Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop Read Online Free Page B
Author: Mary Quattlebaum
he said. “I prepared it, fertilized it. I set out earthworms I bought myself.”
I could see it now: me and Mr. K. arrested for vandalizing. For stealing Drane and Company soil.
“The whole thing will be plowed up.” His old voice cracked. “In a few weeks, this will be gone. You think I'm gonna waste this rich dirt?”
Mr. K. protectively gathered his bowls. “I'm gonna start an indoor garden.”
I thought of Mailbags's talk about seasons. How earth rested in winter, grew more plants in spring. Mr. K.'s dirt would keep creating—even when Rooter's disappeared.
“Mr. K.,” I said, “can I use a cup?”
He smiled. “Gonna grow your own zucchini?”
“Only if you eat it.” I smiled back. Knelt in my plot. Dig, dig, dig.
I filled one cup for me.
Dig, dig. I filled four extra. For Reuben,Juana, Mama, Mailbags. Dirt from Plot 5-1. Guaranteed to grow the city's best weeds.
I ran my sleeve over my face. Talk about hard work.
But the hardest part was still to come.
Mr. K. planned to trundle his dug-up plot home in a teeny wire cart. In this rickety basket with two skinny wheels.
But two buckets, three bowls, and twenty dirt-filled cups didn't fit.
I sighed and hoisted the buckets. Mr. K. tugged his cart.
We struggled down the street. Slow as two ancient turtles.
Of course, when we passed the b-ball blacktop, the big guys had to comment.
“Jackson! Look at you.”
“All that dirt—you making a cornfield?”
I gave them a nod. Trudged on.
The sun was getting higher in the sky. And I was getting nervous. I was late to meet Reuben.
Blood would already be on the move.
I sure didn't want to see Blood. Not haulingtwo buckets, like some baby Jack-and-Jill rhyme. Not with Mr. K.'s squeaky cart.
I picked up the pace.
If I had known what was waiting, I would have slowed down. Way down.
Huh, if I had known what was waiting with Reuben, I would have stopped. Turned around. Gone back. Buckets, squeaky cart, and all.
C HAPTER E IGHT
Waiting for me were noise and confusion.
I had just dropped Mr. K. off at his place. Mr. K. and his gallons of dirt. In a few weeks, when the first seeds sprouted, his one plant would have company. LOTS of company.
Mr. K. turned stubborn when I asked about his building's rules. “They got rules on wall color, carpet, the number of pictures,” he grumbled. “But I never read one word about dirt.”
Climbing the steps to my apartment building, I flexed my fingers. Those five paper cups were hard to hold. And a blister was startingto form. It better not mess with my blacktop action. After being Farmer -in-the-Dell all morning, I needed a b-ball game.
But when I pushed open the door of our building … noise pushed back at me.
Gaby and Ro were stomping round the lobby.
Reuben screeched his marker on a big square of paper.
Juana directed his writing.
Uh-oh. Juana had that J-for-justice look in her eyes. And there was no basketball in sight.
When they saw me, Gaby and Ro rushed over. “We're practicing!” they yelled.
I glanced at the finished signs. Reuben's letters were large, black, and clear.
Save the Garden
Root for Rooter's
Mother Nature Now
“Jackson,” Juana greeted me. “Listen, I've got a plan.”
That's how I found myself back on the sidewalk, headed to Rooter's.
This time toting a sign.
Before setting out, I'd had a chance to stash my dirt-filled cups in my apartment, under the ficus. “Wish me luck,” I whispered to the tree.
Yeah, I was going to need LOTS of luck. Juana's plan called for a protest march.
And that girl wanted to put her plan into action
immediately.
No waiting for Mama, who'd gone to the library. No waiting for Mail-bags, who was delivering Saturday mail. No calling any of the other Rooters.
“But they're part of the garden, too,” I pointed out.
