Read Online Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns by Mary Quattlebaum - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Quattlebaum
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childhood I had,” Mama continued.
Wait a minute. Mama had no basketball in that country childhood. Her best friend lived seven miles away.
Mama handed me the envelope. Her eyes were all misty-happy.
“Jackson, I hope you enjoy this gift as much as I enjoyed mine as a girl.”
Forget slooowwly. I snatched the envelope. Clawed the flap.
I drew out the card. Opened it.
I couldn’t believe what I saw.
N oise pushed at me.
“Do you like it?” from Mama.
“Ain’t Mr. Cool excited now?” from Miz Lady.
“What is it?” from Juana.
“Plot five one,” I answered all of them.
“A plot in the Rooter’s Community Garden on Evert Street.” Mama beamed.
I knew Rooter’s. I must have passed it a billion times and never felt the urge to open the chain-link gate and join all those sweating, digging, grunting garden people. Mailbags Mosely even had a plot and gave us tomatoes each year. “Sweeter than store-bought”—he’dsmack his lips. But I couldn’t taste a difference. And who cared?
Now I was a Rooter.
“There’s ten dollars in the card for seeds, manure, and tools,” said Mama. “I’m as excited as if this was
my
garden.”
I wished it was.
“I don’t know anything about gardens” was all I said.
“Oh, gardening is easy,” said Mama. “All you do is plant the seeds and—”
“Talk to ’em.”
“See, you’re a pro already.” Mama looked at me anxiously. “Do you like your present?”
“Sure.” I figured the present could be worse. I might have gotten a cow or a “vacation” in the country with rope swings, fishing poles, and other country-doing things.
But my tenth birthday had flattened like a basketball hit by a Mack truck. POP!-fssssss.
Mama answered a knock at the door.
Maybe some razzle-dazzle player would dribble through. He’d juke and leap and send a birthday b-ball straight into my hands. “Surprise!” everyone would yell.
But instead, a dervish whirled right for the cake, separated into two parts, and clung to Juana. I groaned. Gaby and Ro Rivera.
Juana is about the smartest kid I know. She can speak English
and
Spanish, at the same time even, and not get them mixed up. Her parents came from Colombia and still speak Spanish. Juana’s tried to teach me a few words.
She can even understand Gaby and Ro, who usually chatter at the same time. And because they’re little—Gaby’s six years old and Ro’s four—they sometimes use the wrong words. To figure out their speech Juana must be brilliant.
Now the kids wanted cake.
“Just a little piece,” said Juana.
The devouring duo hurled themselves at the paper plates, gobbled the cake, grabbed Juana, and dragged her out the door. Juana didn’t even struggle. She looked like a prisoner resigned to her fate.
“What are you going to plant in your garden, Jackson?” Miz Lady asked.
“Oh, flowers,” sighed Mama, gliding thecake into the kitchen. “Marigolds, zinnias, nasturtiums.”
I was wrong. My birthday could get worse. Who ever heard of a basketball star with a summer bouquet?
Reuben shot me a look that said, What you gonna do now?
Mama came back with packets of cake for Miz Lady, Reuben, and Abraham. Abraham would have to eat his quickly—before his mother snatched it.
“Happy Birthday, Mister Cool,” Miz Lady hollered as she left.
“Nas-tur-tiums.” Reuben shook his head.
Then I got a brilliant idea. Not just brilliant—spectacular. How to have a garden and a basketball too. Or, rather, how to have a basketball because of a garden. My deflated day started pumping back up again.
“A garden.” Mama smiled to her pot of begonias.
A garden. Already, I could picture myself dribbling down a wide-open court. Fast. Smooth. And not a flower in sight.
• • •
“Nas-tur-tiums,” Reuben repeated the next day. “They even sound nasty.”
He was back at his desk, drawing. I was sprawled on his bed. Our favorite working position.
“A garden. What kind of present is
that
for a tenth
Wait a minute. Mama had no basketball in that country childhood. Her best friend lived seven miles away.
Mama handed me the envelope. Her eyes were all misty-happy.
“Jackson, I hope you enjoy this gift as much as I enjoyed mine as a girl.”
Forget slooowwly. I snatched the envelope. Clawed the flap.
I drew out the card. Opened it.
I couldn’t believe what I saw.
N oise pushed at me.
“Do you like it?” from Mama.
“Ain’t Mr. Cool excited now?” from Miz Lady.
“What is it?” from Juana.
“Plot five one,” I answered all of them.
“A plot in the Rooter’s Community Garden on Evert Street.” Mama beamed.
I knew Rooter’s. I must have passed it a billion times and never felt the urge to open the chain-link gate and join all those sweating, digging, grunting garden people. Mailbags Mosely even had a plot and gave us tomatoes each year. “Sweeter than store-bought”—he’dsmack his lips. But I couldn’t taste a difference. And who cared?
Now I was a Rooter.
“There’s ten dollars in the card for seeds, manure, and tools,” said Mama. “I’m as excited as if this was
my
garden.”
I wished it was.
“I don’t know anything about gardens” was all I said.
“Oh, gardening is easy,” said Mama. “All you do is plant the seeds and—”
“Talk to ’em.”
“See, you’re a pro already.” Mama looked at me anxiously. “Do you like your present?”
“Sure.” I figured the present could be worse. I might have gotten a cow or a “vacation” in the country with rope swings, fishing poles, and other country-doing things.
But my tenth birthday had flattened like a basketball hit by a Mack truck. POP!-fssssss.
Mama answered a knock at the door.
Maybe some razzle-dazzle player would dribble through. He’d juke and leap and send a birthday b-ball straight into my hands. “Surprise!” everyone would yell.
But instead, a dervish whirled right for the cake, separated into two parts, and clung to Juana. I groaned. Gaby and Ro Rivera.
Juana is about the smartest kid I know. She can speak English
and
Spanish, at the same time even, and not get them mixed up. Her parents came from Colombia and still speak Spanish. Juana’s tried to teach me a few words.
She can even understand Gaby and Ro, who usually chatter at the same time. And because they’re little—Gaby’s six years old and Ro’s four—they sometimes use the wrong words. To figure out their speech Juana must be brilliant.
Now the kids wanted cake.
“Just a little piece,” said Juana.
The devouring duo hurled themselves at the paper plates, gobbled the cake, grabbed Juana, and dragged her out the door. Juana didn’t even struggle. She looked like a prisoner resigned to her fate.
“What are you going to plant in your garden, Jackson?” Miz Lady asked.
“Oh, flowers,” sighed Mama, gliding thecake into the kitchen. “Marigolds, zinnias, nasturtiums.”
I was wrong. My birthday could get worse. Who ever heard of a basketball star with a summer bouquet?
Reuben shot me a look that said, What you gonna do now?
Mama came back with packets of cake for Miz Lady, Reuben, and Abraham. Abraham would have to eat his quickly—before his mother snatched it.
“Happy Birthday, Mister Cool,” Miz Lady hollered as she left.
“Nas-tur-tiums.” Reuben shook his head.
Then I got a brilliant idea. Not just brilliant—spectacular. How to have a garden and a basketball too. Or, rather, how to have a basketball because of a garden. My deflated day started pumping back up again.
“A garden.” Mama smiled to her pot of begonias.
A garden. Already, I could picture myself dribbling down a wide-open court. Fast. Smooth. And not a flower in sight.
• • •
“Nas-tur-tiums,” Reuben repeated the next day. “They even sound nasty.”
He was back at his desk, drawing. I was sprawled on his bed. Our favorite working position.
“A garden. What kind of present is
that
for a tenth
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