Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns by Mary Quattlebaum Read Free Book Online

leapt up past my knees.
    Suddenly Reuben bonked my head. I poked his arm. And before I knew it, I had promised him my Space Shuttle Grill ice cream saucer.
    “Reuben,” I said, “I’m sorry I said you were slow.”
    “Precise,” said Reuben.
    That’s how Mama got two birthday celebrations in a row—one at the Space Shuttle Grill and one at the garden.
    She liked Reuben’s bows. She liked Miz Lady’s pineapple surprise cake. She liked Mailbags’s gift of two crookneck squash.
    She loved the flowers I bought from the florist. Even though they were a rip-off. Ten dollars for two wrinkled yellow roses and a tuft of leaves.
    Abraham even came.
    “I thought a garden would be the death of you,” I said.
    “Just came to sing happy birthday to your mother.”
    “I hope you can stay for cake,” said Mama.
    “I hope so too,” said Abraham.
    Abraham ate his usual two slices of cake. I didn’t even tease him, I felt that good.
    “I even got myself a present.” Mama laughed and waved a package of zinnia seeds. “I’m hoping Jackson will share a corner of his garden.”
    “Garden’s dead,” I said.
    “No way,” said Mailbags. “Those flowers are going to bloom again. Give ’em a few weeks.”
    Seventy flowers blooming. Twenty-five spelling
basketball
.
    Reuben and I high-fived.
    “Here comes Juana and the kids,” said Mama. “Maybe they’d like some cake.”
    Slap, slap, slap. Juana’s sandals marched up the garden path. In one hand she carried a peanut jar and a plastic grocery bag. The other was clamped to a struggling Gaby.
    Slap, slap, slap. Juana’s face was set.
    “She doesn’t look like she wants cake,” Reuben whispered.
    I knew that look. Juana had turned that same look—THE LOOK—on me when she had accused me of cheating Gaby.
    “The money’s gone,” I shouted. “I bought flowers for Mama’s birthday.”
    Slap, slap, slap, slap.
    Juana halted in front of me.
    “Gaby has a confession to make.”
    So THE LOOK was directed at Gaby, not me. What a relief.
    Gaby scrambled for the peanut jar. Ro dove for the bag.
    Juana shook them off.
    “A terrible confession,” she said.
    “They’re mine,” Gaby screamed. “Mine, mine, mine.”
    As I watched Gaby claw and leap, I had a terrible feeling. My spirit fell again and landed somewhere in the heel of my right Air Jordan. It trembled there.
    I had punched the wrong man.

“W hat’s in the jar?” I asked Juana.
    “Olive oil.”
    “
Fragrant
oils,” howled Gaby.
    “She was making perfume,” Juana explained.
    I grabbed the bag. It was full of petals. And broken flower heads. Probably about seventy.
    “You stole my perfume”—Gaby landed a kick on Juana’s leg—“just when it was smelling good.”
    “Smelling good,” Ro howled.
    Gaby sighed tragically. “I was going to sell it for a hundred bucks a bottle. Maybe more. It smelled much better than that blond-headlady’s.” She faced me. “I was going to cut you in on the profits, Jackson. Honest. Just as soon as I invented it.”
    Juana’s face didn’t change expression.
    Gaby gazed out across the garden as if seeing a great vision. “I was going to call it Bouquet Jones,” she said. Her look swept across the street, as if including the cars, people, and 7-Eleven store in her vision. “It would have been as famous as Calvin Klein perfume. Now…” She sadly spread her empty hands.
    Mama uncapped the peanut jar. Sniffed. “Vanilla,” she pronounced.
    “A hint of cinnamon,” said Miz Lady.
    Mailbags sniffed. “Definitely olive oil.”
    “And twelve drops of Night of Stars,” said Gaby. “Dab some behind your ears. Free trial.”
    “Gaby has three dollars and seventy-two cents, which she would like to pay you for damages,” Juana told me.
    “No, she wouldn’t,” said Gaby.
    “It’s okay,” I said. “The flowers will grow back.”
    Gaby stuck her tongue out at Juana.
    “Just don’t ever cut them again,” I added quickly.
    “The perfume business is bust