Jackson Jones

by Jenn Kelly

  There are many different kinds of shrieks. There are the quick shrieks, like when someone startles you. And the long shrieks, like when your mom sees a mouse. There is her angry shriek, like when you’ve left the kitchen a mess, again. And there’s the sad shriek, like when your dad finds all of his tomato plants uprooted by the dog.

  But this was a different shriek.

  A loud, horrified shriek.

  Jackson and Rayaa ran back toward the beautiful cage with the amazing birds.

  It was quite a sight.

  The amazing birds were attacking Meeka. Not attacking like they were trying to pluck her eyes out or anything, but they were flying all over her. She shrieked again, waving her arms wildly in the air as a bright pink finch snatched at her hand.

  “Meeka! Drop the gum!” Rayaa yelled.

  Meeka couldn’t hear her for all the birds screeching. Rayaa ran toward the cage, rifle in hand. A crubbie slunk away, a little pink bubble forming on its mouth. Meeka shrieked again.

  Rayaa leapt onto the golden perch and knocked an orange woodpecker off Meeka’s arm. She grabbed Meeka’s hand, pried her fingers open, grabbed the gum, and threw it. The birds squawked angrily.

  “Jackson! Hide the gum!”

  Jackson didn’t think twice. He dove to the ground, and his fingers snatched the gum as it flew through the air. He jammed it into his pocket with one smooth movement. The birds landed and walked toward Jackson with their wings flared out. They eyed him suspiciously, their colorful bodies strutting across the ground as they approached. Jackson opened his trembling hands, facing them.

  “I don’t have anything for you.”

  Jackson made it a habit not to lie. Because lying is oh-so-very wrong. But Jackson did not want some umpteen-hundred birds attacking him. So he decided that it was okay to lie. Just this one time.

  “I don’t have it. See? Not in my hands!” Technically he wasn’t lying. The gum wasn’t in his hands.

  A large, yellow pheasant, the size of a fat dog, waddled over to him, his tail flaring out angrily. His sharp pointy beak was an inch from Jackson’s hands. Jackson trembled a little, but kept his hands still. The sharp pointy beak moved to Jackson’s nose, the large, yellow eyes glaring at him. And with a wet snort,

  the bird turned away, squawking loudly at the other birds. They all waddled away, chattering to each other. Jackson’s heart stopped pounding.

  “Whoop! Good catch, Jackson!” Rayaa called out. Jackson pulled the gum out of his pocket and looked at it in wonder. It was a good catch. Huh.

  “Meeka, you know better than to tease the birds!” Rayaa scolded.

  Meeka sulked, sucking on the ends of her hair. Her brown bangs fell into her eyes as she stared at the ground.

  “I just wanted some gum for myself. I wasn’t giving them any. They just happened to be there when I opened it,” Meeka pouted.

  Rayaa frowned and then hugged Meeka tightly, “Meeka, you need to stop getting into trouble.”

  Meeka nodded solemnly at her, “I know, Rayaa.”

  Rayaa turned to Jackson. “Thanks for helpin’, Jackson. I really appreciate it. Sometimes it’s hard to take care of two sisters, you know.”

  “Two sisters? There’s another one?”

  Rayaa nodded her head at the house. “Eleissa is in there. You saw her reading inside. That’s her job. She reads.”

  Jackson shrugged, unimpressed. “Anyone can read.”

  Rayaa smiled mysteriously. “Ah yes, but Eleissa can read anything.”

  “So what? I can read anything too.” (Actually he couldn’t read French, but we won’t get into that right now.)

  Rayaa smiled even more mysteriously. “Yes, but Eleissa can read things that haven’t even been written yet!”

  She glanced up at the sky. “Well, it’s getting late, and I have to go. I’m sure there are a lot more crubbies, around and I need to do my job.” She looked pointedly at Meeka.

  Meeka smiled a little smile from under her bangs. Rayaa pulled her aside and began speaking quietly to her. Jackson couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, but he heard, “key…door…garden shed” and then, very distinctly, “put that fish back!”

