Jackson Jones and the Curse of the Outlaw Rose Read online

  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 … I'm going to throw Ro's Luormatyou.”

  “No,” howled Ro.

  “Then spit it out.” Juana glared at us.

  “Gaby and Ro might get scared,” Reuben said. “This is sort of a ghost story.”

  “I love ghost stories.” Gaby plopped down beside me.

  “I'm never scared,” Ro declared, cupping his worm.

  So Reuben and I told how we had visited the cemetery and taken the rose cutting. Reuben's voice got all spooky and mysterious, talking about the bee stings and poison ivy and broken legs.

  “Mr. K. sprained his ankle,” I corrected. “He didn't break his leg.”

  “An ankle is part of your leg,” Reuben replied. “His leg got hurt.”

  Juana regarded me. “I take it you don't believe in this curse.”

  “What curse?” I said. “The bee stings, the broken leg, the sprained ankle—those things just happened. Bad luck and carelessness. That's what the clean-up guy in the graveyard said.”

  Ro started to cry. “I'm scared.”

  “Here, querido.” Juana took him gently by the arm. “Let's find some dirt for your worm.”

  Ro sniffled.

  “You can put the dirt in my pockets,” Gaby offered. She followed them to a far-off plot and started to dig.

  Shadows gathered in the garden as the sun started setting.

  Reuben and I continued to sit.

  No, I did not believe in the curse. On the other hand, I'd always had bad luck with roses. And if I had inherited my mother's gift, as Mailbags called it, someday I might find myself studying plants. Tending to plants. Even … talking to plants.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Drew a mind picture of me on the blacktop. Dribbling, shooting, scoring. Time after time after time. I was an ace at basketball, not flowers.

  When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw: those old-time yellow roses. Those Texas roses waving from Rooter's fence. The wrapped cutting was damp in my hand.

  Reuben was gone, helping with Ro's worm home. I could hear voices and laughter.

  No, I did not believe in the curse.

  But roses had always brought me bad luck.

  CHAPTER SIX

  We straggled home, with Ro riding me piggyback and Gaby carting dirt in her pockets. Reuben dogged my every step with doom-and-gloom sighs. When we reached our building, he headed for his apartment. His grandma, Miz Lady, was waiting. Or maybe he wanted to put some distance between himself and the cutting.

  The rest of us knocked on Mailbags's door.

  “A fine pet,” the man pronounced when Ro flourished his worm. “The perfect size. Won't eat much or take up much room.”

  Mailbags himself takes up a lot of room. If the man jumped, I bet he could touch the ceiling. The worm was a skinny noodle beside his buffalo self. As for eating, huh. Mailbags has come to our place for dinner. Whole zuc-chinis disappear.

  Yeah, Ro's worm was in good hands. Mail-bags even had a whole book on the creatures. Gaby pulled the dirt out of her pockets and dumped it in a plastic cup. Then Mailbags handed Ro a bit of banana.

  The boy raised it to his lips.

  Mailbags laughed. “That's for your worm,” he said. “A little fruit twice a week and soon your pet will be fat as a tire.”

  Gaby gasped.

  “I'm kidding,” Mailbags said. “But watch, that worm will consume the banana and pass it through. In a few weeks, Ro will have the richest dirt around.”

  “You can have it for your garden,” Ro promised.

  “What about your worm?” asked Mailbags, walking us to the door.

  “I'll get him more dirt and he can start again.” Ro waved good-bye. “He's going to live with me forever.”

  “He-she,” muttered Gaby as we moseyed to the elevator. “And I don't want him-her living near me.”

  I was about to step into the elevator with the Riveras, when I remembered the cutting. I'd left it at Mailbags's. That stick looked a lot like trash. What if he'd thrown it away?

  “Wait, Jackson.” Mailbags trotted out to the hallway. Handed me the soggy paper towel. “You're looking wrung out, my man. Bad day?”

  I didn't want to get into the whole curse thing. “Can I ask you something? About my mama?�
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  Mailbags looked surprised. “Maybe.”

  “You've said she has a gift, a way with plants.” I rushed the words out. “You told her she should go back to college—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Mailbags. “I don't see me telling your mama what to do. She made up her own mind.”

  “Well, you gave her the college catalog.”

  “A small thing.”

  “Anyway, that gift she has. With plants.” I glanced up at him, then down at my shoes. “You think I have it, too?”

