Jackson Jones

by Jenn Kelly

  That is absolutely nothing like the cafeteria that Jackson and Meeka walked into.

  “Wow, this is absolutely nothing like any cafeteria I’ve ever walked into!” Jackson exclaimed in wonder. “Granted, I’ve never been in a cafeteria in my great-aunt’s hair either.”

  The walls were painted a warm, inviting yellow. The same color as the melted butter you pour over your hot popcorn before you sit down to watch a good movie.

  Instead of broken benches, there were small circular tables with bright red-checkered tablecloths. Black wrought-iron chairs circled them. Each red-checkered table was set for two, with tall, extravagant menus standing up at each place setting. Meeka led Jackson over to a table and they sat down. Jackson picked up a tall, extravagant menu and opened it.

  The glossy black pages were blank save for a few words written in gold script:

  “Whatever I want?” asked Jackson.

  “Whatever you want,” repeated Meeka.

  “Meeka, who is this author? Is it Tolkien?”

  “Um…” and she was interrupted.

  A waiter materialized at their table. (He didn’t actually materialize. He actually came out from the swinging door behind the counter, but they hadn’t seen him.)

  The waiter’s head resembled a large potato and had thinning black hair slicked against his pink scalp. His black caterpillar eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead, forming a straight line over his cauliflower nose. He had thick lips and a teeny-tiny black moustache. His tuxedo was very black and very tight. The buttons strained dangerously. His thick sausage fingers held a shiny silver tray.

  “An what weel you be ’aving today, sir?” the waiter boomed with a heavy French accent.

  “What do you have?” asked Jackson.

  “We ’ave whatehvair you want,” the waiter sniffed imperiously.

  “Whatever I want?”

  “Zat ees what I say. Whatehvair you want.”

  “But I don’t know what I want.”

  “Zen I cannot get you ennyseeng, can I?”

  “Can I think about it for a moment?”

  “Oui.” The French waiter yanked a chair from an adjacent table and sat down right next to Jackson. His chair creaked as he leaned back, folding his hands across his vast stomach. His black shiny buttons strained against his vest. A big sausage finger scratched his puny little moustache and began to pick his nose.

  Jackson looked at Meeka nervously. “What are you going to eat?”

  Meeka shrugged. “I’ve already tried everything, so I’ll just have what you’re having.”

  “What do people usually order?” Jackson asked the rotund waiter.

  The waiter’s beady black eyes looked at him steadily. “Zey ordair what zey need to eat.”

  “What they need to eat? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  The waiter huffed. “Pouf! Zat ees a reedeekulous seeng to say. Of course eet make sense.”

  “Well, can you explain it to me?” asked Jackson.

  The waiter’s shiny black buttons strained.

  “Please?”

  The waiter blinked slowly and toyed with his moustache.

  “All right” he said graciously (see how important it is to mind your manners?). “You ordair what you need. Zome peepel, zay need lots of courage, so zay ordair prime rib weeth thick sausage gravy and garleek mashed potatoes.”

  “Of course,” murmured Jackson. “But I don’t eat meat, you see.”

  The waiter’s chest puffed a little bigger. His French face turned pink. “Bah, qu’est-ce que vous me dites? From whair else do you get your courage?”

  Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know. What else do people order?”

  The waiter sulked. “Zome peepel ’oo need lots of energie, zay ordair wheat pasta weeth sausage and sliced zucchini and parmesan.”

  “What if someone wanted to do well on a test?” Jackson quizzed.

  “Feesh, of course! C’est bon, le poisson! Greelled salmon weeth steamed green beans een thyme-butter!” the waiter sniffed.

  “And what if someone wants to make friends?”

  “Nahsing weeth garleek, of course.”

  Jackson thought for a moment. “And what if one were to embark on an adventure?”

  The waiter slicked back his thinning hair, his pinky ring twinkling.

  “Zen I recommens a greelled shrimp angel hair pasta weeth asparagus and mushrooms in a light garleek cream sauce weeth a few chilies. So,” he sniffed, lifting his bulk out of his chair, “you weel be requiring zee meal of adventure?”