  Meeka nodded and hugged Rayaa. Rayaa surreptitiously kissed her on the head. (I’ve already explained this word, but just in case you’ve forgotten…surreptitiously is like when your little sister is holding an ice cream cone and you lick it when no one is looking.) She turned and walked away. Meeka straightened her uniform and approached Jackson.

  “Shall we continue?” she asked, very businesslike.

  Chapter 29

  In Which There Is a Great Deal of Important Talk. Also, Feathers.

  What were you guys talking about?” asked Jackson as they came closer to the hedge entrance.

  “Oh. Um. Nothing.” Meeka glanced down at her fingernails for a moment then flashed Jackson a charming smile. “Shall we go in through the back door?”

  “Do you do a lot of tours here?” Jackson asked as they began walking.

  “Oh, I get enough work,” Meeka reached up and pulled a huge yellow feather out of her hair.

  “How is all of this happening in my Great-Aunt Harriett’s hair?” Jackson reached up and pulled a pink feather out of his own hair. “I mean, I know I saw her put a dog in her hair once, during a tornado, but…do people really just climb in?”

  “We-ell, there are many different ways to get here,” she said as she reached up and pulled a green feather out of Jackson’s hair.

  “How is that possible? Do people just trip and fall into her hair all the time?” Jackson gestured wildly as he spoke. A blue feather fell from his hair.

  “No, no, no, no. We’re in your aunt’s hair, right?”

  “Right…”

  “But we’re not.”

  “What?”

  “Try to see it this way,” Meeka began as she pulled an orange feather from her hair. “We aren’t in Great-Aunt Harriett’s hair anymore. We are…we’re on the Author’s Tour.”

  “Yes, you’ve told me that. But which author? C.S. Lewis? He was a great writer.”

  “No, no, no, no. Not that kind of author.” Meeka reached up and pulled a white feather out of her hair.

  “I don’t understand any of this. What are you talking about?” Jackson reached up and pulled a violet feather out of her hair.

  “What don’t you understand? It’s the Author.”

  Jackson sighed. He reached up and pulled a red feather out of his hair. (That seemed to be the last of the feathers.) He tried a different approach. “So, does everyone go on the Author’s Tour?”

  “Only if they want to,” Meeka said, and they climbed the steps to the back door of the house. Because they had walked, all the way back, to the back door of the house.

  “But I never knew about it until I fell in!” Jackson protested. He really didn’t understand. And he reached up, again, and pulled a black feather out of Meeka’s hair. (Apparently that hadn’t been the last of the feathers.) Meeka smiled mischievously. “Weren’t you lured by the idea of an adventure? Didn’t you think you’d have the chance to be a hero?”

  Jackson stopped in his tracks and turned red. “Wait, how did you…”

  “We’re here!” she chirped happily.

  Chapter 30

  In Which We Need a Key. Do You Happen to Have One We Could Borrow?

  It was a lovely door. Such a door is a door that everyone should have on their house; unless, of course, you never want visitors. Which is how I feel sometimes, but we won’t get into that right now.

  Meeka lifted up the mat to get the key.

  Oh dear…no key.

  “Oh dear! No key!” exclaimed Meeka.

  Jackson felt his pockets. “I didn’t take it.”

  Meeka sighed heavily, her brows furrowing in concentration and worry. “Well, I’m not going to bother Rayaa.”

  Meeka’s little hand reached up and grabbed the handle of the huge brass knocker, lifting it. Jackson saw her hand tremb
le.

  Meeka swallowed loudly.

  The knocker dropped.

  BOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM!

  “Gaaargh!” Jackson clapped his hands over his ears.

  “That’ll get her attention!”

  “WHAT?” He could only hear the ringing in his ears. Meeka pulled his ear to her mouth.

  “THAT’LL GET HER ATTENTION!” she yelled.

  “Whose attention?” he asked, rubbing his ears.

  “Eleissa’s!”

  The big, red, welcoming door opened.

  Chapter 31

  In Which We Meet a Scowl

  A little scowling face with bright blue eyes stared at them.

  “There is a key, you know,” the little scowling face with bright blue eyes said.

