Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop

by Mary Quattlebaum

  Morning mist silvered the garden. A breeze rustled through. Two birds started a chirp conversation.

  That's when I saw them.

  Big. Red.

  My rosebush had finally bloomed.

  I opened the gate, hurried over.

  Four roses! From a thorny stick to a blooming beauty—that bush had come a long way. Wait till Mama saw it.

  “You stubborn thing.” I tapped a flower. “Deciding to look nice—right before being bulldozed.”

  “Got yourself some roses,” came a voice.

  Talk about embarrassing. Had the person heard me? I was as bad as Mama, talking to plants!

  Hunkered in his neat plot was Mr. Kerring. Surrounded by two buckets, three plastic bowls, about twenty paper cups.

  His garden was full of holes.

  Mr. K. shifted stiffly, peering at me. He looked like an elderly groundhog.

  “June roses are a dime a dozen,” Mr. K. humphed. “Everything blooms in summer.” His spade scratched into the earth. Dig. Dig. Dig. He slowly filled one of the bowls.

  “But a fall rose is special,” he continued. “Coming right before winter. Promising spring.”

  I didn't want to remind Mr. K. about the next spring. When it came, Rooter's would lie under some building.

  Mr. K. stopped, resting a moment. Smoothed back his wispy hair.

  Quickly I reached for the spade.

  Mr. K. held tight. “I can do it,” he barked.

  I held on.

  “Okay, but just for a minute,” he grumbled. “Treating me like an old man.”

  Dig, dig, dig. I filled one of the buckets.

  Dig, dig. I started on a bowl.

  The sun was warm on my back, the dirt rich and black. An earthworm slithered away.

  “I've worked this plot since I was ten,” Mr. K. said suddenly. “My grandma taught me how to build up the soil, how to stake a tomato. No, Jackson.” He shook a finger. “You'll get a blister holding the spade that way.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, continuing to dig. I tried to picture Mr. K. as a boy. No wrinkles, no gray hair. Bossy as ever. Somehow, though, his commands didn't crab me as much. His words slid off me like rain off a leaf.

  “Things were different back then,” Mr. K. went on. “Victory gardens all over the city. On balconies, in windows. Every patch of dirt held some green. Americans had to grow their own food during the war. We had to free up factory food for the troops.”

  He cut me a sly look. “I remember a LOT of zucchini.”

  “Some things don't change,” I replied.

  Mr. K. chuckled. “Turnips. Parsnips. Rhubarb. You ever eat rhubarb without sugar?”

  Rhubarb? Sounded like a villain for Captain Nemo.

  “Sour.” Mr. K. stuck out his tongue. “And sugar was rationed. My grandma used to stick that nasty stuff in a pie. Call it dessert.”

  I glanced round the garden as I dug. Brown and dry, most of it. Some pansy faces still shone, though. Marigolds still hung out their colors. My roses were full and red. Strange to think of plants and people coming and going for years on this one patch of ground.

  Suddenly I stopped. Mr. K.'s garden had gone from the prettiest in Rooter's to the ugliest. Even my weed jungle looked better. The man now had a gopher city.

  “Mr. K.,” I said slowly, “what are we doing?”

  His eyes turned stubborn. Like Juana's when she feels she's right. “It's my dirt,” he said. “I prepared it, fertilized it. I set out earthworms I bought myself.”

  I could see it now: me and Mr. K. arrested for vandalizing. For stealing Drane and Company soil.

  “The whole thing will be plowed up.” His old voice cracked. “In a few weeks, this will be gone. You think I'm gonna waste this rich dirt?”

  Mr. K. protectively gathered his bowls. “I'm gonna start an indoor garden.”

  I thought of Mailbags's talk about seasons. How earth rested in winter, grew more plants in spring. Mr. K.'s dirt would keep creating—even when Rooter's disappeared.

  “Mr. K.,” I said, “can I use a cup?”

  He smiled. “Gonna grow your own zucchini?”

  “Only if you eat it.” I smiled back. Knelt in my plot. Dig, dig, dig.

  I filled one cup for me.

