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  To three inspiring teachers:

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  CHAPTER ONE

  He's driving hard down the court. Ball under perfect control. Fake right, pivot. The way is clear…. YES! Ball headed for basket and … it's innnnn. Two points. Victory!

  “You dreaming?” Reuben, my best friend, poked me.

  I sighed. I could catch the far-off sounds of the game down the street. The mind picture of me quick-dribbling, shooting, scoring … disappeared.

  No, I was rooted at Rooter's. Stuck in my plot at the community garden.

  “Whatcha think of the name?”

  I stubbed a weed. “Good for a monster.”

  “It'll be huge, green, and hated by all.”

  “Entire galaxies will tremble.”

  “The Unspeakable Z.”

  Reuben and I slapped skin. We had the perfect villain for our next comic strip.

  Since third grade, Captain Nemo Comics has been our life's work. Reuben and I are an excellent team. I write; Reuben draws. I work fast; Reuben peers and puzzles, eyeballs and erases. Poke-turtle slow, that's Reuben. And finicky! But he does make Nemo look good.

  Our favorite part is creating the villains. We make them mean, scary, and outer-space strange. Captain Nemo has tackled a six-headed Cerebral and a no-armed Flawt. Would the Unspeakable Z bring him down?

  “Hey, you two,” Mr. Kerring hollered from his fold-up chair. “You been on that weed for an hour. You think it's gonna pull itself up?”

  Mr. K. is the oldest Rooter in the garden. And the best. His plot next to mine is laid out like a kingdom. Beet greens march in neat rows; leeks line up like soldiers. He can remember back to the garden's beginning— in 1944.

  He can tell you how city folks grew food during World War II. “There was none of this running to 7-Eleven for chips,” he humphs. Mr. K. calls Rooter's a victory garden.

  Victory. I knew the word. It meant the drive to the basket. Slam dunk—and SCORE. The other team left in the dust.

  Victory had nothing to do with a rosebush and squash.

  The stuff surrounding me now.

  People might have needed city gardens in the old days. But now? You can buy tomatoes and lettuce from Safeway. Gardens belong in the country. Deep in the country with cow muck and wasps.

  Try telling that to my mama, though. She grew up in the country. And she loved every cow-flopping, bee-stinging minute. She worries that the city is no place for a boy.

  So she made me a Rooter, last April. My tenth birthday, and I got … dirt. A patch of ground on Evert Street. Plot 5-1 rented in my name.

  And there was no way I could give it back.

  Mama's eyes had been so shiny-happy. “A little piece of country,” she called my present. She had wanted to give me my own green spot.

  So I dug and sowed, watered and waited. I dealt with puddles and thorns, a stingy bush with no roses. Now it was almost September, one week till school started. My crop had been mostly weeds—and trouble.

  Here came some more.

  Huge, green, and hated. The very thing Captain Nemo must conquer. The thing that made galaxies tremble.

  The Unspeakable Z.

  Zucchini.

  Mailbags Mosely, who has the plot two over, laid it at our feet. He gave Reuben and me an easy smile. The man is as BIG as a buffalo— but that green vegetable, I swear, was as long as his shoes. Mailbags actually liked growing weird garden things. He passed them round like Hallmark cards.

  Bang! went the garden gate. And more trouble blew through. Gaby and Ro Rivera, followed by their big sister, Juana. She was hollering at them in English and Spanish. Whatever the language, they paid no attention. They rushed through Rooter's like two wild winds.

  We all live in the same apartment building. Juana, Reuben, and Mailbags are excellent neighbors. Gaby and Ro are not. Those two know only three volumes: loud, extra loud, ear-breaking. Their mission in life: to annoy.

  The Riveras made straight for that zucchini. Gaby poked it with her toe.

  Zucchini. It grows better than weeds at Rooter's. I have had it fried, stewed, sliced, and diced. I have had it baked, boiled, broiled, and breaded. I have had it up to here with zucchini.

  “Jackson should get the zuke.” Gaby grinned slyly. “His mama loves plants.”

  True. Our apartment is crammed with strange-sounding greens. Philodendrons, geraniums, begonias. But here's the embarrassing part: Mama chats with the things. Gives them pep talks. And they grow like the Amazon rain forest. Other kids have brothers, sisters, pets; I live with a six-foot ficus. It towers by the phone, where, as Mama says, it has optimal light.

  “But those plants are still growing.” Juana spoke up fast. “Jackson's mama doesn't talk to produce.”

  Juana. She is one Super J. To the rescue, quick as Captain Nemo. Saving me from a meal of Unspeakable Z.

  “Zucchini that size is too tough to fry,” Mr. K. pronounced from his chair. “Make it into gazpacho.”

  “Mama doesn't know how to cook gaz— whatever,” I said quickly.

  “Neither does Miz Lady,” Reuben said of his grandma. “Anyway, she's sick.”

  Mr. K. snorted. “Gazpacho's easy to make. Practically makes itself. In fact, young man”— he turned to Mailbags—”you hand that zuke to me.”

