“Probably a lot of worms by those roses,” I went on. “You know, making that rich worm-poop dirt.” The heat shimmered around the yellow flowers. “Anyway, roses like sun. They can't grow in shade.”
I scratched at my sweat-soaked T-shirt. “Mr. K. said those old-time roses were tough,” I continued. “Remember how his grandma stuck a cutting in a potato?”
“Jackson.” Reuben took a deep breath. “I got an idea for a new Nemo villain.”
“Go on.” I was surprised. I was the idea man on our Nemo team. I wrote; Reuben drew. That's how we had worked for years.
Reuben scuffed at the sidewalk. “This bad guy is … invisible.”
“Invisible?”
Reuben crossed his arms. “A ghost.”
I stared at him. “What gave you that idea?”
Reuben gazed out at the yellow roses.
“So you're saying Rooter's is haunted?”
Reuben was silent.
“And a ghost is tending those flowers?”
“They're blooming, aren't they? And everything else is dying.”
“But we've never seen—”
“What you expecting, Jackson?” Reuben snorted. “A floating sheet?”
CHAPTER NINE
Well, I don't have much experience with ghosts and restless spirits. They belong in dark mansions and crumbly castles. Not in a city garden. Halloween is ghost time. The other 364 days of the year, they should stay put.
Reuben and I checked out the Internet. We visited the library. We found lots of stories about ghosts. Mean ghosts and kind ghosts. Foggy ghosts you could see and chill-breeze ghosts that you couldn't. Some broke vases and pushed people. Some drifted up and down stairs. One smelled like lavender, another like paint.
There was nothing about haunted plants. Or ghosts that liked to tend roses.
But one Friday after school we found a battered book with a brown cover at the library.
“It must be a hundred years old,” said Reuben, gently turning the brittle pages.
“Phew!” I held my nose. “Talk about musty.”
The book was full of the usual ghost stuff: ghost ships, ghost pirates, ghost ladies who wept. But it did have one important chapter: “How to Banish Ghosts.”
Reuben and I read that chapter twice. Then we sat silent, thinking.
Finally my man cleared his throat. “You gotta communicate with it, Jackson. Find out what it wants.”
“Me?”
“You're the one who took the cutting.” Reuben pointed to a sentence in the book. “You 'interfered with its natural sphere.'”
“But listen to this.” I read another sentence aloud. “ 'Be prepared. Contact may infuriate the ghost.'” I drew out the word: “In-fur-i-ate. What if it destroys the garden?”
Reuben shook his head. “I don't think this ghost is mean. It's just—well, something's not right. That's why you've got to communicate.”
Communicate. I got a sudden mind picture of me talking to empty air. “All right,” I grumbled. “But don't tell Juana and the kids what we're doing. Don't tell anybody.”
“Yeah,” said Reuben. “We don't want to scare them. And if something goes wrong … Well, we don't want the ghost to transfer its energy, like the book says. To start haunting someone else.”
Reuben replaced the ghost book on the shelf. “Let's go.”
“Now?”
My man squared his shoulders. He looked like Captain Nemo on a mission.
Mission: outlaw rose.
We marched out of the library, up the street to Evert, past the empty b-ball blacktop.
A ghost. I was about to talk to a ghost. My hands were sweaty—and not just from the heat.
What if the ghost got mad? Started throwing things? Followed us home?
I shivered.
We marched right to Rooter's gate, then stopped. Reuben glanced at me. I wiped my palms on my shirt. Lifted the latch.
Stepped inside.
In its place by the fence, close to Mr. K.'s roses—the garden's only flowers—sat the transplanted twig.
Someone knelt beside it. I saw a mound of dirt. A flash of silver.
“Nooo,” I screamed, rushing forward.
CHAPTER TEN
I hurtled through plots. Stumbled over a shrub.
The figure whirled. I saw a face. Another flash of silver.
Ro dropped his spoon and burst into tears.
“What happened?” Juana and Gaby raced from the other side of the garden. Juana grabbed the little boy. “What's wrong, Ro? Who screamed?”
Sobbing, Ro pointed at me.
“I didn't scream,” I said, panting.
