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

anyway,” said Gaby. “Mama locked up the Night of Stars.”
    “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Juana directed THE LOOK at Gaby.
    “Cake?” Gaby asked.
    “Apologize to Jackson.”
    “No.”
    THE LOOK deepened.
    “I’m-sorry-I-cut-your-stinking-flowers-now-can-I-have-some-cake.” Gaby got that out in one breath.
    “I’m sorry,” said Ro.
    “Ro didn’t do anything,” said Reuben.
    “He just wants cake,” explained Gaby.
    Juana turned to Ro. “Say, ‘please,’ not ‘I’m sorry.’ And don’t suck your thumb.”
    “I’m not sucking, I’m
tasting.
”
    Juana addressed the adults. “I’m trying to teach them manners.”
    Then Juana apologized to me, saying she had falsely accused me of cheating Gaby. Seems like Gaby finally told her the real storybehind the sale of the red zinnias. She also said she still felt—THE LOOK crossed her face—I had treated Reuben wrong.
    I knew that.
    Night was coming on and the lightning bugs dipped over Reuben’s bows. Checking out the exotic flowers, I guess. Still we stayed outside. Mailbags rapped in his buffalo voice about a dude that sowed seeds and reaped gold—mari-gold. We all laughed. The little kids sang about
el gato
in a sombrero. (Which means “cat in a hat.” Juana’s taught me that much Spanish.)
    Then I started thinking how we—Reuben, Miz Lady, Juana, everybody—were gathered around kind of like the plants in my garden. Like flowers, almost. (Except Gaby was more like a weed.) And the city Mama and I had passed through last night—with folks sitting on their front steps and pigeons and all—was part of that garden, and that garden spread out a long way in the darkness, even into other countries. It was weird to think of the garden covering that much ground. Like thinkingof the sky making a place for everyone to breathe. And the vastness of space.
    I thought and thought, trying to understand.
    Big things and small things—how they all fit together. How flowers die—and then come back. (According to Mailbags, anyway. I’d believe
that
when I saw it.)
    Mama told a story. Miz Lady told a longer one.
    Till the mosquitoes started biting and drove us inside.
    Mama said it was her happiest birthday ever.
    The next day as Reuben and I walked to school, he asked the BIG question:
    “You scared about Blood?”
    I’d asked myself that question a lot since Mama’s garden party.
    “I know what I’m going to do.”
    “Prepare to die.” Reuben shuffled beside me. “Hey, can I have your Nemo notebook when he wastes you?”
    “He’s not going to waste me.” Lub-dub. My heart again.
    “How about your spade?”
    “Vulture.”
    “Dead meat.”
    Reuben softly punched my arm.
    At school Blood eyed the clock, then eyed me, then eyed the clock. He reminded me of a Doberman pinscher watching a little piece of steak.
    Ms. Wanbe signaled for recess.
    Grim-lipped, Reuben walked beside me. We were the last in line.
    Lub-dub, lub-dub went my musical heart.
    One by one the kids peeled off to the blacktop.
    Except Blood. He waited for me by the door.
    With the fat lip I’d given him, he looked twice as mean.
    “Jackson,” Reuben whispered.
    “Shut up,” Blood growled. “Or you’re next.”
    He rubbed his fist into his palm. I wonderedif he was going to lick his chops, like a Doberman pinscher.
    “I got something to say.” I stepped forward.
    “You got
nothing
to say.” Blood spat. The spit quivered, then seeped into the sidewalk.
    “I know you didn’t cut those flowers.”
    Blood stepped back. His big face seemed to deflate. “I never touched your stupid garden.”
    “I know,” I said.
    “So apologize.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Jackson, you fool,” Reuben wailed.
    Blood glared at me. “Is this a joke?”
    I shook my head.
    Blood peered into my face. “Are you scared?”
    “Only a little,” I said honestly.
    Then Blood doubled back and—Wham!—punched me.
    But on the arm. And not too hard.
    “See you don’t make that mistake