Besides, I thought, a few grown-ups might give our protest some dignity. I'd seen marches on the TV news. Grown-ups shouting, waving signs. Would people pay attention to
I could see it now: me and Mr. K. arrested for vandalizing. For stealing Drane and Company soil.
“The whole thing will be plowed up.” His old voice cracked. “In a few weeks, this will be gone. You think I'm gonna waste this rich dirt?”
Mr. K. protectively gathered his bowls. “I'm gonna start an indoor garden.”
I thought of Mailbags's talk about seasons. How earth rested in winter, grew more plants in spring. Mr. K.'s dirt would keep creating—even when Rooter's disappeared.
“Mr. K.,” I said, “can I use a cup?”
He smiled. “Gonna grow your own zucchini?”
“Only if you eat it.” I smiled back. Knelt in my plot. Dig, dig, dig.
I filled one cup for me.
Dig, dig. I filled four extra. For Reuben,Juana, Mama, Mailbags. Dirt from Plot 5-1. Guaranteed to grow the city's best weeds.
I ran my sleeve over my face. Talk about hard work.
But the hardest part was still to come.
Mr. K. planned to trundle his dug-up plot home in a teeny wire cart. In this rickety basket with two skinny wheels.
But two buckets, three bowls, and twenty dirt-filled cups didn't fit.
I sighed and hoisted the buckets. Mr. K. tugged his cart.
We struggled down the street. Slow as two ancient turtles.
Of course, when we passed the b-ball blacktop, the big guys had to comment.
“Jackson! Look at you.”
“All that dirt—you making a cornfield?”
I gave them a nod. Trudged on.
The sun was getting higher in the sky. And I was getting nervous. I was late to meet Reuben.
Blood would already be on the move.
I sure didn't want to see Blood. Not haulingtwo buckets, like some baby Jack-and-Jill rhyme. Not with Mr. K.'s squeaky cart.
I picked up the pace.
If I had known what was waiting, I would have slowed down. Way down.
Huh, if I had known what was waiting with Reuben, I would have stopped. Turned around. Gone back. Buckets, squeaky cart, and all.
C HAPTER E IGHT
Waiting for me were noise and confusion.
I had just dropped Mr. K. off at his place. Mr. K. and his gallons of dirt. In a few weeks, when the first seeds sprouted, his one plant would have company. LOTS of company.
Mr. K. turned stubborn when I asked about his building's rules. “They got rules on wall color, carpet, the number of pictures,” he grumbled. “But I never read one word about dirt.”
Climbing the steps to my apartment building, I flexed my fingers. Those five paper cups were hard to hold. And a blister was startingto form. It better not mess with my blacktop action. After being Farmer -in-the-Dell all morning, I needed a b-ball game.
But when I pushed open the door of our building … noise pushed back at me.
Gaby and Ro were stomping round the lobby.
Reuben screeched his marker on a big square of paper.
Juana directed his writing.
Uh-oh. Juana had that J-for-justice look in her eyes. And there was no basketball in sight.
When they saw me, Gaby and Ro rushed over. “We're practicing!” they yelled.
I glanced at the finished signs. Reuben's letters were large, black, and clear.
Save the Garden
Root for Rooter's
Mother Nature Now
“Jackson,” Juana greeted me. “Listen, I've got a plan.”
That's how I found myself back on the sidewalk, headed to Rooter's.
This time toting a sign.
Before setting out, I'd had a chance to stash my dirt-filled cups in my apartment, under the ficus. “Wish me luck,” I whispered to the tree.
Yeah, I was going to need LOTS of luck. Juana's plan called for a protest march.
And that girl wanted to put her plan into action
immediately.
No waiting for Mama, who'd gone to the library. No waiting for Mail-bags, who was delivering Saturday mail. No calling any of the other Rooters.
“But they're part of the garden, too,” I pointed out.
Besides, I thought, a few grown-ups might give our protest some dignity. I'd seen marches on the TV news. Grown-ups shouting, waving signs. Would people pay attention to
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