweetly, but her eyes had gone cold. “Yes I am.” She flipped her ponytail. “And the Author loves me best.”
“Excuse me?”
Burt twirled a lovely twirl, right in one spot, not disturbing a single flower. “He loves me best!” she sang out. “My clothes are neat and tidy, I speak nicely, and I keep his garden spotless.” She stopped and stared at Jackson with a sudden intensity. “Now you … You are a mess. Your sandals are old and worn, there are some loose threads on your shorts, your toenails are too long, you have dirt on your knees, your shirt is ratty …”
“I was cleaning the pool!” Jackson protested. Burt did not stop to listen.
“And I dig holes and plant seeds and weed the garden, but I still manage to stay clean and neat. Your hair needs cutting and your teeth are crooked. How could the Author possibly love someone as messy and sloppy as you?”
“Now wait a minute, he loves everyone!” Jackson began to breathe faster.
Burt rolled her eyes. “Of course he does. But he can’t love everything the same, can he? That’s like comparing his love for me with his love for a filthy rat that lives in a sewer. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Jackson’s heart began to beat faster. “But … he loves people the same.”
Burt smoothed her skirt. Her eyes peeked up at him from under long eyelashes. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Jackson slowly shook his head. That couldn’t be true.
Could it?
“You know,” she said as she stepped toward him. “You can make him love you more.”
Jackson was hyperventilating now. “How?”
“Well, for starters, how about you get cleaned up a bit?” Jackson nodded quickly. His brain was so fuddled and messy, like a tangle of knots.
Burt placed her little hand on his chest and slowly pushed him backward. “And I know how to make that happen. There’s a beauty shop very close to here,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
“But I’m not a girl!” Jackson protested. “I don’t need makeup and a hairdo!”
Burt smiled. “Think of it as a transformation.”
“Um …”
Burt’s little hand shoved Jackson hard in the chest and he stumbled and fell …
… down a hole …
… until he bounced into a gargantuan white hammock. (Gargantuan means huge, honkin’ big.) His fingers touched the fabric. Toilet paper. “Yeeeeeees? May I heeeeeelp you?” a voice sang out. It came from a chicken.
chapter 18
In Which Jackson Is Discussed
A little red bonnet with delicate lace framed the chicken’s face. Her eye shadow was demure, her lashes just long enough, and her beak was a sparkly pink. Jackson just stared.
The chicken ruffled her feathers daintily and puffed up her chest. “I aaaaaam Miss Pottle. And I can seeeee that you desperately neeeeeed my help!” She fanned out her wings and waved them gracefully in the air.
“Um … I don’t know if I should be here,” said Jackson. “You see, I flew into this tree by accident and I’m trying to get home. So if you could just point out where …”
“Girls! Girls!” the chicken interrupted. “We have compan-eeeeee!”
There was a skittering and scratching across the floor as ten chickens hurried to the hammock and lined up evenly.
Ten chickens stared at Jackson.
Jackson backed up, looking for a way to escape.
“He certainly needs work, doesn’t heeeee?” one chicken whispered to another. She tittered and gave Jackson a look.
“No wonder he was sent to us,” agreed the second chicken.
“Who could possibly love that?” asked another, not caring to whisper. Jackson felt his cheeks burning.
“Girls!” Miss Pottle admonished. (Admonish means to scold. Sco
lding is something chickens do a lot.) The chicken’s feathers ruffled, puffing up, then flattened back down again, smoothing out.
“We have a boy in desperate neeeed of our expert-eeeeeese! Let’s make him more lovable, shall weeeee?”
“If you could just direct me to the nearest exit …” Jackson spluttered.
“Nonsense! You want the Author to loooove you, don’t youuuuuu?” Miss Pottle trilled. The other ten chickens clucked softly.
“Well, of course,” Jackson said, “but I’m sure if you just point …”
“This is perfectly necessary-eeeee!” Her chicken eyes looked deep into Jackson’s.