“You did! You did!” Gaby hopped about.
“Jackson scared me,” Ro howled.
“Shhh, it's okay.” Juana patted his back, frowned at me. “Why did you scream at Ro?”
“I yelled to make him stop digging.”
Gaby sniffed. “He can dig. It's a free country.”
“He can't dig there.”
Juana stiffened. “That's not your plot, Mr. Guard of the Garden. Ro's just looking for another worm. He'll put back the dirt.”
“My worm needs a friend,” Ro blubbered.
“Okay, Ro, okay.” I tried to soothe him. “I'll help you. Let's dig in Mailbags's plot.”
Gaby sniffed again. “There won't be any worms in that hard ground.” She swung her arm round the whole brown garden, then pointed at the yellow roses. “This is the only place where things are growing.”
“That's why—”
“Shhh,” warned Reuben.
“What?” asked Gaby, suddenly alert.
“Nothing,” said Reuben.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Tell me!” Gaby stomped on my toe.
“There's nothing to tell.”
Gaby shot me a sly look. She picked up the silver spoon. “Come on, Ro.”
She poked at the ground.
“Don't,” said Reuben sharply.
“Why not?” Gaby chopped away with the spoon.
That girl would infuriate the ghost for sure. What if it drifted up like fog? Started haunting her? It would serve Gaby right if she got poison ivy or a broken leg or a bee-stung puffed-up face.
“Dig, dig, dig,” Gaby sang. She chopped closer and closer to the transplanted twig.
“Stop!” I yelled, grabbing her hand. “You want to know? All right, listen.”
“Jackson, please.” Gaby dropped the spoon. “There's no need to scream.”
I rolled my eyes, then started in on the tale. Old book. Important chapter. Dead garden. Blooming roses. Communicate. Infuriate.
“Wait.” Juana held up her hand. “Why would a ghost want to haunt Rooter's?”
I squirmed. “Maybe I disturbed its natural sphere or something.”
“And digging around, Ro could have disturbed it worse,” said Reuben. “The ghost might have started haunting him. That's why Jackson, um, yelled.”
“Wow.” Gaby's eyes were very bright. “You're going to talk to a ghost.”
I shot Juana a glance. “Maybe you should take the kids home.”
“No way.” Gaby plopped down like a won't-be-budged boulder. “I'm gonna watch.”
Reuben shrugged. “The book did say that ghosts sometimes respond to a circle of kindness.”
“That's right, a circle of kindness.” Gaby crossed her arms.
“I want to be a circle, too,” howled Ro.
“Well, come on, then, and quit crying,” I said, exasperated. “Hold my—wait! Wipe the worm slime off first.”
Ro ran a grubby palm down the front of his T-shirt and grabbed my hand.
“Okay, let's make a circle.”
“Jackson,” Reuben whispered urgently. “Don't you want to practice first?”
“Practice what?” I said, trying to loosen Ro's slimy grip.
“You know,” Reuben continued to whisper. “Your communication.”
“Quit whisperin.gr I hollered. “Everyone can hea
r you—including the ghost.”
“I was just trying to help.”
“Well, you're making me nervous,” I replied. “Here, Ro, wipe your hand again. It feels nasty.”
“Circle of kindness, huh,” said Gaby, helping her brother. “More like a circle of grouchiness.”
If Gaby could infuriate a living, breathing human, think what she'd do to an outlaw-rose ghost.
“Enough.” Juana clouted Gaby. “Hold hands, everyone. Listen to Jackson.” She gave my hand a go-ahead squeeze.
Slowly we closed our circle round the twig. It looked so ordinary, stuck in the ground. How could it be haunted?
I glanced over my shoulder, checked out the sidewalk. It was bad enough to drive round in a zuke mobile. But if the b-ball guys or Blood saw me chatting up a plant, my cool reputation would be shot forever.
The sidewalk was empty. The air hot and still.
Across from me, Reuben nodded. I tightened my grip on Ro's hand and Juana's.
“Urn,” I began. “Hello, spirit.”
A breeze swirled through. Gaby jumped.
