Jackson Jones and the Curse of the Outlaw Rose Read Free

friend,” Ro pointed out. “I'm
protecting
him. If I let him go, a bird might eat him.”
    “How you gonna take care of him?” Gaby asked.
    “Mailbags will show me,” Ro announced.
    Not that Mailbags was a big fan of worms, but he did know a lot about gardens. The man was always grubbing in his plot at Rooter's, growing zucchini and beans. And Mailbags lived in our building, too. Apartment 102. Ro didn't have to travel far for expert advice.
    Gaby tried another strategy. “That worm is not even a 'he,'” she said. “It's a he-she. Male
and
female.”
    Ro's eyes widened. “Cool,” he breathed.
    We all bent closer to the worm.
    That's when a big hand shoved me. And lifted the wrapped cutting from my palm.
    I stumbled into Ro.
    “Jackson,” the little boy cried. “You're squishing my worm.”
    From behind me came a voice.
    “What's this, Rose Jones? Your little sweet pea?”
    Blood Green.
    Blood was the meanest kid in the city, maybe on the whole planet. And that boy was BIG. Plus, he had strategy. He never smacked, hit, or taunted when adults were around. No, Blood waited till it was him against some scared kid. Then he let you have it.
    All last year he had talked trash about me. Rose Jones. Farmer Boy. Pansy.
    Then one day last fall it was me and him. Alone at Rooter's. When he jumped, I thought that was the end.
    But he missed me—and tangled with my puddle of thorns. Literally. He got caught and stuck by my fierce pile of sticks. I had worked him free—on one condition. If he made fun of me, Reuben, Juana, or the little kids again— ever again—I would tell the whole school he'd been beat up by a rosebush.
    His promise had lasted till he caught sight of Mama's new zucchini mobile. Now he called me Pickle, too.
    Blood tossed the cutting high in the air.
    “Come and get it, Rosey,” he brayed.
    “Give it back, Blood,” Juana demanded. To me, she whispered, “What is it?”
    Blood caught the cutting. Tore at the wet paper towels.
    “Urn, Blood.” Reuben watched nervously. “You might not want to do that.”
    “You gonna stop me, Art Fart?” Blood sneered. He waved the bit of rose twig. “Oh, a bitty wittle stick,” he cooed.
    That boy dropped the twig on the sidewalk. Lifted his big foot to stomp.
    Bzzzz.
I swear the sound came from nowhere.
Bzzzz.
    A huge bee zoomed by. Zeroed in on Blood.
    Stung him, right on the cheek.
    Blood screamed.
    “The curse,” whispered Reuben. His voice was filled with awe.

CHAPTER FIVE

    We watched as Blood, still screaming, tore down the street.
    Slowly I retrieved the cutting. Rewrapped the paper towels.
    Reuben opened Rooter's gate and steered me inside. “Jackson,” he said, “we gotta decide what to do.”
    Juana was suddenly alert. “What do you mean?”
    Reuben scuffed his shoe on the wood-chip path.
    “And why,” said Juana, “did you say 'the curse' like that?”
    “Like what?”
    “All spooky and mysterious.”
    “It's nothing, Juana,” I said. “Reuben's just a little … worried.”
    “You think that was a coincidence?” Reuben looked straight at me.
    “What
was a coincidence?” Juana shook Reuben's arm.
    “Okay, tell me this,” I said to Reuben. “How come nothing has happened to me? I was the one did the cutting.” I held out my arms. “Look, no poison ivy. No bee stings. No broken bones.”
    “I don't know,” Reuben said slowly. “Maybe it's saving your punishment. Maybe you'll get it
bad.”
    He glanced sideways at me. “Or maybe you're like your mama.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, Mailbags says she has a gift. She can talk the puniest flower into growing. He says plants just plain like your mama.”
    “So?”
    “So, maybe they like you, too. You might have inherited, you know, that gift. Maybe it's protecting you.”
    I sat down slowly. “Reuben,” I said, “that is the craziest thing I ever heard.”
    “What's crazy?” Juana glanced from Reuben to me. “What's protecting you? If you don't tell me, I'm …