“You two,” Miz Lady bellowed from her chair by the TV. “I don’t hear homework being done. You drawing that Nemo character?”
“No, we’re not drawing Captain Nemo,” said Reuben. “We’re planning our garden.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Miz Lady hollered.
“And we’re doing some math,” I shouted back.
“Even better. Now, don’t bother me. This lady on the TV is about to win a refrigerator and some Stove Top stuffing.”
I figured I’d never understand Miz Lady. Drawing Captain Nemo was a waste of time, but drawing a garden was nice.
“Be sure and plant some roses,” yelled Miz Lady over the TV’s hollering. “I do love a beautiful rose.”
Reuben and I high-fived.
I told Mama about the garden plan. But I left out the part where Reuben and I would charge five dollars a rose. Somehow, I don’t think in the country she harvested her flowers for cash.
Mama smiled. “Jackson, this is wonderful. I had a hard time deciding whether to give you a basketball or a garden. I wish I had enough money to give you both. But I thought you’d get so much more enjoyment out of a garden.”
Yeah, right.
“You do like the garden, don’t you?” Mama asked.
Mama is always anxious about raising me right. See, my father ran off when I was a baby and she worries about me having no male role model. (She got that from TV.) I tell her I have Mailbags Mosely to role-model me. And she tells me not to bother him ’cause he’s-work-ing-full-time-and-going-to-college-and-don’t-have-time-to-hardly-breathe-poor-man. I just shrug when she says that.
Mama has a little frown line between her eyes from worrying about giving me a good childhood in the city. (Her words.) And she reads books like How to Talk to Your Child. I read a little of that one, so I could learn how to talk back. The whole book was like this:
Child: “Give me that radio.”
Parent: “You are behaving inappropriately.”
Child (screaming): “I want that radio.”
Parent: “You are behaving inappropriately.”
Boring. Also stupid. I couldn’t talk that mean to my mama. She’d probably start crying. And Miz Lady would clobber me.
So when she looked at me with that little worry frown, I said, “Mama, the garden was a good present.”
The worry frown disappeared. She smiled. “I can hardly wait to see the first seedlings. Why, the flowers should be blooming by June.”
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 Jua
na halted.
“Oh, Joooonesy,” the voice continued. “I’m calling youuuu.”
I hated that voice.
That 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 boyfriend!” 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?”
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.
Reuben 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.
Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns Page 2
