Jackson Jones

by Jenn Kelly

  Jackson tried arguing, diplomatically of course, about Great-Aunt Harriett staying in his room. Diplomatic is like when you tell your big sister to stay out of your room or you’ll tell mom what she wrote in her diary. (Not that I condone diary reading. That’s an invasion of privacy.)

  Jackson’s mom pulled him into her studio and sat him down. She diplomatically told him that Great-Aunt Harriett had had a very hard life, that she was very old, and could they cut her some slack? Diplomatically

  means, “Chill out little guy. I love you, but I’m the boss, and you will be gracious about sharing your room.”

  It was a good thing that Jackson had an awesome bunk bed. He loved his bunk bed. He had a fort made out of old green sheets on the top bunk. He kept a flashlight up there and, underneath his signed picture of Reggie Jackson, a pen and a notebook.

  Jackson would sleep on the top and Great-Aunt Harriett would be on the bottom bunk.

  Chapter 7

  In Which This Book Begins

  And now the adventure begins.

  Chapter 8

  In Which This Book Really Begins

  It had been a perfect family reunion day. A day full of tofu dogs and bean burgers, baked potato chips, hiding the beet risotto in a bun (because the dog sure wouldn’t eat it), hide-and-seek, capture the flag, firefly goop, and swimming in the creek. Jackson’s dad even caught a horsefly with his bare hands (his bare hands!) and tied a piece of long hair around the horsefly’s belly so that when it tried to fly away, he could yank it back. Jackson beamed with pride. His dad was so cool.

  Jackson had a perfect day, but he was looking forward to bed. He could use some downtime.

  He meticulously brushed and flossed his teeth, then practiced his friendly smile in the mirror.

  “Hi, I’m Jackson,” he smiled into the mirror. Jackson frowned and tried again.

  “Do you want to play with me today?”

  He wet his hair and brushed it up into a Mohawk. Not bad.

  “Dude, did you, like see the game, like, last night?” The mirror didn’t reply.

  “Hey, have you ever read…”

  But cool guys don’t read books. Jackson sighed. Why couldn’t there be just one other dork at school? Why couldn’t there be just one person who didn’t have a friend yet?

  But Jackson knew. He knew how it was to be the new kid in school. He knew it would take a while for everyone to like him. And then they would really like him. Jackson quickly blinked back hot tears. They would see that he was a cool guy too. But no crying. Not tonight. He frowned and patted the tips of his Mohawk. No more reading at school. I’ll be the cool guy everyone wants to hang out with.

  Jackson climbed into his favorite red pajamas and stretched out on the top bunk. He snuggled down into his cozy sheets. He paused in reaching for his book.

  But I can read at home, he reminded himself.

  A huffing and a puffing made Jackson look up from his book. Great-Aunt Harriett trundled in, dragging herself over to the bottom bunk. She plunked herself down heavily, shaking the whole bunk bed. She let out a big sigh and smacked her toothless gums. Jackson slid further under his blankets and turned the page very quietly.

  Oh dear, she’s started to talk.

  “Jackson dear, have I ever told you about the house I grew up in?”

  “Yes, Great-Aunt Harriett. Many times.” (page turn)

  “Well, let me tell you about my house. It was a beautiful house, dear.” (She obviously hadn’t heard him.)

  “It had a big front porch…”

  “It had a big front porch that my daddy built way back when I was just a little girl. And if you followed that porch all the way around to the back of the house, there were steps that led into…”

  “…the garden that you played in.” (page turn)

  “…the garden that I played in. It was a lovely garden. And behind the garden was a little shed that my daddy built for the gardener to keep his tools in. Oh, what was his name?”

  “Mr. Shaw.” Jackson sighed quietly.

  “Mr. Shaw. Oh my, he was a nice man. He taught me all kinds of things about flowers and birds. He even let me have a key to the shed so I could hide in it and pretend it was my own little house. He knew so much about birds. He knew so much about…”

  Great-Aunt Harriett’s eyes shut. The little wrinkles were less pronounced as her eyes closed. Jackson held his breath, waiting.