  Dig, dig. I filled four extra. For Reuben, Juana, Mama, Mailbags. Dirt from Plot 5-1. Guaranteed to grow the city's best weeds.

  I ran my sleeve over my face. Talk about hard work.

  But the hardest part was still to come.

  Mr. K. planned to trundle his dug-up plot home in a teeny wire cart. In this rickety basket with two skinny wheels.

  But two buckets, three bowls, and twenty dirt-filled cups didn't fit.

  I sighed and hoisted the buckets. Mr. K. tugged his cart.

  We struggled down the street. Slow as two ancient turtles.

  Of course, when we passed the b-ball blacktop, the big guys had to comment.

  “Jackson! Look at you.”

  “All that dirt—you making a cornfield?”

  I gave them a nod. Trudged on.

  The sun was getting higher in the sky. And I was getting nervous. I was late to meet Reuben.

  Blood would already be on the move.

  I sure didn't want to see Blood. Not hauling two buckets, like some baby Jack-and-Jill rhyme. Not with Mr. K.'s squeaky cart.

  I picked up the pace.

  If I had known what was waiting, I would have slowed down. Way down.

  Huh, if I had known what was waiting with Reuben, I would have stopped. Turned around. Gone back. Buckets, squeaky cart, and all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Waiting for me were noise and confusion.

  I had just dropped Mr. K. off at his place. Mr. K. and his gallons of dirt. In a few weeks, when the first seeds sprouted, his one plant would have company. LOTS of company.

  Mr. K. turned stubborn when I asked about his building's rules. “They got rules on wall color, carpet, the number of pictures,” he grumbled. “But I never read one word about dirt.”

  Climbing the steps to my apartment building, I flexed my fingers. Those five paper cups were hard to hold. And a blister was starting to form. It better not mess with my blacktop action. After being Farmer -in-the-Dell all morning, I needed a b-ball game.

  But when I pushed open the door of our building … noise pushed back at me.

  Gaby and Ro were stomping round the lobby.

  Reuben screeched his marker on a big square of paper.

  Juana directed his writing.

  Uh-oh. Juana had that J-for-justice look in her eyes. And there was no basketball in sight.

  When they saw me, Gaby and Ro rushed over. “We're practicing!” they yelled.

  I glanced at the finished signs. Reuben's letters were large, black, and clear.

  Save the Garden

  Root for Rooter's

  Mother Nature Now

  “Jackson,” Juana greeted me. “Listen, I've got a plan.”

  That's how I found myself back on the sidewalk, headed to Rooter's.

  This time toting a sign.

  Before setting out, I'd had a chance to stash my dirt-filled cups in my apartment, under the ficus. “Wish me luck,” I whispered to the tree.

  Yeah, I was going to need LOTS of luck. Juana's plan called for a protest march.

  And that girl wanted to put her plan into action immediately. No waiting for Mama, who'd gone to the library. No waiting for Mail-bags, who was delivering Saturday mail. No calling any of the other Rooters.

  “But they're part of the garden, too,” I pointed out.

  Besides, I thought, a few grown-ups might give our protest some dignity. I'd seen marches on the TV news. Grown-ups shouting, waving signs. Would people pay attention to kids?

  “We need to march now.” Juana tossed her black hair. “The bulldozers come next week.”

  Seemed to me Juana was rushing things. Super J bent on righting a wrong. I wished some of Reuben's slow, careful style would rub off on her.r />
  “What do you think?” I whispered to Reuben.

  “Juana thinks people will join us,” he whispered back. “She thinks they'll want to help the garden.”

  “But what do you think?”

  Reuben shrugged. “I think it's impossible to stop Juana.”

  Juana lined us up, passed out signs. “Too bad we don't have matching T-shirts, with fists.”

  “Pink ones,” shouted Gaby.

  “Blue,” yelled Ro.

  I rolled my eyes. Who would notice five kids? No matter what we wore.

  You'd be surprised.

  One part of Juana's strategy worked fine. People did notice.

  “Look at those kids!”

  “So cute.”

  “What garden you trying to save?”

  “Rooter's on Evert Street.” Juana proudly hoisted her sign.