  Jackson shrugged. “It’s just a tour. Maybe I don’t need it at all.”

  “Quoi?!” A shiny black button exploded off the waiter’s chest and dented the wall. “Zen you weel stop wasting my time and ’ave zee buffet,” he growled, whipping the menus from their hands with his big sausage fingers. He stomped away, smashed the menus on the bar counter, and disappeared behind the swinging door.

  Jackson just sat there, a bit confused and a little dumbfounded. That didn’t mean that Jackson was dumb or he was becoming dumber. He just didn’t know what to say or think in that particular situation. So he said nothing.

  Meeka stood up, pulling Jackson’s hand eagerly. “Come on, I love the buffet.”

  Jackson followed Meeka to the other side of the cafeteria to a long table of assorted foods. Meeka grabbed a black-and-white-checkered tray and shoved it into Jackson’s hands.

  Oh…

  …my

  …goodness.

  Chapter 19

  In Which There Is a Lot of Meat

  I want you to take a moment and imagine the longest table you’ve ever seen. Imagine this superlong table is filled, I mean, fiiiillllllllleddddddd with food. Every kind of food you can imagine. How on earth are you possibly going to decide?

  “How on earth am I possibly going to decide?” said Jackson half to himself, half to Meeka.

  Meeka shrugged. With skill born of practice she sauntered down the buffet, selected a few things, placed them on her tray and returned to their table.

  Jackson approached the buffet table cautiously.

  There was meat.

  A lot of meat.

  You can’t begin to understand how much meat there was.

  There was grilled steak, broiled beef brisket, barbequed sirloin, rare tenderloin, chuck roast, mushroom hamburgers, fried pork chops, apricot pork tenderloin, grilled pork, stewed pig’s feet (eww!), boiled pig snout in apple-brandy sauce (double ewww!), barbecued ribs in thick fig-garlic sauce, lamb curry, broiled rack of lamb, lamb stew, goat stew (you really should try it sometime), deer meat, bear meat, foie gras, pâté, fried duck feet (I think I’m going to be sick), chicken breast, chicken legs, chicken thighs, whole

  roasted chicken, twice-fried chicken wings, campfire pheasant, barbecued teriyaki kangaroo…you name it. If it was meat, it was there.

  Jackson hovered for a moment. Then in a frenzied fit, he grabbed a piece of everything.

  I mean

  E-

  VER-

  Y-

  THING.

  His tray was very heavy when he finished.

  Jackson shuffled over to the table and dumped his tray onto the table, startling Meeka in the process. She looked up at him with buttery carrot mash on the side of her face.

  “Jackson, that’s a lot of meat,” she said with her mouth full.

  Actually it sounded like, “Muphmun! Muph a muph mutt!” but I’ve translated for you. I’m sure you don’t have Thompson’s Full-Mouth Translation Book.

  Jackson sat down. “I know, but I never eat this stuff at home, Meeka. I’m not allowed to eat meat or junk food.”

  Meeka swallowed. “What’s junk food?”

  “Um, well, it’s food that…well, I guess it’s not really good for you.”

  “Why would you want to eat junk?”

  Jackson ignored her question and picked up a large knife. He cut into the steak. The blade slid through the meat and oozed a pool of juiciness onto h
is plate. He dabbed the steak into the garlic-shrimp sauce and took a bite.

  That…was…so…GOOD!

  Jackson ate another piece.

  And another.

  He felt the blood pump in his veins.

  Jackson cut a piece of double-fried chicken. The greasy meat slipped on the plate, making it difficult to stab with his fork, so he picked it up with his fingers and popped it into his mouth.

  Oh, that was so good.

  He felt the chewy batter melt on his tongue. He swallowed.

  He felt funny.

  Maybe he was just very hungry.

  Jackson devoured a piece of deep-fried shrimp. He didn’t eat shrimp at home. He didn’t eat anything that ate off the bottom of the ocean or anything that carried its house on its back either.

  He cut into a piece of greasy bacon. Delicious!