  Listen to the man bossing Mailbags! Huh, I know why Mr. K. has no weeds. He's commanded them to leave.

  “Everyone's invited for dinner tomorrow night.” Mr. K. smiled upon us all. “Jackson, bring your mother.”

  I blinked and nodded.

  As we hurried out the garden gate, I whispered to Juana, “What's gazpacho?”

  “Soup,” she whispered back.

  Soup. That didn't sound so bad.

  Right then, I should have sensed even more trouble. But I was too focused on Captain Nemo and the Unspeakable Z.

  That's how trouble could creep up on me so easy. Creep up and whomp me on the head.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gazpacho.

  Crammed with zucchini.

  Cold.

  Reuben and I stared into our bowls. Put down our spoons.

  Mr. K. humphed while Mama and Mailbags spooned and sipped and paid compliments. Lucky Juana. She'd gone school-shoe shopping with Gaby and Ro. Lucky Miz Lady, at home with a cold.

  “Now we have two Nemo villains,” Reuben murmured. “Unspeakable Z and Gazpacho of Doom.”

 
; “They're closing in,” I whispered. “Nemo's mission: urgent.”

  “Shhh,” Mama said.

  I slumped, glancing round the apartment. Brown couch, square TV, books stiff on a shelf. The one plant looked lonely without a green buddy.

  Mr. K. lived in a building for old people. In this retirement home, Mama told me, the furniture came with the room. There were rules about what you could have.

  Huh, no wonder the man dragged his lawn chair to Rooter's. In that mishmash of plots, no one cared what you grew.

  “More soup?” Mr. K. peered from his kitchen.

  No more, no way, I wanted to say.

  Then I caught Mama's worry frown. It shows whenever she frets. Like when I talk back. Slip on my homework. Fill up on soda and chips.

  So I decided to smooth on some strategy. My mission: to save myself from eating cold soup.

  “Mr. K.,” I said, “you ever hear how Mama rescued a ficus?”

  Normally, I would never mention this tree. Talk about embarrassing! Mama had hauled it out of the Dumpster in May. She had carted it home, cooed to it.

  The thing had flourished. Like one of my weeds.

  I plowed forward with my story. It was that or stare at cold soup. “Mama poked the soil and—”

  “Overwatered,” declared Mr. K.

  “How did you know?”

  Mr. K. shrugged. “Houseplant's number one problem.”

  “That's what Mama said,” I told him. “That tree used to be so scrawny. Now it is looking fine.”

  Mama smiled; the worry frown disappeared.

  I swelled, full of compliments. “You should be a doctor, Mama. A doctor for plants.”

  “You think so?” Mama asked.

  I should have shut up then. I should have stopped trouble right there.

  But I never realized trouble was coming— till it had bonked my head and kicked my behind.

  So, like a fool, I said, “A doctor, yeah. For trees and flowers and stuff.”

  Reuben stared like I had lost my mind. Mr. K. shot me a sly look. Wise to my strategy, maybe.

  But Mailbags chimed right in. “The boy could be right, Grace. There's no denying, things grow for you. A plant doctor—why not?”

  Listen to Mailbags helping me out!

  “Oh, I don't know.” Mama shook her head. “I'm so busy with work.”

  “And with Jackson.” Mr. K. hid a smile. Acting like I was a baby, with booties and drool.

  “Huh,” I said, stung. “If Mama wanted to study to be a plant doctor, well, I could take care of myself.”

  I would live to eat those words. Boiled, broiled, breaded, and baked.

  Two days later, Mailbags knocked on our door and handed Mama a catalog. Handed? The man flourished that booklet like a gold candy box.

  “A list of fall classes,” he said. “The college offers a program in landscape design.”

  “What's landscape design?” I broke in. It sounded awful country.

  “Oh, fixing up spaces with plants and trees. Making them look nice.” Mama turned to Mailbags. “I don't think—”

  “Listen to your mama, refusing my present.” Mailbags winked at me. “Tell her it's not that hard, taking one class at a time.”

  Mailbags should know. He has been going to college for years. Toting mail during the day and listening to teachers at night. Why would a grown man want to go to school? It's a mystery to me.

  “Wasn't that thoughtful?” Mama murmured when he had left.

  I pointed out that Mailbags lived in our apartment building, on the first floor. “He didn't have to trudge through snow or sleet or ice,” I said. “He brought that catalog in his little mail truck.”

  Mama smiled. “I mean, well, he thought those classes might be important—”

  “But they're not,” I interrupted. “You said you were busy.”

  “I am.”

  “You already know about flowers,” I continued. “Plus, there's my garden. You can doctor that!”

  Mama laughed.

  But she didn't throw out the catalog. And later, after she had watered her green babies, patted the ficus, and wished me good night, I saw Mama pick up that catalog and start to read.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The idea must have taken root in Mama's mind then. And grown like the stubbornest weed.

  But I was too busy to try pulling it out.

  School had started, and I had a big problem.

  Name of the problem: Blood Green.

  Actually, his real name is Howard. But he changed it to Blood about a year ago—and punched any kid who called him anything different.