  Yeah, we hadn't even reached the garden and we were being noticed.

  One person who noticed: Blood Green.

  He fell into step beside me. The only one to join our march.

  I hadn't seen Blood this close since the tomato incident. Man, the size of his chest. No wonder Juana hadn't missed. The boy was as big as a battleship.

  Blood glanced at my sign, reading slowly: “Mother … Nature … Now.”

  That stupid slogan. Juana's idea.

  “Mother … Nature … Now.” Blood drew out each word.

  I knew how Blood's brain worked. He'd add Mother Nature to his list of mean names. He'd holler it at the blacktop, at school. Rose Jones. Barn Boy. Mother Nature.

  Reuben and Juana moved closer in case I needed help.

  “You're crowding me.” Blood's eyes narrowed. “Don't want me in your parade?”

  “This is not a parade,” Gaby corrected. “It's a protest.”

  “A big one,” said Ro. “To save the garden.”

  “Five kids?” Blood sneered. “You look like fools.” He snapped his fingers under Juana's nose. “But I can help.”

  “We don't want your help.” Juana's jaw was set.

  “But I wuv wittle fwowers.” Blood pouted. “And I know just what to do.”

  With a flip of his big hand, he was gone.

  That syrup-sweet meanness was worse than his usual style.

  Reuben cocked his head. “Blood's messing with us.”

  “Come on,” Juana said. “He can't jump us all.”

  No, Blood wasn't planning on jumping us. He wanted something worse. Something, I bet, that would last a loonng time.

  “Garden! Garden!” Gaby and Ro chanted as we meandered down Evert Street.

  Rooter's stretched out. Dots of color mixed with brown stems. Purple pansies, yellow marigolds, my four red roses.

  Toting our signs, we circled the entire garden.

  Circled again.

  “Garden! Garden!” hollered Gaby and Ro.

  Neighbors waved. A dog barked. Birds chirped, fell silent.

  No one joined us.

  “My feet hurt,” whined Ro.

  “Then sit and shout,” said Juana.

  “I'm thirsty.”

  “So, get a drink.” Juana continued to march.

  Gaby and Ro scampered to the faucet. They turned it on, grabbed for the hose. The long thing whipped like a snake.

  Whoooosh.

  Water hit my face, shirt, jeans.

  “Whoops,” said Ro.

  “Sorry,” Gaby said, then giggled. “Jackson peed his pants.”

  “You okay?” Reuben asked.

  I nodded, wiping my eyes.

  “Oh, Jackson.” Juana frowned at my dripping clothes. “Now we'll have to stop or you'll catch a cold.”

  “Hey, it wasn't my fault.”

  Juana swept us with her Super J look. “We return tomorrow.”

  Gaby and Ro groaned.

  Thunk. Thunk. The quick-dribble sounds of a b-ball game reached me. I sighed. Reuben and I never had made it to the blacktop.

  “What are you sighing about?” Juana asked.

  I shrugged, trying to wring out my shirt.

  “There,” Juana said. “You sighed again.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “Juana,” I said, “it's like you're obsessed. On a twenty-four-hour rescue or something.” I put on a deep Captain Nemo voice. “We return tomorrow. Prepare for action. All ready for mission … Mission Greentop.”

  “More like Browntop.” Reuben glanced at the garden.

  Juana crossed her arms. “Well, if you want to quit …”

  I crossed my arms. Couldn't Juana tell that her plan wasn't working?

  “What happens tomorrow?” I asked.

  “In your spaceman comic”—Juana sniffed— “things change all at once. This is real life. A protest can take a long time.”

  But it turned out Juana was wrong. Things can change in a day, an hour, a minute. Rattle. Splutter. Coming down Evert. Things were about to change.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A black car pulled to the side of the street. Coughed to a stop.

  A guy jumped out. “Nathan Aramack. Local news,” he announced, striding through the gate.

  Someone had called the media.

  Reuben eyed Juana nervously.

  “Not me,” she said.

  Nathan Aramack dropped his pen. Scrambled for it in the squash vines.

  We stared curiously. This was a news guy? He seemed awful young and gawky, with his camera string twisted round his neck. Where was that silver-haired man from the evening news? Where were the big TV cameras?