  Jackson cleaned his plate. He ate E-V-E-R-Y single piece of meat. He would have licked his plate, but that’s just bad manners. His belly poked out under his pajamas. He felt a little full. But there was so much more to try!

  Delicious!

  Jackson lurched his way to the dessert table, pausing to glance at the salad section. Why bother? He ate salad all the time. It was time to live a little and try new things! He loaded up his tray with sweets, candy, chips, and sour gummies. He sat back down at the table and threw the candy into his mouth.

  Meeka stopped eating and stared at Jackson. He was chewing so fast his jar was a blur.

  “Um, Jackson?” she said hesitantly.

  Jackson’s hands and mouth moved with blinding speed. “Muh?”

  “Your face is sweating. And you’re turning red.”

  Jackson wiped his face with a cloth napkin. He kept eating.

  And then something strange happened.

  Chapter 20

  WARNING: There Is Throw Up in This Chapter!

  Jackson opened his mouth wide and…

  Meeka’s eyes popped open and her jaw dropped. She had spinach stuck in her bottom teeth.

  “Ah, uh…excuse me,” Jackson muttered, very embarrassed.

  Usually a good burp makes you feel better. You know when you feel the pressure in your belly and then you burp, and all the smelly air comes out and your stomach deflates? Those are the best kind of burps. They’re right up there with the loud ones and the ones you use to recite the alphabet.

  But this burp didn’t relieve the pain. In fact, Jackson felt very sick. His stomach protruded so much he felt like he was going to throw up…or maybe explode. Or maybe do both. He rubbed his belly. His face was sweating. His stomach churned and jiggled with nausea, just like when a pop quiz was coming up.

  “Ooohhhh, Meeka! I feel so sick!” Jackson groaned.

  “Well, I’m not surprised! You didn’t eat any salad or greens or fruit at all!” she scolded.

  Jackson rubbed his belly faster. His heart pounded in his chest and he felt afraid. He was sick indeed. He had eaten too much, and he had eaten too many of the wrong things. He looked around desperately and spotted a bathroom. He ran to the door and went inside.

  I’m not going to tell you what happened in there. It’s too awful. If you’ve ever been sick before, you know exactly what happened in there.

  Some time passed. Jackson slowly opened the door and staggered over to Meeka. She clandestinely shoved the plain, brown book back into her tour-guide bag. (Clandestinely is like when you try to sneak cookies from the cookie jar without getting caught. I do not approve of such tactics. If you want a cookie, you should ask. If you are told no, I’m sure there are some good reasons, even if you don’t like them.) Jackson slumped into his chair. His pajamas were wet and his face sickly and pale. He glanced over at the buffet table and felt his stomach churn. Then he noticed a sign on the table.

  Why, oh WHY, hadn’t he noticed that before? Jackson sighed.

  Meeka stood up and patted his head like a dog. “I’ll help you feel better, Jackson. Wait here.” She left the table for a few moments and then came back with a tray full of food.

  Jackson groaned weakly. “Oh, Meeka, I can’t eat anything! I’m sick! I’m shaking! My stomach is still churning. I feel like there’s a kangaroo jumping in my belly!”

  Meeka pushed the tray in front of Jackson. The smell of the food made him nauseous.

  “Eat,” she said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Eat!”

  “I can’t!”

  Meeka speared a baby tomato and tried to shove it into his mouth.

  Jackson jerked his head away. “Stop! STOP! I’LL THROW UP ON YOU!”

  “Would you please trust me? I am the tour guide, you know.” She shoved the tomato into his mouth.

  Jackson barely held back the nausea. He felt the bile moving up the back of his throat.

  But he chewed.

  The sweet tomatoey taste exploded in his mouth. It was so…good. Jackson felt the nausea subsiding. He took a bite of the lettuce and felt his belly calming down. Fresh strawberries, blueberries, cooked carrots in tarragon butter, wilted spinach and mushrooms…it was amazing. Jackson stopped sweating and the cramps ceased.