  Blood, huh. I'd like to stick that boy in a Nemo strip. Pow! Bam! The captain would take care of him. Blood would be yowing all over the page.

  But this was real life. And I was trapped.

  Blood had been away for the summer. Camp, I heard. Torturing other kids while we kicked back for three Blood-less months.

  Now he was back.

  And, of course, he started his trash talk immediately.

  Not in school, though. Blood is never mean where a teacher might hear. The boy has strategy. He waits till grown-ups are gone— and then he lets you have it.

  “Hey, Bouquet Jones!”

  I winced. Reuben, Juana, and I were taking in the b-ball game after school. Big guys playing on the Evert Street blacktop. Maybe they'd let us shoot a few hoops.

  Gaby and Ro scratched in the dirt close by. Building an ant fort, they said.

  “Barn Boy, you hear me?”

  For Blood's information, I have never been within twenty miles of a barn. The only cow I've seen comes on a milk carton.

  Listen to that hollering fool. Blood better watch out. I'm gonna hone my b-ball skills till I'm so fine I can dribble his bald head down any court and slam-dunk it through any hoop.

  “Hey, Jones.” Blood muscled up to me. “How's your little sweet pea?”

  I stepped back, clenching my fists.

  Ro wailed, “You broke our fort.”

  “You didn't answer my question, Jones.” Blood rubbed his big shoe over Ro's little sticks.

  “Stop it,” Juana commanded.

  “Sweet pea.” Gaby snorted. “Jackson never grew one of those.”

  “Yeah.” Ro threw in his word.

  Mama is always telling us big kids to watch out for the little ones.

  But here was Miss Second Grade acting like she was watching out for me. And Mr. Kindergarten being all knight-in-shining-armor.

  Pesky or protective. With Gaby and Ro, I don't know which is worse.

  Blood kind of thickened and spread. Loomed over the little kids, crowded our space.

  “Hey, Art Fart.” He sneered at Reuben. “You got your pink crayon ready? Gonna draw a sweet pea for your spaceman?”

  “You big stupid.” Gaby rolled her eyes. “I told you—Jackson doesn't grow sweet peas.” She spoke very slowly. “He grows roses. Big. Red. All smelly good.”

  “Roses!” Blood threw back his head and laughed.

  He laughed so hard, all over himself, that he opened a space.

  Reuben and I squeezed by.

  “Rose Jones!” Blood hee-hawed. “Big, red, smelly-good Jones.”

  Reuben and I picked up our pace. No sense sticking around. I could tell by his hunched shoulders that my man felt just like me.

  Small. Silent. Filled up with shame.

  Blood did that to a person.

  The spring before, when I had gotten my plot, Blood had stepped up his usual meanness. On a mean scale of one to ten, he now measured thirteen. Smirking, name-calling, punching. Who knew why? Mailbags says Blood acts mean for a reason. He says that boy must be wanting—and wanting bad.

  Well, whatever Blood was wanting, I wished he'd get it soon. And save my body some pain.

  “Jackson!” Gaby hurried to catch up. She tugged on my sleeve. “I rescued you.”

  I tried to shake her off. “You didn't exactly rescue—”

  “I did! I did!” excla
imed Gaby, skipping along.

  “Me too!” shouted Ro, grabbing my other sleeve.

  “Blood would have beat you up—creamed you!” hollered Gaby. “Did you hear me tell him off?” She sniffed. “That fool didn't know a rose from a sweet pea.”

  “Yeah.” I was walking so fast I was puffing. I sure hoped the guys on the blacktop couldn't hear Gaby. Talk about embarrassing.

  Juana poked me. “Jackson, you really should thank Gaby. She did help, after all.”

  Juana. Did I say she was a Super J? Know what the J stands for? Justice. Juana is obsessed with fairness.

  But in what kind of just world does a fifth grader (me) have to thank a second grader (Gaby)? It would never happen to Captain Nemo.

  Juana gave me her stubborn, you-know-I'm-right look.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  Reuben palmed Gaby's head, then Ro's. His way of saying thanks.

  Gaby beamed. Now maybe she and Ro would forget the whole rescue.

  Instead, Gaby continued to skip, happily singing all the way home: “Jackson grows roses. Jackson grows roses. Big, red, smelly-good ROSES.”

  The school year was not off to a good start.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  But the year was bound to get better, right?

  That evening Mama sat me down for what she called “a little talk.”

  Usually we only had these talks when I was in trouble. Or when my grades were bad.

  I wracked my brain. Nope. I could safely say I hadn't bounced on, bounced off, or broken a thing in the past few weeks. As for grades, school had just started. We hadn't even had a pop quiz.

  So I was cool going into our talk. “What's up?”

  “Jackson,” Mama said, “you've gotten so big. Ten years old.”

  Huh, I thought. Where was this headed?

  “I looked into Mailbags's college.”

  College?

  “And, well, I registered.” Mama waved a piece of paper.

  “You've already been to college,” I pointed out. “Aren't you sick of school?”

  “Not this school.” Mama smiled, mentioning her classes. One on plants of North America, another on garden history.