  “Birds…houses…gold key,” she murmured. All was quiet. Jackson let his breath out.

  “Find your story!” she sighed. And then she began to snore.

  Jackson had wondered earlier if maybe Great-Aunt Harriett would die in his bottom bunk bed, which was a reasonable thought because she was Oh-So-Very Old. But Dad said that as long as she was snoring, she was fine.

  Jackson could NOT fall asleep.

  At all.

  He tossed one way, his legs tangling in the dark blue sheets.

  He tossed the other, his legs tangling again.

  He even learned how to toss a new way, which I can’t reveal to you because it’s something you will have to figure out for yourself some night when you can’t sleep.

  Jackson sighed, staring at the ceiling. He sighed again, staring at the inside of his eyelids. Would the flashlight wake her up? Jackson turned over quietly and poked his head over the edge to look at Great-Aunt Harriett below.

  Her body twitched as she snored. That was a good sign. Her creepy toothless mouth opened and closed with each rasp. She hacked and coughed violently and then resumed snoring.

  Jackson could not take his eyes away. It was so gross, and yet so fascinating. Her little eyelids were covered in deep wrinkles. Her dried-out apple cheeks puffed up and sank with each breath. Jackson looked at her hair.

  The moonlight that snuck in the window made her hair glow. Jackson was mesmerized by it. He became sleepy as he stared at it. The shimmering glow, so hypnotic, so sleepy…Jackson’s eyes had almost shut.

  Her hair twitched.

  Chapter 9

  In Which There Will Be Absolutely No Crying

  Oh, for CRYING OUT LOUD!” A large, juicy fish hit the floor. A pike, in fact.

  The little creature sat on one of the ladder’s rungs and sighed, pushing her long, wispy brown hair out of her face. She hadn’t even noticed the bits of stinky fish gunk in her hair.

  Of course a fish wouldn’t open a locked door. Why would she even think that? And what was she going to do?

  The fish idea had been hers, of course. When she arrived at the locked trapdoor late and without the key, she had been so surprised, so embarrassed, so mortified that she was desperate for ideas. She had dug through her workbag, searching for anything that would help. The barrette hadn’t worked. It was as useless at picking a lock as it was at keeping her crazy hair out of her face. The key she had origami-ed out of paper kept bending and then finally tore. Her pen nib had broken, staining her right hand and most of her work shirt a fabulous pink. The fish had been her last choice. She pried open his dead mouth, trying to use his teeth, but as we all know, fish are rather slippery and uncooperative, especially when they are dead. So now it lay at the bottom of the ladder.

  Meeka’s fist smacked the door. Tiny, frustrated tears threatened to fall. She would not cry. She would not cry. She would not cry! How on earth could she be taken seriously if she cried every time she messed up? Meeka sighed and climbed back down the ladder. Time to face the inevitable.

  Chapter 10

  In Which Nothing Makes Sense

  If your parents made you put down this book after the last chapter, I’m very sorry. Some parents have rules like that, only letting their children read a few chapters before bedtime. However, to console you, when you are an adult you can stay up as late as you want and read as much as you want. Wait, what?

  Jackson pinched himself. Her hair twitched again. Jackson was…well, you tell me. I mean, how would you feel if you saw her hair twitch?

  Jackson slowly leaned over the edge.
What if I touch it? What if something comes out?

  Jackson leaned just a little bit farther over the edge. His toes dug into the crack between his mattress and the wall. Was it his imagination or did he smell roast beef? And leather? And…what was that? Dead fish? And…

  …he fell.

  Jackson couldn’t breathe.

  “Oh n…!”

  That was all that came out of Jackson’s mouth before he ate a mouthful of hair. He coughed and grabbed as his hands dug frantically at the hair in his mouth. His left hand grasped the air and touched something solid. He stepped close to the wall, pushing the hair out of his face with his arms. A sign hung on the wall of hair.

  Jackson frowned. It’s definitely past five o’clock. Underneath was the fine print.

  Jackson stepped closer, pushing the hair out of his eyes and squinted.

