Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop Read Online Free Page A

way each day. If he couldn't predict our movements, Blood couldn't jump us.
    Captain Nemo might fight his villains. He'd punch the Flawt, whomp the Cerebral, tackle the Unspeakable Z. But this was real life. Reuben and I tried to avoid the enemy.
    On Saturday, I was still in avoidance mode. Reuben and I had worked out a plan. I'd go to the garden early to clear out my stuff, before the bulldozers came. Blood would still be asleep. Then I'd meet Reuben back at our apartment building. I'd pick up my b-ball, and we'd head for the blacktop. Shoot hoops for the rest of the morning. If Blood found us, he might launch some mean names, but he wouldn't touch us. Too many people around.
    At seven o'clock, I was moseying down the street. Turning the corner onto Evert.
    Morning mist silvered the garden. A breeze rustled through. Two birds started a chirp conversation.
    That's when I saw them.
    Big. Red.
    My rosebush had finally bloomed.
    I opened the gate, hurried over.
    Four roses! From a thorny stick to a bloomingbeauty—that bush had come a long way. Wait till Mama saw it.
    “You stubborn thing.” I tapped a flower. “Deciding to look nice—right before being bulldozed.”
    “Got yourself some roses,” came a voice.
    Talk about embarrassing. Had the person heard me? I was as bad as Mama, talking to plants!
    Hunkered in his neat plot was Mr. Kerring. Surrounded by two buckets, three plastic bowls, about twenty paper cups.
    His garden was full of holes.
    Mr. K. shifted stiffly, peering at me. He looked like an elderly groundhog.
    “June roses are a dime a dozen,” Mr. K. humphed. “Everything blooms in summer.” His spade scratched into the earth. Dig. Dig. Dig. He slowly filled one of the bowls.
    “But a fall rose is special,” he continued. “Coming right before winter. Promising spring.”
    I didn't want to remind Mr. K. about the next spring. When it came, Rooter's would lie under some building.
    Mr. K. stopped, resting a moment. Smoothed back his wispy hair.
    Quickly I reached for the spade.
    Mr. K. held tight. “I can do it,” he barked.
    I held on.
    “Okay, but just for a minute,” he grumbled. “Treating me like an old man.”
    Dig, dig, dig. I filled one of the buckets.
    Dig, dig. I started on a bowl.
    The sun was warm on my back, the dirt rich and black. An earthworm slithered away.
    “I've worked this plot since I was ten,” Mr. K. said suddenly. “My grandma taught me how to build up the soil, how to stake a tomato. No, Jackson.” He shook a finger. “You'll get a blister holding the spade that way.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said, continuing to dig. I tried to picture Mr. K. as a boy. No wrinkles, no gray hair. Bossy as ever. Somehow, though, his commands didn't crab me as much. His words slid off me like rain off a leaf.
    “Things were different back then,” Mr. K. went on. “Victory gardens all over the city. Onbalconies, in windows. Every patch of dirt held some green. Americans had to grow their own food during the war. We had to free up factory food for the troops.”
    He cut me a sly look. “I remember a LOT of zucchini.”
    “Some things don't change,” I replied.
    Mr. K. chuckled. “Turnips. Parsnips. Rhubarb. You ever eat rhubarb without sugar?”
    Rhubarb? Sounded like a villain for Captain Nemo.
    “Sour.” Mr. K. stuck out his tongue. “And sugar was rationed. My grandma used to stick that nasty stuff in a pie. Call it dessert.”
    I glanced round the garden as I dug. Brown and dry, most of it. Some pansy faces still shone, though. Marigolds still hung out their colors. My roses were full and red. Strange to think of plants and people coming and going for years on this one patch of ground.
    Suddenly I stopped. Mr. K.'s garden had gone from the prettiest in Rooter's to the ugliest. Even my weed jungle looked better. The man now had a gopher city.
    “Mr. K.,” I said slowly, “what are we doing?”
    His eyes turned stubborn. Like Juana's when she feels she's right. “It's my dirt,”