Jackson Jones

by Jenn Kelly

  Jackson noticed a counter in the corner.

  The counter was made of polished, dark wood and curved slightly around to a deep maroon velvet-curtained

  doorway. On the well-polished counter sat a well-polished silver bell. And beside the well-polished silver bell was a little white card with gold script. The gold script read:

  Ting the bell for service.

  Jackson touched his index finger to the well-polished bell and tapped down on the button. A clear sound reverberated off the walls and into his skin. As the “ting” faded, a very tall man slipped out from behind the deep maroon velvet curtain in the doorway.

  Chapter 14

  The Chapter after That

  He was old. White tufts of hair created little fluffy clouds around his ears. His dark blue eyes were serious, but there was a joke twinkling behind them. You know the kind of eyes that read serious newspaper articles but laugh at the cartoons as well? He wore a well-worn, bright green blazer with a sky-blue dress shirt underneath. His tie was deep red with little black question marks all over it. His pants matched the blazer, and his shoes, I’m happy to say, were bright red high-cut sneakers. (My favorite suits are the ones you can wear with bright red sneakers.) He stood up very straight as though he had proper posture training. A small smile danced behind his frown.

  “May I help you, sir?” the gentleman asked. His voice was very serious, very dignified, and very polite.

  Jackson was at a loss for words. He was in awe.

  You know when you go to meet the Queen and you are really excited? So you put on your best clothes and wet down your cowlick, but when you get there you have absolutely no idea what to say to her? So when you open your mouth, you say something ridiculous like, “Shame about the weather, your Highness,” or “Are your roses doing well, your Highness?” And if you really want to humiliate yourself, you say, “Don’t all those cucumber sandwiches make you gassy?” Well, that’s exactly how Jackson felt. This gentleman was eccentric and classy—gracious even. Almost like a kindly grandfather, but one who was a butler as well. I know it’s a strange contrast, but someday when you meet him, you will completely understand.

  “I don’t know. I’m n-not really s-sure what I’m looking for, or if I’m looking for anything. I’m on a t-tour, you see.” Jackson smoothed his wrinkly red pajamas, wishing he had put on some jeans. He swallowed.

  “Are you an author?”

  The gentleman looked over at Meeka. She lay on her stomach, her face an inch from the floor. She was humming and her tongue was sticking out. The gentleman’s white, bushy right eyebrow arched in a most dignified way, and he looked back at Jackson. “Perhaps sir would care to look around in our Ask section,” he said in a very serious, very dignified, and very polite voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  The gentleman turned to the left, gracefully extending his long arm, and pointed the direction to go. He used his whole hand to point and not just a finger, as using one finger is impolite, of course.

  “If you need anything else, sir, please do not hesitate to ask. I am Sir Shaw.” And he silently slipped behind the dark maroon velvet curtain.

  Jackson looked over at Meeka, who had her fingers in her ears and was rolling her eyes about. She giggled quietly to herself.

  Jackson approached a wooden archway that led into another room. A large sign hung over the entrance. It was black, with large white writing that read:

  “Ask what?” Jackson muttered, and he entered the room.

  Chapter 15

  In Which There Are Too Many Books (As if That’s Possible)

  The room was small and consisted of only one bookshelf. Jackson approached the bookshelf, scanning the books on display. Their covers were blank. He picked one up and opened it. Empty. He picked up another. Nothing inside at all.

  “How is this supposed to help?”

  Letters began to dance on the covers, forming titles.

  How to Decipher Riddles,

  How to Stop Your Tour Guide from Making Faces on the Floor,

  How to Choose a Book, and

  How to Ask the Right Questions in the Ask Section of the Book Room.

  Jackson picked up the last one. Its creamy yellow pages were bound in dark leather. He opened to the first page and read aloud:

  “Ask for what you want help with.”

  Jackson put the book back. What I want? His eyebrows frowned in concentration. “Well, what do I want?” he wondered aloud.