  “Eleissa, this is Jackson. I’m taking him on the Tour,” Meeka announced.

  Eleissa looked Jackson up and down. She covered her face with a large book. “I’m busy. Doing my job.” Her piercing blue eyes stole a peak over the top of the book.

  Meeka giggled uncomfortably. “Eleissa, I’m giving him the Tour. You know. The Author’s Tour?” She waggled her eyebrows at her.

  Eleissa looked up briefly and scowled again. “You’re interrupting my reading,” she said. And with that, she spun around and walked into the house, leaving the door wide open.

  Jackson heard her mumbling as she stomped down the hall, “NOT supposed to make the HOUSE part of the TOUR! Mumble, mumble…AGREEMENT.”

  Meeka slipped inside and motioned for Jackson to follow her.

  Chapter 32

  A Chapter That Has Many Portraits

  The inside of the hallway was lovely. But what would you expect with such a welcoming door? If the hallway was dark, dirty, and dank, wouldn’t you be oh-so disappointed?

  The walls were painted bright ultramarine blue with red trim. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting little rainbows about as the sunshine tickled the crystals.

  Meeka knocked her dirty boots on the welcoming welcome mat and walked ahead. Jackson knocked his dirty shoes and noticed that his pajamas were dusty. He brushed his legs as best as he could. He took his dusty glasses off and large tufts of his great-aunt’s hair shoved into his face. Jackson took a deep breath, carefully of course, so as not to inhale any hair, and polished the glasses on the front of his shirt. He slowly put the glasses back on. He could see again. The hair had magically moved away.

  Little red tables lined the blue walls. Jackson stopped at the first one. The red table was old-fashioned with carved legs and had an ornate door handle that opened a little drawer. Sitting on top of the red table was a calligraphy pen. Jackson picked it up carefully, marveling at the weight in his hand. It fit perfectly. He unscrewed the top to examine its delicate nib. If this part is boring to you, it is because you have not yet learned to appreciate the fine quality workmanship of expensive calligraphy pens.

  Jackson put the pen back with a longing sigh. Despite his young age, he could appreciate a fine pen. He glanced up at a mirror mounted in an old gilt frame that was hanging above the red table. Jackson looked into it and saw his very dirty nose. He wiped it self-consciously on his arm. His hair was messy, sticking up everywhere. He smoothed it down, but to no avail. The frame held a tiny brass plate with an inscription. Jackson looked closer. It read, “Zero”. Well that doesn’t make any sense, he thought.

  He stopped at the next table, bending over to admire the little angel figurines on it “that we’re not allowed to touch,” Meeka explained. Her little hands twitched beside him and he knew she was just dying to touch them. She cleared her throat and, with great restraint, stepped away. Jackson stood up and glanced into the mirror hanging on the wall above this table.

  Except it wasn’t a mirror this time, but a portrait. Well, not a portrait but a group picture. A group picture of baseball players. The player in the front row had a big grin on his face as he held a trophy. Jackson peered closer and…

  Wh-at?

  It was him!

  But it wasn’t him!

  Jackson shook his head and looked again.

  Sure enough, it was him.

  But it wasn’t him.

  It was Jackson, but older. About ten years older. The twenty-and-a-half-year-old Jackson grinned broadly, clutching the trophy. He was taller, broader in the shoulders and…he was the captain of the team? Jackson looked at the other players in the picture. They were all smiling. He looked back at himself. Wow. On the gold frame was another brass plate with an inscription. It read: Ten. Ten what?

  “How on earth could that be me? That’s ridiculous!” Jackson’s mind went a mile a minute. (That’s one point six kilometers a minute, for you metric folk.)

  Jackson didn’t know what to think. He looked at the next picture.

  It had another gold frame with another little sign, but it read: Forty. Jackson peered intently at the group shot. Fifteen people, all about forty years old, sat in three rows. They wore important-looking, official blazers.

  Behind them was a university banner. Jackson scanned the faces looking back at him.

  There he was! Wow. He was old!