“Truuuuuust me …”
chapter 19
In Which Jackson Is Improved
In the flashiest of flashes, which actually felt longer, Jackson’s hair was brushed, washed, snipped, dyed, and dried. His fingers had been soaked and rubbed, and fingernails clipped, filed, and buffed. His face had been washed, masked, toned, massaged, and moisturized. He was exhausted.
Very, very slowly, Jackson opened one eye. The ten chickens had all lined up, watching him with smug expressions.
Miss Pottle clucked a little cluck and smiled a beaky smile.
“Well now! Whoooo can’t say you’re not loveable noooooow?” She bobbed her head and pulled Jackson over to the mirror.
Jackson looked into it.
And gasped.
chapter 20
In Which Jackson Is Absolutely, Positively Perfect
Jackson’s fingers touched his face. His skin was glowing. His grayish-bluish-greenish-brownish eyes sparkled, and his teeth were so white! He had a new haircut and blond highlights. He wore a dark blue T-shirt tucked into clean hiking shorts and solid steel-toed boots.
Jackson laughed. He looked like a movie star!
Miss Pottle took his arm gently. “Now you’re perfect,” she whispered. “How could the Author not love you?”
Indeed. How could he not?
chapter 21
Which Is Full of Glee and Happiness
Jackson strutted out of the beauty shop. He couldn’t stop touching his hair.
“Oh ho! Look at Mr. Fancy Pants!” a gruff voice called out.
Jackson turned. Stimple was tying up a garbage bag.
“Not bad, eh?” Jackson touched his hair again. “You look …”
“Like a movie star?” Jackson interrupted, smiling even bigger.
“Humph. Yah, I guess you do.” Stimple hoisted the garbage bag up to his shoulder.
“Thank you!” Jackson did a pirouette. (A pirouette is a twirl. It’s fun for girls and boys of all ages!) But he looked a bit silly. So he pretended he was swatting a fly.
“All fancy-like.”
Jackson’s smile faltered. (Faltered means his feelings got hurt, and he’s not as sure his new look is so wonderful, but he didn’t want to show the gruff, large-nosed troll he’s a little upset.) “Ah, you’re just jealous, Stimple.”
“If ya mean ‘cause you’re clean, well, I wouldn’t mind a lavender bubble bath sometimes,” Stimple growled. He hoisted the garbage bag onto his back with a grunt.
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing! Let’s go.”
“Are you taking me home now?” Jackson asked. He couldn’t wait to show off.
But Stimple didn’t answer. So Jackson followed him down a path.
chapter 22
A Very Strategic Chapter
They walked down the hall in silence, but Jackson’s mind was going a mile a minute. How could he convince Stimple to help him get home? Maybe he needed a strategy. A sneaky plan. An opportunity. Jackson admired his fingernails for a moment, and then he had an idea.
“So, Stimple. How long have you been working here?” Jackson asked.
There was a long pause. “Humph. Feels like forever.”
“How long is that?”
Stimple shrugged. “I was born here.” They passed a few doorways but Jackson couldn’t see anything down them. He just kept following Stimple.
“Really? That’s so … interesting. How do you get born in a tree?”
Stimple shrugged nonchalantly. “I was born here and then I got a job. Blah blah blah.” Stimple turned down a different hallway.
“What do you mean? Given a job as a baby? Where are your parents? Where’s your family?” Jackson asked.
But Stimple ignored him. Because they had arrived at a door.
And not just any door.
chapter 23
In Which Stimple Is Most Unhelpful
The door was a bright cherry red with a black dragonfly knocker.
“I’ve got work to do. Wait in here.” Stimple pointed at the door.
“But … wouldn’t it be easier to just tell me how to leave? Just point the way out,” Jackson pleaded.
Stimple shook his head. “Wait here.”
“Or maybe you could just take me to Sir Shaw and he can take me home.”
Stimple adjusted the garbage bag on his back, saying nothing.
“Look, I can help you collect garbage. Then you can get your work done faster and then you can take me home.” Jackson reached out for the garbage bag.