  A magical tinkling filled the air. The same kind of wonderful magical tinkling that tells you that something wonderful is about to happen. The books changed. The covers morphed into different colors, their titles changing into new titles. Jackson scratched his head in wonderment.

  How to Win Baseball Games,

  How to Write Amazing Stories, and

  How to Win Arguments with Your Parents.

  Ooh, that had to be a good one. His fingers reached up, but stopped as a title appeared on a purple book.

  How to Hide Your Beet Risotto 17 Different Ways.

  An orange one read, How to be Cool in School.

  How to Influence Friends and Win People, read a raspberry-colored book.

  Perfect.

  Jackson picked it up and began to walk toward the well-polished counter.

  Uh-oh.

  Jackson shrugged off his satchel and checked inside. He groaned. Of course there was no money in it. Jackson looked around. The title changed on a green book in front of him.

  How to Steal Without Getting Caught.

  Jackson was tempted.

  Very tempted.

  The title morphed again: How to Give into Temptation Without Feeling Guilty.

  Jackson chose not to look. He had a conscience after all. He was putting the book back when something caught his eye. Up on the shelf was a plain, ordinary-looking brown book. He picked it up.

  How to Be Yourself.

  Jackson paused, holding his breath. I want people to like me. I want to have friends. I want to be one of the cool guys who makes everyone laugh, who people want to hang out with. But maybe I don’t have to be cool for people to like me. What do I do?

  Another book title changed in front of him.

  How to Make a Decision.

  Jackson was getting a headache. This was some pretty serious stress.

  “We need to continue with the tour,” Meeka squeaked, appearing at his elbow. Her hair was a mess with a big squirrel’s nest in the back. (Not an actual squirrel’s nest. It was just a messy knot, although you never know.) Meeka looked at the book in Jackson’s hands.

  “Oh, no, you MUST get How to Be Cool in School! Then you would have oh-so-many friends! I would LO-OOVE to have many friends. Even just one friend would be wonderful,” she added wistfully, looking up at Jackson from beneath her long eyelashes.

  “I’ll be your friend.”

  “Really? I have my very own friend?” And she threw her little arms around him, hugging him with surprising force. “Then you don’t need that book because I’m your friend too!” She skipped out of the room and tossed herself on to the big, green, overstuffed chair by the fireplace. She picked up a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles and slurped

  it loudly. The extra whipped cream made interestingly gross noises as she inhaled it.

  “No, I guess I don’t need it,” Jackson whispered to himself. He studied the ordinary-looking brown book in his other hand. It felt cool and heavy. He turned it one way and then the other. It felt like a very important book.

  “Have you found what you are looking for, sir?” asked a very serious voice that was also very dignified and very polite.

  Jackson gave Sir Shaw an unintentionally guilty look.

  “I think I have, but…” Jackson began.

  “But you lack the means to purchase the book,” Sir Shaw finished for him.

  Jackson looked down at his feet. “It didn’t occur to me that I’d need money when I fell into a pile of hair.”
>
  “Well, perhaps we can work out an exchange of gifts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I happen to enjoy crossword puzzles a great deal,” Sir Shaw explained, “but I am rather perplexed at the moment. Perhaps if you are able to figure out the clue, I could give you the book in exchange?”

  Jackson swallowed. He didn’t do well on brainteasers. Crosswords made him break out in a sweat. Tests made him woozy. Fill-in-the-blank questions required a lie down. And pop quizzes? Projectile vomiting.

  “You could just read a book on deciphering puzzles.” Sweat formed on Jackson’s upper lip. He wiped it surreptitiously. (Surreptitiously is like when you have a booger on your face, and your friend points it out in a kind way, and you casually reach up and flick it away. Unless of course your friend points it out and laughs so you flick the booger on him instead. But that’s not surreptitious anymore.)

  “That is an excellent idea, sir, but the Ask books are not for me. They are for visitors only,” he explained, his white tufts of hair dancing lightly.