  “Ah,” Mailbags said. “The green-thumb gift.” He considered my question. “Not sure yet what I think, but this is what I see: a boy who's on the blacktop more than at Rooter's.”

  “That what you see?”

  Mailbags nodded. “That boy, he's a quick dribbler. But come planting? Oh, he's sloooww.”

  I felt relief course through me. “So you think b-ball is my gift?”

  Mailbags palmed my head. “That boy is fast on the court. Got lots of fancy moves. Course, he could use some work on the hoops.”

  “Hey!” I grinned, punching the elevator button.

  “This boy, the one we're talking about—”

  I stepped into the elevator.

  “Well, he does have a way with … weeds.” Mailbags winked. “For him, they grow big as sequoias.”

  I continued grinning as the elevator shot up. Huh, that Mailbags. Mama was always saying how we kids bugged him. Asking this and that, following him around. “A full-time mail job and night college, too”—she'd shake her head—”the man doesn't have time to breathe, and you kids dogging his heels.”

  Wait till Mama heard about Mailbags and the worm house.

  When I opened the door, Mama gave me a hug and immediately felt my forehead. “You feel okay?” she asked. “You look tired.”

  Yeah, well, a curse (even if it's not) can wear a boy out.

  I wiggled away and held out the cutting. “Can you root this for Mr. K.?”

  “How's he doing?” she asked, settling the cutting in a pot.

  “When Reuben and I stopped by, he was bossing his nurse.”

  “Then he's feeling better.” Mama laughed. “When he's quiet and mouse-meek, that's when I worry.”

  Mama checked several small bags of soil, chose one, and tucked its contents round the cutting. “This little guy will soon feel good about growing and start putting out roots,” she said. “Pick a spot at Rooter's with good sun. You can probably transplant in a few weeks.”

  I watched as Mama gently touched the cutting. Mama and Mr. K. sure treat their green things differently. Mama chats to them softly, encouraging blooms. Mr. K. barks them into bigness.

  “Mama,” I said suddenly, “do plants have feelings?”

  She turned to me in surprise. “Not feelings like humans,” she said slowly. “And yet …” Mama brushed her cheek, leaving a dirt smudge. “Plants seem to sense the feelings of other species and respond. Scientists have done studies.”

  “What kind?”

  “Let's see, they've discovered that plants tend to withdraw and wither in places with shouting and loud noises.” She smiled. “But other scientists claim these studies prove nothing.”

  “So plants can't really get angry, right? They can't, you know, take revenge?”

  “Only people seem to do that.” Mama paused. “Sometimes, though, I can sense what a plant might need—different light, more water. And I try to help.” She laughed a little. “As you know, the plants sometimes respond so well that the green takes over….” She waved at our living-room jungle. “Hey, why this sudden interest in plant feelings?”

  “Just curious.” I hesitated, then touched the cutting myself. It was a little stick. An ordinary twig.

  Nothing to worry about. I was just jumpy from Reuben's doom-and-gloom curse talk.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For the next few weeks, the cutting sat peacefully on the window ledge in the kitchen. I pictured roots forming, tiny white shootlets. A little stick, doing what it should. An ordinary twig.

  Blood, though, was the opposite of peaceful.

  The boy prowled the school halls. He shoved and tripped kids. Nothing new about that. But his right cheek was puffed like a blowfish. All his insults were slurred.

  “Flower Boy” came out “Sshawa ba.” Kids giggled at his taunts.

  Talk flew around school. Blood would be puffy from that bee sting forever. The swelling was getting worse. No, it was better. The doctor had told Blood all he could do was wait.

  The boy's eyes were two narrow slits in his fat-cheek face. Seeking out Reuben and me.

  Not for the first time, I puzzled on Blood. Why was he so mean?

  I had tried avoiding the boy, talking to him, even hitting back. My rosebush had stuck him good.

  Nothing had worked. His meanness had gotten worse. Name-calling, punching, stealing. Maybe Blood had never learned such meanness was wrong. That it was flat-out wrong to hurt others. Even in kindergarten, when he had been Howard instead of that dumb name, Blood, he had given himself, he had tormented littler kids.

  While Blood prowled puffy and the cutting perched peaceful, Ro's worm grew bigger and BIGGER and BIGGER. Ro carted that worm house EVERYWHERE. He murmured through the holes in the plastic lid, like a business guy on his cell phone. And that worm? It would waggle its skinny head out of the dirt, as if chitchatting with a friend.