  He had graying hair and eyes that were starting to crinkle around the edges. He even had a moustache! Jackson laughed out loud. He was a teacher! Jackson remembered how his classmates laughed at him when he told them he wanted to be a teacher. His teachers told him he had to work harder, to study more, and to quit daydreaming for goodness’ sakes!

  Jackson…a teacher. Wow.

  “Meeka, what are these?” he asked quietly, still staring at the pictures.

  She turned and walked back to him. “Oh, those are just the future mirrors.”

  “Future mirrors? This isn’t a mirror; it’s a portrait!”

  “They mirror who you will be later on.”

  “So that’s me?”

  Meeka shrugged, unconcerned. “If that’s what you see, then that’s what you are.”

  Jackson ran to the next mirror, nearly knocking Meeka over in his haste.

  “Hey!”

  Jackson was shocked by the next mirror. The little sign in the gold frame read: Sixty. The man in the portrait was old. His white hair was slicked down and he had deep wrinkles on his gentle, friendly face. It was Jackson’s face. A very old Jackson. The very old Jackson was shaking hands with someone important-looking. The prime minister? A flag stood upright on a pole beside them. A banner hung over the figures shaking hands for the camera. It read, Thompson Award. Jackson laughed out loud. One only received the Thompson Award after writing something completely brilliant, such as Thompson’s Full-Mouth Translation Book. Imagine! Who was the daydreamer now?

  Wait. Was this real?

  Was this really Jackson’s story?

  “Jackson! Let’s go! I thought you wanted a tour!”

  “But Meeka look! Look at me!”

  She looked into the mirror. “I don’t see anything.”

  Jackson looked back. “But it’s me! Don’t you see? It’s me! Look, I’ll show you!” And he dragged her down to the first mirror.

  “Look, here’s me right now. Plain, old, boring ten-and-a-half-year-old Jackson. Now look at the next one!” Jackson dragged her down the hall.

  “This is me later on. Look at me! I’ve got a beard! Well, kind of.”

  “Um,” said Meeka.

  “And look!” cried Jackson, ignoring her. “I’m captain of the baseball team! And look at this one!” He pulled her farther down the hallway.

  “Look! I’m a professor at the University! Look at me! And in this one down here…look at how OLD I am! But look what’s in my hands! I’ve won the Thompson Award! This is my story, Meeka!”

  Meeka shook her head. “Jackson, I can’t see any of that.”

  Jackson whipped around. “What do you mean? Why can’t you see my story?”

  “Because it’s your future, not mine.”

  “But…but this is real, right? These are mirrors of the future? This is going to happen, right?”
<
br />   Meeka didn’t answer.

  Jackson looked back at the mirrors. A flash of inspiration struck him: he was going to write down his story so he could remember it.

  “Meeka! Have you got some paper or something I can write on?”

  Meeka chewed on her bottom lip as she searched her tour guide bag. She pulled out the plain brown book and handed it to him.

  “I took this from The Book Room. You left it behind.”

  Jackson looked at the cover. How to Be Yourself. He had forgotten. His fingers trailed the smooth cover.

  Jackson reached into his satchel and pulled out the pen. He opened the Book to the first page.

  There was writing in it.

  Chapter 33

  In Which Jackson Wonders if He’s Losing His Mind

  Jackson snapped the Book shut.

  Was he going crazy?

  Jackson read the front cover. Yup, same book.

  He took a breath.

  He opened the Book.

  The first page had one sentence. You are strong.

  Jackson’s heart pounded. Was that…about him?

  It couldn’t be about him. He wasn’t strong at all! In fact, he was the smallest kid in his class. He…

  Jackson closed the Book again and studied the cover. How to Be Yourself. Holding his breath, he opened it again and turned to the second page.

  You are a good baseball player.

  No he wasn’t!

  Jackson looked up at the baseball picture. His twenty-year-old self smiled back.

  Maybe he was.

  Maybe he would be. He turned the page.

  You are smart.

  Was he smart? University professors had to be smart. And if he was going to win the Thompson Award? Jackson turned the page.

  You are an amazing writer.

  Next page. You have a good heart.

  Next page. You are a good friend.

  What if it was true? What if all of it was true?