  “Okay, well, I’ll do my best.” Jackson’s stomach gave a nervous twitch. This could get ugly.

  Sir Shaw opened his crossword puzzle book and cleared his throat. Jackson caught a glimpse of its complicatedness, in the many columns of teeny-tiny print. Jackson nervously wiped his forehead. His mouth dried out. Oh dear.

  “The word has five letters and ends with an L. The clue is, ‘slow as a – – – – – l.’”

  Jackson’s head spun and his stomach churned. He could still feel last night’s bean burgers down there. He swallowed thickly.

  “Snail?” he whispered.

  Sir Shaw’s body convulsed briefly. His breath was ragged as he placed his long fingers over his eyes. He reached into his green blazer pocket and pulled out a black silk handkerchief and patted his forehead. He looked down at the crossword puzzle, his bushy white eyebrows covering his dark blue eyes.

  “That seems to be the answer. No wonder…” and Sir Shaw shuddered violently again.

  “Are you all right?” asked Jackson.

  “Yes. I just (shudder) do not care for snails,” Sir Shaw whispered, smoothing his white hair tufts. They lay flat for a moment and then popped up again.

  “What’s so bad about snails?”

  “The reasons I do not care for them involves a shipwreck, a roll of toilet paper, and a poorly written synopsis, but we will not discuss that right now.” He gave Jackson a small smile. “I think we have an agreement, then. You may take the book. Thank you for your help.” Sir Shaw turned and walked away.

  Jackson smiled to himself as he walked over and sat down in the big, green, overstuffed comfy chair. Meeka slept in the chair beside him. She snorted loudly, rolling over. Her head hung off the cushion, and her long, messy hair touched the floor.

  Jackson took a deep breath and opened the book.

  There was absolutely nothing written in it.

  Jackson turned the pages frantically.

  Nothing.

  Clean, pure white pages of nothingness stared back at him.

  “Are you kidding me?” Jackson yelled. Meeka snorted again, but didn’t move. Jackson flipped through the pages furiously…all blank.

  What? He had gone through all of that…that stress! The sweating! The nausea! He had almost thrown up! And for what? A stupid book with nothing written in it?

  Jackson jerked himself out of the chair (which took a few tries as it was a very thick cushiony seat), and stomped over to the ASK section.

  But the ASK section had disappeared.

  Jackson looked wildly around him.

  Gone.

  He clomped over to the counter and banged his fist on the well-polished silver bell. It tinged an annoyed ting, as though offended.

  Sir Shaw stepped out from behind the deep maroon velvet curtain.

  “May I help you, sir?” he asked in a very serious voice that was also very dignified and very polite.

  Jackson slammed the book on the counter between them.

  “There’s nothing in this book! I got ripped off!”

  Sir Shaw looked at the book on the counter, and then fixed his dark blue eyes on Jackson.

  “And what is it exactly that you were looking for, sir?” he asked, one bushy white eyebrow arching.

  Jackson exploded. “I wasn’t looking for anything! You sent me to the ASK section and you offered me a trade and I got ripped off! There is nothing in this book! It’s empty! I helped you, and I got nothing in return! I almost threw up!”

  Sir Shaw glanced down at the book again. “Nothing is in it at all, sir?”

  “No! Nothing is in it at all!”

  Sir Shaw looked at Jackson quietly. Jackson felt a little embarrassed about his behavior. But he was still very angry. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Sir Shaw reached his hand out toward the book, but his fingers didn’t touch it.

  “Perhaps there is a reason why there is nothing written in it, sir.”

  Jackson stared back at him, fuming.

  “Now if you will excuse me, I do not believe I can help you any further in this matter.” And he slipped behind the deep maroon velvet curtain, his crossword puzzle tucked under his arm.

  “Are you kidding me? That’s it? What am I supposed to do with a book that has nothing in it? Hey! If I wanted a journal, I would have looked for a journal! I wasn’t looking for anything!”

