Read Online Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns by Mary Quattlebaum - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mary Quattlebaum
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being in college at night. But this morning he had clapped a Chicago Bulls starters cap on my head and grinned a happy birthday. Yeah. Now all I needed was the basketball.
I was walking so slowly, I was almost stopped.
Cake smell, smooth and chocolate, tried to hurry my steps.
Reuben and I moved like two snails. Like two snails going backward.
Till I couldn’t stand such slowness any longer. I jumped for Apartment 302, flung open the door.
Birthday!
Balloons. A cake stuck with candles till it looked like a porcupine. I shifted my eyes casually over the present pile. No basketball shape wrapped in blue paper.
But there was an envelope with my name in Mama’s writing.
Money! Cartoon dollar signs flipped in my head. Mama was giving me money to buy just what I wanted.
After ten years of “Jackson, you know we don’t have the money for that.”
After ten years of “We don’t have a coupon for that kind of cereal. Put it back.”
After ten years of “You’d think dollars were toilet paper, they go that fast.”
Mama was giving me money for my birthday. I felt truly grown up.
Juana waved from the kitchen. Abrahameyeballed the cake. Miz Lady flapped her present like a fan.
Mama arranged all her plants around the cake, like invited guests. She fussed with their leaves.
Mama says talking to plants makes them grow. They can
sense
when you’re kind, she says. It sounds cuckoo, I know. But her African violets are fuzzier, her philodendron is wider, and her ivy clambers about like a jungle. I’ve about given up being embarrassed.
See, Mama grew up in the country and never got over it. “Sheer heaven,” she always sighs. “Miles of green grass, roses, cows, my own horse. The city is no place for a boy.”
Personally, I think the country sounds like the
opposite
of heaven. Who wants to tug some old cow’s bag when he could shoot hoops? But Mama’s stuck on country-land. She even named me Jackson, after her old horse.
Still, Jackson is a good name, horse or no horse. What if she’d called me Bossy?
Every mother has her weirdness, I figure. Abraham’s mother watches over him like aworried bird. The only time he can eat cake or unwashed carrots is when he visits Reuben or me. I’ll take Mama’s plant-yakking any day.
Abraham lit the candles. Everyone sang, “Happy birthday, dee-aa-rrr Jackson,” and I made a wish.
You guessed it. I wished for a basketball. But it was an I-got-this-wish-in-the-bag kind of wish, instead of an eyes-squeezed-want-it-with-all-my-heart wish. I
knew
I was getting that b-ball.
“I keep waiting for
them
to appear,” said Juana.
She gobbled her cake as if
they
might suddenly appear and snatch it away. “Yesterday I took one of those stress tests at People’s Drug. You press a dot and the color changes. Blue means relaxed; red means totally whacked out. Mine was
crimson
. Those kids made me a basket case.”
“Gaby and Ro might calm down in a few years,” said Mama.
“Where’s your basketball?” Reuben whispered to me.
I ignored him. I ate my cake very slooowwly.
“Mister Cool,” hollered Miz Lady, “don’t you think it’s time you opened those presents?”
I untied ribbon and peeled tape so slooowwly, the wrapping paper didn’t rip at all. That paper could wrap up next year’s presents.
I got socks from Abraham (“Mom picked them out,” he said. “Sorry.”); a glow-in-the-dark armband from Juana; and a Georgetown Hoyas T-shirt from Reuben and Miz Lady.
I carefully folded the wrapping paper.
“There’s one more,” said Mama.
I gave her my best Is-it-my-
birth
day? look.
Reuben rolled his eyes.
Mama held the envelope like a little white bird. Stuffed with money, I couldn’t help thinking.
“Ten years ago,” said Mama, stroking the bird-money, “God gave
me
a present: my son, Jackson. Each year I grow prouder of him.”
I was cool, just taking it in. Thinking about slam-dunking my new b-ball.
“I always wanted Jackson to have the kind of
I was walking so slowly, I was almost stopped.
Cake smell, smooth and chocolate, tried to hurry my steps.
Reuben and I moved like two snails. Like two snails going backward.
Till I couldn’t stand such slowness any longer. I jumped for Apartment 302, flung open the door.
Birthday!
Balloons. A cake stuck with candles till it looked like a porcupine. I shifted my eyes casually over the present pile. No basketball shape wrapped in blue paper.
But there was an envelope with my name in Mama’s writing.
Money! Cartoon dollar signs flipped in my head. Mama was giving me money to buy just what I wanted.
After ten years of “Jackson, you know we don’t have the money for that.”
After ten years of “We don’t have a coupon for that kind of cereal. Put it back.”
After ten years of “You’d think dollars were toilet paper, they go that fast.”
Mama was giving me money for my birthday. I felt truly grown up.
Juana waved from the kitchen. Abrahameyeballed the cake. Miz Lady flapped her present like a fan.
Mama arranged all her plants around the cake, like invited guests. She fussed with their leaves.
Mama says talking to plants makes them grow. They can
sense
when you’re kind, she says. It sounds cuckoo, I know. But her African violets are fuzzier, her philodendron is wider, and her ivy clambers about like a jungle. I’ve about given up being embarrassed.
See, Mama grew up in the country and never got over it. “Sheer heaven,” she always sighs. “Miles of green grass, roses, cows, my own horse. The city is no place for a boy.”
Personally, I think the country sounds like the
opposite
of heaven. Who wants to tug some old cow’s bag when he could shoot hoops? But Mama’s stuck on country-land. She even named me Jackson, after her old horse.
Still, Jackson is a good name, horse or no horse. What if she’d called me Bossy?
Every mother has her weirdness, I figure. Abraham’s mother watches over him like aworried bird. The only time he can eat cake or unwashed carrots is when he visits Reuben or me. I’ll take Mama’s plant-yakking any day.
Abraham lit the candles. Everyone sang, “Happy birthday, dee-aa-rrr Jackson,” and I made a wish.
You guessed it. I wished for a basketball. But it was an I-got-this-wish-in-the-bag kind of wish, instead of an eyes-squeezed-want-it-with-all-my-heart wish. I
knew
I was getting that b-ball.
“I keep waiting for
them
to appear,” said Juana.
She gobbled her cake as if
they
might suddenly appear and snatch it away. “Yesterday I took one of those stress tests at People’s Drug. You press a dot and the color changes. Blue means relaxed; red means totally whacked out. Mine was
crimson
. Those kids made me a basket case.”
“Gaby and Ro might calm down in a few years,” said Mama.
“Where’s your basketball?” Reuben whispered to me.
I ignored him. I ate my cake very slooowwly.
“Mister Cool,” hollered Miz Lady, “don’t you think it’s time you opened those presents?”
I untied ribbon and peeled tape so slooowwly, the wrapping paper didn’t rip at all. That paper could wrap up next year’s presents.
I got socks from Abraham (“Mom picked them out,” he said. “Sorry.”); a glow-in-the-dark armband from Juana; and a Georgetown Hoyas T-shirt from Reuben and Miz Lady.
I carefully folded the wrapping paper.
“There’s one more,” said Mama.
I gave her my best Is-it-my-
birth
day? look.
Reuben rolled his eyes.
Mama held the envelope like a little white bird. Stuffed with money, I couldn’t help thinking.
“Ten years ago,” said Mama, stroking the bird-money, “God gave
me
a present: my son, Jackson. Each year I grow prouder of him.”
I was cool, just taking it in. Thinking about slam-dunking my new b-ball.
“I always wanted Jackson to have the kind of
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