Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns Read Free Page B

“You’re a—”
    “Never mind,” I said.
    “But he
asked
.”
    “What’s the matter, Flower Boy? Afraid to let your little friend talk?”
    “Jackson’s not my friend,” said Gaby. “He’s Juana’s.”
    “Juana’s
boy
friend!” Blood clapped hishand over his heart. “Jonesy, you never told me!”
    “Really?” asked Gaby, gazing at me. “Do you kiss?”
    “Shut up,” hissed Juana.
    Blood’s palm shot out like a shovel blade and lightly smacked my cheek.
    “You better keep your little friend in line.”
    “He’s
not
—” Juana’s hand clapped over Gaby’s mouth.
    Blood sauntered down the street, turned, and threw back: “Send me a rose, Bouquet Jones.”
    “His name’s
Jackson
,” Ro shouted.
    I wheeled on Juana. “You said these kids have survival instincts.”
    “Giggling fool,” muttered Gaby.
    Juana grabbed Gaby’s hand.
    “Whyn’t you hit him back?” Ro asked.
    My face stung.
    “Strategy,” Reuben cut in. “Jackson’s a
thinking
fighting man. He plans before he counterattacks.”
    “Huh,” said Ro.

    “Here’s the garden,” I said, to change the subject.
    I flipped the catch on the Rooter gate. The little kids ran through screaming, “Bouquet! Bouquet Jones!”
    Reuben clapped me on the back. “Blood—what kind of name is that? Boy should be called Beetle-dung.”
    “Birdbrain.”
    “Burp.”
    We belched together. Loud.
    Still, my face stung. “Bouquet Jones,” shrieked Gaby and Ro. I hoped that stupid nickname didn’t stick.
    Reuben’s eyes swept over the garden. I knew with his artist’s eye he was seeing the green shoots against the smooth black earth.
    Me, I was seeing all the work.
    We found a stick with a small sign that read PLOT 5–1. My garden. A heap of tangled grass and weeds. Twenty-nine plots in Rooter’s and mine was the weediest.
    Then I looked down at my shoes. My Nike Air Jordans. Still almost new-shoe white.
    I had wanted these shoes so badly. “Tooexpensive,” Mama had said. This is how I convinced her:
    Me: “These shoes will save you money.”
    Mama: “How’s that?”
    Me: “They’re school shoes, basketball shoes, church shoes—all in one pair.”
    Mama: “Whoa, Jackson. Are you going to wear sneakers to church?”
    Me (patiently): “Not sneakers. Air Jordans. There’s a big difference.”
    Mama (snorting): “Yeah, look at the price.”
    But she had bought them for me.
    In that garden was dirt just waiting to mess with my shoes. I pulled off my Air Jordans and stepped into the plot.
    Reuben unknotted the precisely tied bows in his laces. (Mama says every bow Reuben ties is a work of art. She asks him to tie things just to marvel at those bows.)
    Reuben goose-stepped into the garden as if it were cold water. I pulled a handful of weeds and shook the clump.
    “Hey, can we do that?”
    Gaby and Ro tore off their beat-up sneakers and leapt into the garden feet first.
    The little kids shook weeds at one another and giggled. The air smelled like onion grass and black dirt.
    “Now we dig,” I said.
    Gaby lifted the spade. “What are we digging for? Treasure?”
    “We’re making a garden.”
    “Boring,” said Gaby, walking away.
    Ro paddled behind.
    “
Don’t
pick the flowers,” Juana screamed after them.
    Reuben and I decided to take turns digging.
    I riffled through the first ten scoops.
    Reuben dug the spade in deep, lifted the mound, turned it. Earthworms slithered off. One. The spade sank again, lifted, turned. Two.
    My turn. The spade bit, flung, bit, flung, bit, flung. Finished.
    Reuben’s turn. He sank the spade, lifted it, turned the mound of earth.
    Man, Reuben was slow. S-L-O-W. The weeds would be sprouting again before he finished. To take my mind off Reuben’s slownessI watched Gaby and Ro bugging Mailbags Mosely in his garden.
    My turn. Lift, fling, lift, fling. My back ached from bending. The unturned dirt seemed to stretch out for about a mile.
    “Jackson, all you’re doing is throwing dirt