  “If you need assistance, please ring the bell. for your own safety, please wear the protective glasses. We are not liable for hair getting into eyes, bad hair days, or hair strangling. Have a nice day.”

  Jackson searched the walls blindly and found a pair of goggles hanging on a hook. He put them on. He could see! All the tendrils of hair turned into tunnels and hallways, like a maze. He was looking around for a bell when a sweet voice chirped beside him.

  Chapter 11

  In Which We Meet Meeka and Her Dead, Smelly Fish

  If you’re taking turns reading with your mom, dad, or teacher, at least you got to read a small chapter so it wasn’t too hard. If your mom, dad, or teacher read the last chapter, then I apologize in advance, as this chapter might be long. So take a sip of water and read on.

  “May I help you, sir?” squeaked the little…thing. What was it? An elf? And why was she holding a dead, smelly fish?

  “Um, well, uh, I’m…uh…I’m Jackson.”

  The creature in front of him was different-looking, no doubt about it. She was tiny, only coming up to his shoulder. Her long brown hair was tied back, but she had stray pieces everywhere, even in her mouth. She wore a brown uniform of some sort, with a fabulous pink splotch on the front of it. But it wasn’t buttoned properly, and the hem of her skirt hung slightly askew. Her red neckerchief was a messy bow, and the worn leather pouch around her waist bulged with indistinguishable items. (Indistinguishable is like when you sneak under the Christmas tree and for the life of you can’t figure out what’s inside those wrapped presents.) Her big, long-lashed brown eyes fixed on Jackson as she smiled a big smile at him.

  “Are you here for the Author’s Tours, sir? We are closed you know, the hours of operation being eight a.m. to five p.m., and we are closed every seventh and eighteeth day for reconstruction and clean up. And a tour guide is required you see,” she chirped.

  “I didn’t even know there was a tour,” said Jackson. “I mean, I just fell into Great-Aunt Harriett’s hair and I ended up here. Which authors do you mean? Is Jules Verne in here? Where is ‘here,’ anyway?” He craned his neck to look down the hallways, which of course is a very ineffective way to look down hallways.

  “Why, you’re in Great-Aunt Harriett’s hair!” The elf gestured grandly down the hallway.

  Jackson looked at her, noticing her name tag. “Your name is Meeka?”

  Her jaw dropped open in bewilderment. Bewilderment is like when you look outside and it’s snowing. And it’s July.

  “How do you know my name? Are you an elf?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you work here?” She quickly hid the dead fish behind her back.

  “What? No! I’m not an elf! I’m a boy! And I can read, you know.”

  “I see! Well, in that case, I am an elf. Well, not yet. You can’t become a full-fledged elf until you get out of touring, but we won’t get into that right now.”

  “So, wanna go on a tour? We don’t normally do tours after five o’clock, but seeing as how I’m up and about anyway…” Her voice trailed off as she looked down at the fish in her hands. Her face turned bright strawberry red and she jammed the smelly, dead fish into her workbag. She cleared her throat.

  “There are many rooms to visit. Is there a specific room you would like to see first?” Meeka asked, wiping her hands on her skirt.

  “How many rooms are in here, exactly?”

  Meeka’s big brown eyes looked up at the ceiling as she ticked off her fingers, counting quietly. “Um, eleven-twenty.”

  “Eleven-twenty isn’t a number.”

  Meeka turned her eyes on Jackson. “Eleven-twenty is too a number. It comes before the twelve-somethings,” she argued.

  Jackson back-pedaled. “My mistake.”

  “Quite all right!” Meeka laughed. “This is a very big place.”

  Jackson thought about the size of Great-Aunt Harriett’s hair and agreed. It was a lot of hair. I mean, a lot of hair.

  “Why don’t you just take me wherever you want?” Jackson said.

  Meeka’s eyes grew even bigger. “Are you sure?”

  Jackson shrugged his shoulders, “Why not?”

  Meeka’s smile disappeared as she became very serious. She straightened the hem of her skirt and flattened her stray hairs. She sniffed importantly and marched to one of the cabinets hanging on the wall.