  He stomped over to Meeka and nudged her. Meeka shot up like a startled cat and jumped behind her chair.

  “I’m not doing anything wrong!” she yelled looking wildly around. Then she noticed Jackson. She straightened up, wiping the whipped cream off her chin.

  “Oh, are you ready to go?” she asked, patting her wispy hair back in place.

  Jackson gave a jerky nod. “There’s nothing for me here,” he said. And he stomped out the door.

  Meeka slung her tour-guide bag over her shoulder, and her big, brown eyes spotted the brown book on the well-polished counter. She quickly glanced around and then snatched the book, shoving it into her worn, bulging tour-guide bag. She ran out the door.

  The deep maroon velvet curtain twitched and a set of dark blue eyes with bushy, white eyebrows over them disappeared from view. Then there was a soft chuckle.

  Chapter 16

  In Which There Is Frustration, Annoyance, Irritation, and Exasperation

  Jackson was being a crabby-crabber-ton. Can you blame him? He was frustrated, annoyed, irritated, infuriated, exasperated, enraged, perturbed, and discouraged. He was even a little bit hungry. Hmm…perhaps the hunger had something to do with the crabbiness? Obviously he was frustrated, annoyed, irritated, infuriated, exasperated, enraged, perturbed, and discouraged because of the whole book incident, but don’t things always look better after you eat? They say that things will look better in the morning and this too shall pass, but seeing as how Jackson could not wait until morning to finish his tour, perhaps eating would help.

  Let’s continue with the story and hope that Jackson eats soon because no one wants to read a book with a cranky character. Actually, you may be feeling a bit peck-ish yourself right now. So if you want to go get something to eat, I don’t mind waiting for you. After all, no one likes a cranky reader.

  Chapter 17

  In Which We Find a Doorknob

  As they walked down the corridor, Jackson felt a little tired. And a little hungry. As delicious as bean burgers are, they just don’t keep a person satisfied for long.

  “Meeka, is there somewhere we can get something to eat?”

  She looked up at him then tripped and fell on her face. Her tour-guide bag slapped down on the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Meeka quickly grabbed the plain brown book and shoved it back inside, along with the dead, smelly fish.

  “Are you okay?” Jackson bent down to help her. “Meeka, why do you have a fish in your…hey look at that!” Jackson sat back and stared. “Is that a…a doorknob?”

  Meeka looked mystified. “
It sure looks like one.”

  It was indeed a doorknob.

  In the middle of the floor.

  Huh.

  Jackson debated turning the doorknob. He didn’t see a door there, but why else would there be a doorknob in the middle of the floor? Jackson touched the doorknob. He turned it an eighth of an inch…then a quarter inch…then…

  “Oh, look! We’re here!” Meeka cried. She quickly jammed the rest of her spilled items into the bag.

  Jackson looked up. Sure enough, there in the corridor in front of them was a big orange door with a sign on it.

  THE CAFETERIA

  “Come on, Jackson!” Meeka stood up and adjusted her tour-guide bag.

  Jackson hesitated. He really wanted to see what was beneath the doorknob on the floor. But he really wanted to see what was in the cafeteria as well. And what was with the dead fish? His stomach argued with his curiosity. Don’t you hate it when your body parts argue with each other?

  “Okay, but we’ll have to come back here, though.”

  And into the cafeteria they went.

  Chapter 18

  In Which We Visit the Cafeteria

  You think you know what cafeterias are like. With their white walls and faded posters of large, smiling faces eating shiny, red apples. With strange smells seeping from badly scratched dishes making you nauseous and hungry at the same time. And the lunch lady with the huge hairy wart on her chin serving up wilted French fries, congealed baby corn, and perfectly cubed carrots. The crusty-edged, overcooked hamburgers in stale buns are stuck to the pans, and the green-brown pudding seems to be moving. The dining tables have broken benches and their broken wheels always trip you.