The door opened.
chapter 24
In Which Jackson Is on His Own
Don’t need no help,” Stimple growled. And he turned and walked away.
“Stimple! Wait!” But Stimple had disappeared. Jackson looked down the hallway. Should he try following him? Should he try to find his own way out? Jackson looked through the doorway.
“Oh, great,” Jackson muttered. But he straightened himself up, put a cheery smile on his face, and walked through the red door.
chapter 25
In Which You Might Experience a Bit of Déjà Vu (Which Means You’ve Totally Been Here Before)
He was in a garden.
The garden.
Jackson swallowed nervously. But then straightened himself. He totally fit in. He looked perfect. Burt had to accept him now.
As a light breeze tickled his arms, he wandered down the path, peeking around a large crab-apple tree, and found the sitting area, complete with its black wrought iron table and chairs.
He tiptoed toward the white gazebo, looking around for any sign of Burt. What was he nervous for? His armpits began to sweat. But there was no one to be seen, anywhere. Jackson tiptoed toward the chairs. He should be allowed to sit there now—he looked just as perfect as the garden. He put a hand on a chair, checking his shirt and shorts once more just to be sure. Why was he still so nervous? He felt like throwing up.
He took a big breath and pulled the chair out from the table and …
chapter 26
Which, We Must Admit, Is Not Very Exciting at First
Nothing happened.
No alarms, no flashing lights, no net made out of industrial strength toilet paper dropping on top of him.
Jackson lowered himself into the chair, breathing a sigh of relief. He was accepted.
But as he breathed that sigh of relief he heard another sound. A deep rumbling—like thunder. It made the hairs on Jackson’s neck stand up. He stood up and turned around.
There, twenty feet away, half-hidden in the pink rose bushes, was Muffy.
The dog’s lips were pulled back into a snarl, showing off his white pointy teeth. A long string of drool swung in the breeze from his lower lip. His ears lay flat against his head. His neck fur was bristling like a thick mane of prickling quills. Muffy lunged.
chapter 27
In Which We Hope that Jackson Is a Good Runner
Jackson turned and ran down the path, banging his knee against the wrought iron table in the process. Muffy’s heavy treads followed close behind. Jackson ducked and dipped and dodged and hopped and leapt down the path, his heart pounding in his throat. He needed to hide!
And then, just ahead, Jackson saw it. A patch of sunflowers.
Jackson veered right, heading straight for them. He ran between the stalks for a ways, turned and ran l
eft, and dropped to the ground. He held his breath.
Muffy ran past.
chapter 28
Which Is Not Particularly Long
Jackson had been very, very, very lucky. Everyone knows you don’t run from dogs. Usually dogs are faster than you. Usually they will catch you. Jackson knew Muffy would be back, sniffing out his trail. He needed a plan. And not just any plan. A good one.
Jackson checked his pockets for something to throw at the dog. Raw meat, a bone, a motorcycle. Nope, nope, and nope. Nothing. He looked inside his satchel. A water bottle, a roll of toilet paper, and a flashlight. His fingers closed tightly on the flashlight. Would it be heavy enough? He could hear Muffy’s sniffling and snuffling as he circled back, searching for Jackson. Jackson stepped deeper into the field of sunflowers, squeezing himself through the thick stalks. The sunflowers pressed together tightly but Jackson shoved through, finding himself in a tiny clearing.
And there was a toilet.
chapter 29
In Which We Learn a Lesson about Unpredictability
Jackson almost laughed out loud. He covered his mouth just in time and let out a teeny, tiny snort instead.
The toilet was gold. The seat was gold, the base was gold, the lid was gold, and the tank was gold. The flush lever was a gold tassel swinging in the breeze. Jackson could hardly believe it. A gold toilet in the middle of a sunflower patch? Yes. That’s just the way gold toilets are — unpredictable at best.
Jackson reached out to touch it, just to see if it was real.
There was a deep growl behind him.
Jackson Jones, Book 2 Page 3