“It's okay,” I spoke to the plant. “We're, um, friends. Please don't get mad.”
I took a breath. Tried to think what Mama might do. Plants seem to sense feelings, she had told me. And sometimes, she had said, she could sense what they needed. That's how she knew how to help.
“Will the ghost talk?” Gaby whispered.
I closed my eyes. I felt the sun hot on my face and arms. Heard Ro sniff. Smelled the moist dirt turned up by his spoon.
Then a lonesome feeling touched me. Made me shiver.
I opened my eyes.
“You okay?” Juana was peering at me.
Gaby shook my arm. “When's the ghost coming?”
I looked straight at Reuben. “We gotta dig it up,” I said. “We gotta bring it back to the cemetery. You were right, man. I'm sorry.”
Reuben shrugged. He didn't say “I told you so.” Didn't feed me a gotta-have-respect speech.
“You mean it's over?” Gaby glared first at me, then at Reuben. “No moaning? No chains?”
“What did you expect? A floating sheet?” I smiled over at Reuben. Picked up Ro's spoon. Started to dig.
“Talk about cheap ghosts!” Gaby snorted.
“See if you can find another worm for Ro,” Juana said, sifting through the dirt.
“Not from this spot,” I said, gently lifting the transplanted twig. “We gotta get this—”
Suddenly a huge hand reached over my shoulder.
The cutting disappeared.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Aargh,” screamed Gaby.
I whirled around.
Blood.
That bully boy took three steps back. Tossed the twig from one flat palm to the other.
“What's this, Rosey Jones?” He dangled the cutting by its skinny roots. “Sure is one ugly flower.”
“Blood.” I took a step closer. “Don't mess with that plant.”
“Give it back,” ordered Juana.
Blood smirked. “I didn't hear the magic word.” His huge fist closed round the twig.
“Please,” said Juana.
Blood opened his fist. Yanked a root off the twig.
I lunged—and Blood shoved me back.
“Try that again, Jones, and this thing is dead.” His eyes narrowed. “Why you so worried 'bout this stick?”
“We're not,” I lied desperately. What if the ghost appeared? What if it was mad?
Gaby pointed at the stick. “Watch out, Blood,” she said. “That thing's haunted.”
Blood blinked.
“The ghost moans,” Gaby whispered spook-ily. “It rattles chains. And”—she shuddered— “it has no … head.”
Ro started to cry.
Blood snorted. “You expect me to believe that? I'm gonna tear up this thing—and then get that big baby's worm.”
Gaby shrugged. “So, you'll be cursed. Forever. See if we care.”
That's when we heard the buzz.
From far off. Just like before.
One huge bee. Gunning for Blood.
That boy dropped the twig and ran.
I heard his feet pounding the sidewalk. Heard his yells.
Then everything went quiet.
After a while, Reuben whispered, “Better pick it up, Jackson.”
I reached down. Gently folded the broken twig into my hand.
Slowly we walked to Rooter's gate. As I lifted the latch, Gaby murmured, “You heard me warn him. Now Blood is cursed. Forever.”
“He wanted to kill my worm,” Ro sniffed.
I glanced back once at the yellow roses. And at the fresh dirt smoothed over the hole left by the twig in my hand. Moist dirt when no one watered the garden. The only roses blooming.
“Jackson,” Reuben whispered as the kids and Juana hurried down the sidewalk. “We gotta get that twig back to the cemetery.”
“And fast,” I agreed.
But the plant was destined to be in my apartment for another twenty-four hours.
That day it had been dug up, damaged by Blood, plopped in a cup of water. In the ghost books, spirits often got mad over much, much less. Right now the cutting rested peacefully on the kitchen window ledge. But, as the library book had warned, you never knew with ghosts. Maybe this very minute it was planning the next curse. I bet it could do a LOT of damage in twenty-four hours.
“Jackson, quit pestering.” Mama frowned at me over dinner. “You know tomorrow is the first day of the big garden show. I've got a lot of work to do tonight. There's no way I can take you to the country now.”
“Please, Mama,” I begged.
