Free Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop by Mary Quattlebaum Page B

my strategy, maybe.
    But Mailbags chimed right in. “The boy could be right, Grace. There's no denying, things grow for you. A plant doctor—why not?”
    Listen to Mailbags helping me out!
    “Oh, I don't know.” Mama shook her head. “I'm so busy with work.”
    “And with Jackson.” Mr. K. hid a smile. Acting like I was a baby, with booties and drool.
    “Huh,” I said, stung. “If Mama wanted to study to be a plant doctor, well, I could take care of myself.”
    I would live to eat those words. Boiled, broiled, breaded, and baked.

    Two days later, Mailbags knocked on our door and handed Mama a catalog. Handed? The man flourished that booklet like a gold candy box.
    “A list of fall classes,” he said. “The college offers a program in landscape design.”
    “What's landscape design?” I broke in. It sounded awful country.
    “Oh, fixing up spaces with plants and trees. Making them look nice.” Mama turned to Mailbags. “I don't think—”
    “Listen to your mama, refusing my present.” Mailbags winked at me. “Tell her it's not that hard, taking one class at a time.”
    Mailbags should know. He has been going to college for years. Toting mail during the day and listening to teachers at night. Why would a grown man
want
to go to school? It's a mystery to me.
    “Wasn't that thoughtful?” Mama murmured when he had left.
    I pointed out that Mailbags lived in our apartment building, on the first floor. “He didn't have to trudge through snow or sleet or ice,” I said. “He brought that catalog in his little mail truck.”
    Mama smiled. “I mean, well, he thought those classes might be important—”
    “But they're not,” I interrupted. “You said you were busy.”
    “I am.”
    “You already know about flowers,” I continued. “Plus, there's my garden. You can doctor that!”
    Mama laughed.
    But she didn't throw out the catalog. And later, after she had watered her green babies, patted the ficus, and wished me good night, I saw Mama pick up that catalog and start to read.

C HAPTER T HREE

    The idea must have taken root in Mama's mind then. And grown like the stubbornest weed.
    But I was too busy to try pulling it out.
    School had started, and I had a big problem.
    Name of the problem: Blood Green.
    Actually, his real name is Howard. But he changed it to Blood about a year ago—and punched any kid who called him anything different.
    Blood, huh. I'd like to stick that boy in a Nemo strip.
Pow! Bam!
The captain would take care of him. Blood would be
yowing
all over the page.
    But this was real life. And I was trapped.
    Blood had been away for the summer. Camp, I heard. Torturing other kids while we kicked back for three Blood-less months.
    Now he was back.
    And, of course, he started his trash talk immediately.
    Not in school, though. Blood is never mean where a teacher might hear. The boy has strategy. He waits till grown-ups are gone— and then he lets you have it.
    “Hey, Bouquet Jones!”
    I winced. Reuben, Juana, and I were taking in the b-ball game after school. Big guys playing on the Evert Street blacktop. Maybe they'd let us shoot a few hoops.
    Gaby and Ro scratched in the dirt close by. Building an ant fort, they said.
    “Barn Boy, you hear me?”
    For Blood's information, I have never been within twenty miles of a barn. The only cow I've seen comes on a milk carton.
    Listen to that hollering fool. Blood better watch out. I'm gonna hone my b-ball skills till I'm so fine I can dribble his bald head down any court and slam-dunk it through any hoop.
    “Hey, Jones.” Blood muscled up to me. “How's your little sweet pea?”
    I stepped back, clenching my fists.
    Ro wailed, “You
broke
our fort.”
    “You didn't answer my question, Jones.” Blood rubbed his big shoe over Ro's little sticks.
    “Stop it,” Juana commanded.
    “Sweet pea.” Gaby snorted. “Jackson never grew one of
those.”
    “Yeah.” Ro threw in his word.
    Mama is always telling us big kids to watch out for the