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

again.” He sauntered off.
    Reuben grabbed me. He pawed me like Iwas that guy in the Bible, Lazarus, come back from the dead. “You okay, man?” he kept asking.

    I straightened my arm. It worked just fine.
    I stepped into my walk, the one Miz Lady calls my Mr. Cool style.
    “That boy’s just wanting,” I said.
    I wish I could say Blood never bothered me again. But he still cawed “Boo-kay” over the garden fence, and once in a while he’d punch my arm, for old times’ sake. His meanness continues to be one of life’s mysteries. Maybe someday he’ll find out what he wants.
    The flowers grew back, just like Mailbags said they would. And with three people—Reuben, Mama, and me—working that garden, I had more time for other things.
    Hanging out.
    Writing three Captain Nemo strips.
    Slam-dunking my new b-ball.
    Yes, the day finally came when I trimmed twenty-five zinnias. Reuben tied up their stems with a precise bow. And Mailbags bought the whole bunch. Just slapped twenty-fivebucks in my hand and lifted those zinnias high. “These flowers are perfect,” he said, and smiled his buffalo smile.
    Reuben and I stepped down to Harvey’s Sports and tapped, poked, and softly dribbled each basketball. Then we tapped, poked, and dribbled them all over again. I’d waited for this basketball for a long time. I wanted to make sure I bought the best.
    Finally, I laid down my flower money and picked up the best basketball. I spun it, tossed a fast one to Reuben.
    Thonk
, my man caught it. Tossed it back.
    Thonk
, the ball slapped my palm. Ahh! That felt good.
    And don’t you know, when I got home those same flowers were sitting in Mama’s blue vase.
    “Did you buy those zinnias from Mailbags?” I asked.
    “They were a gift,” said Mama.
    “Mailbags
gave
you those flowers?” I couldn’t believe it. “Those flowers cost him twenty-five dollars—and he just gives them away. The man
wastes
money.”
    “Maybe not,” said Mama.
    After that I noticed that Mailbags tended to mosey over to my garden every time Mama was around. I also noticed Mama would stop weeding and chat.
    “What kind of role model inclines a mama to laziness?” I grinned at Mama one day as we weeded the lettuce.
    “Boy”—she grinned back—“you trying to grow trouble in this garden?”
    But I knew better. Mixed in with trouble was some good garden stuff. I coolly yanked a weed.

About the Author
    MARY QUATTLEBAUM is an award-winning author of picture books, poetry, and novels for children, including
Underground Train, Grover G. Graham and Me
, and
Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns
, winner of the first Marguerite de Angeli Prize,
Parenting’s
Reading Magic Award, and other accolades. Mary Quattlebaum writes frequently for the
Washington Post
and teaches creative writing in Washington, D.C., where she lives with her husband and their daughter. For years Mary Quattlebaum tended a plot in a community garden, where, like Jackson, she found both weeds and good fellowship.
    You can read more about the author on her Web site at www.maryquattlebaum.com .

About the Illustrator
    MELODYE ROSALES studied art, filmmaking, and animation at the University of Illinois, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and Columbia College. She has illustrated several books for children, including
Kwanzaa, Double Dutch and the Voodoo Shoes, Beans on the Roof
, and
Addy
in the American Girl series. She lives in Champaign, Illinois, with her husband and their two children.

Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York
    Text copyright © 1994 by Mary Quattlebaum
Illustrations copyright © 1994 by Melodye Rosales
    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where