“If you don't want that cutting,” Mama said, “just toss it. No need to drive—”
“NO!” I jumped up. “Promise you won't throw it away, Mama. Promise we'll go to the cemetery tomorrow.”
Mama set down her fork. She looked straight at me. “You want to tell me what's going on?”
I did want to tell her. I wanted to lay out the whole ghost story, the curse of the outlaw rose. But something held me back. Mama might try to soothe and heal that cutting. What if, thanks to her gift, it grew and GREW and GREW? What if more folks took cuttings and the ghost got passed around? Fell into evil hands? The wrong person might try to unleash the curse—the poison ivy and bees—upon the city. Or maybe the whole world. Captain Nemo was always fighting villains like that. Or what if scientists wanted to study the plant, like in the experiments Mama had mentioned? They might bombard it with screams and noise. They might chop it into teeny pieces. What if the ghost could never return to its place?
Suddenly that cold, lonesome feeling passed through me again. On the ledge, the cutting trembled.
Yes, the fewer grown-ups who knew about the haunted twig, the better.
“Jackson!” Mama's voice brought me back. “Are you okay?”
I sat back down. “Mama, you just gotta trust me. Tomorrow after the show, we take back the plant. Promise?”
Mama promised, but a worry frown stayed between her eyes.
As we ate, I thought about the twenty-four hours ahead. Reuben and I had planned to spend tomorrow, a Saturday, creating our next Nemo strip. But with the twig around, I drew a big Xin my mind through those plans. I didn't want to be in the same building with that haunted thing. I'd be constantly watching for poison ivy and bees. Worrying about my bones. As for my friends, I didn't want them zapped by the curse.
“Can Reuben and I come with you to the garden show?” I spoke up. “Juana, too? And, I suppose, Gaby and Ro?”
“I guess there's enough room in the van,” Mama said, surprised. “Oh, let's invite Mr. Kerring. He might enjoy seeing the displays. He's been stuck so long with that broken ankle.”
“Sprained,” I corrected. “But like Reuben said, an ankle is part of his leg and so the curse—”
I broke off. Luckily, Mama had taken that moment to scrape a plate and hadn't heard.
“Can Mailbags come?” I a
dded.
“Please don't bug that poor man,” said Mama. “He has enough to do.”
“Mailbags likes to be bugged. You know that home for Ro's worm? He made it.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, you can't ask Mailbags. He's busy.”
I slumped in my chair. “Well, I call that mean,” I grumbled. “Mailbags is always saying nice things about you.”
I peeked at Mama, trying some strategy. “He said he would never try to tell you what to do.”
“Is that so?” said Mama.
I smiled. “He said it very complimentary.”
“The man knows a strong mind when he meets one.” Mama laughed.
“So?”
“No.”
All I can say is, if bees and poison ivy showed up at the apartment building the next day, I hoped Mailbags would be out. And, please, let him avoid all bone-damaging situations.
CHAPTER TWELVE
That ghost gave me the jitters all night long. And all through breakfast, too.
“This is the third time you've jumped up,” Mama fussed. “And the third time you've bumped my cup.”
“Sorry.” I slid back in my seat. “Thought I heard a bee.”
“Relax.” Mama mopped a coffee spill. “No bee can fly through a closed window.”
Except a ghost bee, I thought, remembering Blood's panic the day before. And his puffed-up face a few weeks ago.
“Lord knows I'm jittery, too.” Mama sighed, rubbing her finger. “All the money spent renting a booth for the garden show. You've got to advertise for a business to grow. Still, what if no one comes? With the weather so dry—”
“You're scratching,” I cried, grabbing her hand. “Poison ivy!”
“Poison ivy in the city?” Mama's worry frown crossed her brow. “You seem awful tense, Jackson. Maybe you should stay home.”
With the haunted plant? I jumped up, gathering dishes. “I'll clean the kitchen. You go get ready.” I waved her toward the bathroom.
Mama shot me a puzzled look as she left. I turned to the cutting on the ledge. I knew what I had to do.
Mama chatted to plants, encouraging growth. Mr. K. bossed them into bigness. This rose twig needed a different kind of talk.
Jackson Jones and the Curse of the Outlaw Rose Page 3