  Finally Nathan recovered his pen. “Jackson Jones?”

  “That's me,” I answered, surprised.

  “You called about a protest march.” Nathan dug out a notepad. “Something endangered.”

  “I didn't.”

  “Your name Jackson?”

  “No,” I said. “Yes. What I mean is”—I shifted uneasily—”I'm Jackson, but I didn't call.”

  “You're all wet.”

  I sighed, not wanting to explain.

  Nathan craned his neck. Maybe searching for hidden protestors. Or for something endangered. A panda or bald eagle.

  “This is the march? Five kids?” He capped his pen in disappointment. Turned to leave.

  Stepped right into one of Mr. K.'s holes.

  After we helped him up, Nathan told us why he had come. He was a college student working at the news station once a week. The call about the protest had come in, and the big news guys had sent him to investigate. Thus far, our protest was his only story.

  It hit me then.

  This was the work of Blood Green.

  He had called the news station, pretending to be me. He wanted the media to see us— and decide our march was worthless.

  He wanted to prove that saving the garden was stupid.

  Blood was making us into fools.

  “Excuse me.” I stepped my wet-shoe self closer to Nathan. “There are five of us, yeah. But the number's not important. What's important—” I waved my arm, flinging drops. “Whoops. Sorry.” I waited while Nathan wiped his face. “What's important is this garden. Sixty years old.”

  “Next week,” Juana added, “it will be gone.”

  Nathan started asking questions then.

  Questions about the garden's history. The other Rooters. Drane and Company's actions.

  We led Nathan round the garden as he wrote and snapped photos. I talked about victory gardens, rhubarb, leeks. Explained how good soil creates, year after year.

  Luckily Nathan didn't ask any questions about Mr. K.'s holes. I didn't want the old man to get into trouble for taking soil—even though he claimed it was his.

  I pointed to my four fall roses.

  They appeared on TV that night.

  Huh, my thorn tree sure looked important, there on the evening news.

  The TV picture also held Gaby and Ro, grinning. Reuben clutched a sign. Juana fixed the viewer with her Super J gaze. I was as wet as a fish, with two fingers raised. Tw
o fingers forked into a V.

  Vfor victory. Victory garden, that is.

  The silver-haired newsman mentioned our protest. Described our mission. The garden got two minutes, tops.

  It was over so fast, I thought probably no one saw.

  Then the phone started ringing.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  And rang.

  I got a workout that evening, ducking under the ficus to answer the phone.

  At the computer, Mama smiled. “Who knows what might happen now?”

  The phone kept ringing.

  Mailbags congratulated us on our strategy.

  Mr. K. asked about Drane and Company.

  “Prepare yourself, Jackson,” he barked. “This is bad publicity for a hotshot company. They're going to be tough on you.”

  When I hung up, I sat under the ficus awhile. Mission Greentop had gotten complicated.

  What would Drane and Company say when they called?

  And what would I say to them?

  CHAPTER TEN

  By the next morning, Mama and I were sick of the phone.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. Mama couldn't study. I needed a break from answering questions.

  Juana had been one of our earliest callers. She told me she was busy with church stuff all day.

  “But we'll march in the evening,” she promised. “Bring a flashlight.”

  Mission Greentop would continue.

  I sighed, spooning my cereal. Juana was zooming ahead, as usual. How would a night march help the garden? Who could see us in the dark?

  “You feeling stressed, Mr. Celebrity?” Mama asked. “Want to visit Tudor Place with me? A little piece of country in the city.”

  Mama made her research trip sound fun— but I knew better. When I was little, Mama was always dragging me to green spaces. Big, little, indoors, outdoors. We wandered through teeny city squares and walked down too-long forest trails.

  Mostly the trips had been okay. I learned more about poison ivy than I'd ever wanted to know. But when I turned eight, I needed weekends for guy stuff: planning Captain Nemo with Reuben, shooting hoops, reading the Sunday comics. Mama had a whole jungle at home. That was enough green for me.

  But at least going with Mama today would save me from the phone. A knot garden. Why not?