  “You’ll need this,” she announced. She handed him a beautiful leather satchel. It had a thick leather strap with engravings of winding vines. The bag itself smelled of warm leather and was soft to the touch. Jackson slung it over his head and shoulder. It sat perfectly in the crook of his neck. His fingers found the heavy brass clasp, and he opened it. Inside was a pen, a flashlight, and running shoes.

  Jackson’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re giving me this?”

  Meeka nodded sagely. (Sagely means you are trying your hardest to look smart without laughing. This is not an easy task.) “We like everyone to be prepared.”

  Jackson pulled the shoes out and slipped them on. They fit him perfectly.

  “How did you know my size?” he asked.

  Meeka shrugged. “I wouldn’t be a very good tour guide if I wasn’t prepared.” She turned.

  “We go this way.”

  Chapter 12

  In Which the Tour Begins

  Jackson looked around him as he followed Meeka down the hall. The grayish-red walls curved up into an arched ceiling overhead. They didn’t look like they were made of hair, but as you stepped closer you could see all of the hairs intertwined into an elaborate braid.

  “Why is it called the Author’s tour? Are we going to meet any authors?” Jackson asked excitedly. He hoped so. He loved meeting authors.

  Meeka shuffled her shoulders. “Um…that’s not quite what it means.”

  “Oh, you mean there’s a Shakespeare wing or a Lewis Carroll tearoom. That kind of thing?”

  “Not exactly.” Meeka began to walk faster.

  “Well what kind of thing is it?”

  “Um, it’s kind of hard to explain…” She trailed off. “Well, the first room we’re going to see is fantastic! It’s the room that I think everyone should visit first. The Book Room.”

  “I already have a lot of books you know. I have Jaws and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and my mom reads me Alice in Wonderland at bedtime…” Jackson stopped, embarrassed. He loved to snuggle in with his mom and a hot chocolate, listening to her voice rise and fall as she read his favorite books. But no one needed to know that, especially a little elf he barely knew.

  “But I bet you’ve never seen the books inside Great-Aunt Harriett’s hair!” Meeka argued.

  Jackson had to nod his head in agreement. That was true.

  “Here we are!” she announced. And there they were indeed. A big, brown door was nestled into the wall with a big black sign on it.

  “Stand back please, sir,” said Meeka, and she knocked. The big, brown door swung heavily into the room, and faint smells of wood polish tickled Jackson’s nose.

  “Our first room,” Meeka declared.

  They walked in.

  Chapter 13

  In Which We Ente
r the Book Room

  You have probably been inside a bookstore before. You might have even been inside an old bookstore, or at least been dragged into one. But have you ever been in an old, well-kept bookstore? You know, the kind with wood floors that are so lustrous you can see your reflection in them? Off to the side is a wrought-iron staircase that spirals up to the second floor, where more books are waiting for you to investigate. Tall bookshelves that go from floor to ceiling are crammed with old books written by many, many authors. The books are in excellent condition of course, and they are all hardcover, some even with hand-painted drawings. A tall, wooden ladder slides along these bookshelves so your fingers can trail the spines as you look for that special book. At the far end is a wall made up of stained-glass windows that cast shifting colors onto the polished floor. The stone fireplace in the corner is lit with a cheery blaze to keep you company as you sit reading in the big, green, overstuffed chair. You drink hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles that you are careful not to spill because you wouldn’t dare spill anything in a place like this. And as you sip and read, you hear lovely classical music that even you, a classical-music hater, enjoy.

  The Book Room was exactly such a room.

  Jackson felt the serenity within the room. (Serenity is like when it’s 7:00 on a Saturday morning and the house is quiet and you’re watching cartoons while eating two full bowls of sugar flakes.) He walked slowly around, admiring the books, the bookshelves, and the tall, wooden ladder. He smiled at the wrought-iron staircase that spiraled up to the second floor. Meeka threw her tour guide’s pouch onto the big, green, overstuffed chair and then lay down on the floor. She stuck her tongue out, making faces at her reflection in the shiny wood.