  Ro had to move his pet to a bigger house, a plastic bowl. And still it grew. Bigger and BIGGER and BIGGER.

  Finally, Juana asked an important question: “Is that worm eating too much?”

  We were sprawled on the steps of our apartment building. The whole world smelled clean, washed by a recent rain. Grass blades waved from sidewalk cracks. Sparrows dipped beaks in small puddles. Most likely, the weeds in Rooter's were growing as big as Ro's worm. I knew I should mosey to the garden and see.

  “That worm's a monster,” Gaby declared. “Wormzilla.”

  “He's healthy!” Ro clutched his bowl.

  “ Wor menstein.”

  Reuben nudged me. “Maybe Ro has a gift, like your mama.”

  A worm gift? All I can say is, if that boy's gift was as powerful-strong as my mama's, then Juana and Gaby were in trouble. I had just escaped my apartment, where Mama's gift was in full force. She was planning her Green Thumb display for the city's big garden show in a month. The show took place every year in the convention center, she had told me. It was the best place for landscape artists and plant businesses to advertise.

  “Advertise” usually means a sign, right? Maybe a TV commercial.

  Not at this show. Some businesses created entire gardens inside. Fountains, trees, five kinds of flowers. Even waterfalls. Green Thumb did not have that kind of money, Mama told me. She would create a small, modest display.

  Small? Modest? As she experimented with different designs, Mama turned our whole apartment into one HUGE ever-changing garden display. She kept moving the ficus, hanging signs, arranging flowerpots.

  Too much plant chat! I had escaped my too-green apartment … to listen to Ro and his worm.

  Reuben poked me. “What about your gift?” he asked. “Seen any poison ivy or huge bees lately? Broken any bones?”

  “Were you talking to me?” I poked back. “The guy with the slam-dunk gift? For your information, that cutting has been as peaceful as any of Mama's plants. An ordinary twig.”

  I jumped up. “In fact, that thing should be ready to plant now at Rooter's.”

  All the joking went out of Reuben. “Let's bring it back to the graveyard,” he urged.

  “I know the perfect spot at Rooter's.” I ignored his doom-and-gloom tone. “Come on, we'll surprise Mr. K.”

  “Can I bring my worm?” Ro piped up.

  “Sure, we'll take him on a field trip,” said Juana. “Get it? Field trip?” She glanced at Reuben's serious face. “Never mind.”

  “Ro!” Gaby roared, dusting her jeans. “You spilled worm poop on my pants.”<
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  “Soil,” Ro corrected.

  Reuben rose slooowwwly. “I'll go with you,” he said, all poke-turtle cautious. “But I still think it's wrong.”

  I stomped through the door. I wasn't going to listen to Reuben's gotta-have-respect speech again.

  I fetched the little stick, got transplanting instructions from Mama, marched everyone down to Rooter's, and stuck that thing in the ground.

  I'm not saying that what happened next began at that moment. Or that the cutting caused it. I am saying that a change occurred.

  I would call that change a coincidence. Unlike doom-and-gloom Reuben, I would never call it a curse.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  From that day on, the city got hotter and HOTTER and HOTTER. Ninety degrees, ninety-three degrees, ninety-seven degrees. And the rain stopped falling. It was the hottest, driest May on record. Water was rationed. Mama took a quick shower only every other day, so we could save water for her plants.

  In our apartment, the pansies, primroses, philodendrons, and ficus survived. Outside, the green things shriveled and turned brown. Grass blades disappeared from sidewalk cracks. We had to set out bowls of water for the thirsty sparrows.

  Rooter's looked as sad as one of Reuben's lost planets. Even Captain Nemo wouldn't have been able to save it. All twenty-nine plots looked pitiful. Even the weeds shriveled. And my rosebush? My fierce puddle of thorns? It drooped like the weepiest willow.

  Now, a drought is a drought. Nothing supernatural about that.

  But here comes the strange part.

  In its perfect place by the fence, close to Mr. K.'s roses, sat the transplanted twig. The thing didn't grow or die. It stayed exactly the same. But around it—and this was really strange— those small Texas roses bloomed. The only bright patch of color in the brown garden. Maybe the only roses growing in the city.

  “Must be the soil,” I told Reuben when we stopped by the garden after school. There was no sound from the blacktop on Evert Street. No shouts. No quick-dribblin' bounce-bounce-bounce. The blacktop had been empty for days. No one could play b-ball in the heat.