  “I don’t understand. Why do I feel better now?” Meeka smiled, tucking some hair behind her elf ears. “Jackson, I know I’m still young, and I’ll probably just be a tour guide for my entire life. But what I do know is that if you don’t take care of your body, it won’t take care of you.”

  Jackson jumped up from the table. He felt fantastic! He felt like he could take on the world!

  Or at least a tour in Great-Aunt Harriett’s hair.

  “Take me to the next room, Meeka!” Jackson cried. Meeka squeaked with laughter, and off they went.

  Chapter 21

  In Which There Is an Important Conversation

  So, Meeka, how long have you been a tour guide?” Jackson asked as they meandered down the hall.

  “Um, longer than I should.” Meeka began digging in her bag.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, someone in my position would normally have been promoted a long time ago.” Meeka shook her head and her long hair fell, covering her face.

  Jackson stopped walking to look at her. “Can’t you complain?”

  “Why should I? I’m the one who keeps messing up,” she said, looking earnestly at him. She pulled out a broken pen, studied it for a moment, and then shoved it in her pocket.

  “Could you change jobs?”

  Meeka began walking again. “Oh no! I’d never ask to move. He has great confidence in placing me right where I am.” She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

  “Who?”

  “The Author.”

  “What Author? Lemony Snickett? Is he your boss?”

  “Oh yes, but He’s so much more than that. He’s also my best friend.” Meeka pulled out a twisted barrette from her bag. She shoved it back in.

  “Lemony Snickett is your best friend?”

  Meeka stared at Jackson. “What? No! Who’s Lemony Snickett?”

  Jackson shook his head, confused. “OK, wait a minute. How could your best friend put you in a job you don’t like?”

  “We-ell. It’s complicated. But not. It’s definitely a long story,” said Meeka. And she stopped walking because they had arrived at something very unexpected.

  You’d think at this point Jackson would stop expecting anything, because so many unexpected things had already happened, and he should have expected the unexpected. But sometimes people don’t like unexpected things, and I’m sorry to say, despite Jackson’s young age, he had given up expecting the unexpected and preferred to expect the expected. So this was definitely unexpected.

  “This is definitely unexpected, Meeka,” Jackson said, rather predictably.

  It was a door. The door was lovely, but rather out of place. It definitely wasn’t the kind of door you’d expect to find in a hallway. (But then, none of the doors were expected.)

  It was painted a vivacious red. Hanging on the vivaciously red-painted door was a lar
ge, black dragonfly-shaped door knocker.

  Meeka smiled mysteriously, her tiny little hand lifting the door knocker and…

  The vivacious red door swung open.

  Chapter 22

  ANOTHER WARNING: This Chapter Has Gargantuan, Hairy-Backed Spiders in It!

  Jackson and Meeka stepped onto a patch of squishy grass. They were outside. At least, it seemed as though they were outside. The sky was bright blue, birds sang in the distance, and the grass was a lush green. In front of them was a path that led to…

  “What on earth is a whole house doing in here?” Jackson asked, bewildered.

  Meeka smiled a little smile. “This house has always been in here.”

  I’m sure you’re wondering if this is for real. I mean, how many rooms or hallways or houses could actually fit into someone’s hair? Even someone with very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, big hair?

  I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps Jackson shrank when he went into her hair. Perhaps he passed through a portal to another world. I wasn’t given that information, and I was so enthralled with the story when it was told to me, I forgot to ask. Sometimes you get so caught up in something that you forget to ask the right questions. Like when someone has a baby, you are just so excited for them you forget to ask what it is. A boy? A girl? A goldfish? So you’ll just have to accept that this is not my story, I can’t answer all the questions, and we’ll move on.

  Jackson stared at the path.

  Well, it was kind of a path. You couldn’t really see it for all the weeds.

  Yes, weeds. And not the nice kind. These were bad, ugly, dangerous weeds. There were the kind of weeds with sharp thorns. And there were the creep-along-the-ground kind waiting to snatch your ankles. And there were the little, innocent, daisy-like weeds that looked oh-so-cute, but once you were close they reeked of fishy dog breath.