Jackson Jones and the Curse of the Outlaw Rose (5 page)

If Gaby could infuriate a living, breathing human, think what she'd do to an outlaw-rose ghost.

“Enough.” Juana clouted Gaby. “Hold hands, everyone. Listen to Jackson.” She gave my hand a go-ahead squeeze.

Slowly we closed our circle round the twig. It looked so ordinary, stuck in the ground. How could it be haunted?

I glanced over my shoulder, checked out the sidewalk. It was bad enough to drive round in a zuke mobile. But if the b-ball guys or Blood saw me chatting up a plant, my cool reputation would be shot forever.

The sidewalk was empty. The air hot and still.

Across from me, Reuben nodded. I tightened my grip on Ro's hand and Juana's.

“Urn,” I began. “Hello, spirit.”

A breeze swirled through. Gaby jumped.

“It's okay,” I spoke to the plant. “We're, um, friends. Please don't get mad.”

I took a breath. Tried to think what Mama might do. Plants seem to sense feelings, she had told me. And sometimes, she had said, she could sense what they needed. That's how she knew how to help.

“Will the ghost talk?” Gaby whispered.

I closed my eyes. I felt the sun hot on my face and arms. Heard Ro sniff. Smelled the moist dirt turned up by his spoon.

Then a lonesome feeling touched me. Made me shiver.

I opened my eyes.

“You okay?” Juana was peering at me.

Gaby shook my arm. “When's the ghost coming?”

I looked straight at Reuben. “We gotta dig it up,” I said. “We gotta bring it back to the cemetery. You were right, man. I'm sorry.”

Reuben shrugged. He didn't say “I told
you so.” Didn't feed me a gotta-have-respect speech.

“You mean it's over?” Gaby glared first at me, then at Reuben. “No moaning? No chains?”

“What did you expect? A floating sheet?” I smiled over at Reuben. Picked up Ro's spoon. Started to dig.

“Talk about cheap ghosts!” Gaby snorted.

“See if you can find another worm for Ro,” Juana said, sifting through the dirt.

“Not from this spot,” I said, gently lifting the transplanted twig. “We gotta get this—”

Suddenly a huge hand reached over my shoulder.

The cutting disappeared.

“Aargh,” screamed Gaby.

I whirled around.

Blood.

That bully boy took three steps back. Tossed the twig from one flat palm to the other.

“What's this, Rosey Jones?” He dangled the cutting by its skinny roots. “Sure is one
ugly
flower.”

“Blood.” I took a step closer. “Don't mess with that plant.”

“Give it back,” ordered Juana.

Blood smirked. “I didn't hear the magic word.” His huge fist closed round the twig.

“Please,” said Juana.

Blood opened his fist. Yanked a root off the twig.

I lunged—and Blood shoved me back.

“Try that again, Jones, and this thing is dead.” His eyes narrowed. “Why you so worried 'bout this stick?”

“We're not,” I lied desperately. What if the ghost appeared? What if it was mad?

Gaby pointed at the stick. “Watch out, Blood,” she said. “That thing's haunted.”

Blood blinked.

“The ghost moans,” Gaby whispered spook-ily. “It rattles chains. And”—she shuddered— “it has no … head.”

Ro started to cry.

Blood snorted. “You expect me to believe that? I'm gonna tear up this thing—and then get that big baby's worm.”

Gaby shrugged. “So, you'll be cursed. Forever. See if we care.”

That's when we heard the buzz.

From far off. Just like before.

One huge bee. Gunning for Blood.

That boy dropped the twig and ran.

I heard his feet pounding the sidewalk. Heard his yells.

Then everything went quiet.

After a while, Reuben whispered, “Better pick it up, Jackson.”

I reached down. Gently folded the broken twig into my hand.

Slowly we walked to Rooter's gate. As I lifted the latch, Gaby murmured, “You heard me warn him. Now Blood is cursed. Forever.”

“He wanted to kill my worm,” Ro sniffed.

I glanced back once at the yellow roses. And at the fresh dirt smoothed over the hole left by the twig in my hand. Moist dirt when no one watered the garden. The only roses blooming.

“Jackson,” Reuben whispered as the kids and Juana hurried down the sidewalk. “We gotta get that twig back to the cemetery.”

“And fast,” I agreed.

But the plant was destined to be in my apartment for another twenty-four hours.

That day it had been dug up, damaged by
Blood, plopped in a cup of water. In the ghost books, spirits often got mad over much, much less. Right now the cutting rested peacefully on the kitchen window ledge. But, as the library book had warned, you never knew with ghosts. Maybe this very minute it was planning the next curse. I bet it could do a LOT of damage in twenty-four hours.

“Jackson, quit pestering.” Mama frowned at me over dinner. “You know tomorrow is the first day of the big garden show. I've got a lot of work to do tonight. There's no way I can take you to the country now.”

“Please, Mama,” I begged.

“If you don't want that cutting,” Mama said, “just toss it. No need to drive—”

“NO!” I jumped up. “Promise you won't throw it away, Mama. Promise we'll go to the cemetery tomorrow.”

Mama set down her fork. She looked straight at me. “You want to tell me what's going on?”

I did want to tell her. I wanted to lay out the whole ghost story, the curse of the outlaw rose. But something held me back. Mama
might try to soothe and heal that cutting. What if, thanks to her gift, it grew and GREW and GREW? What if more folks took cuttings and the ghost got passed around? Fell into evil hands? The wrong person might try to unleash the curse—the poison ivy and bees—upon the city. Or maybe the whole world. Captain Nemo was always fighting villains like that. Or what if scientists wanted to study the plant, like in the experiments Mama had mentioned? They might bombard it with screams and noise. They might chop it into teeny pieces. What if the ghost could never return to its place?

Suddenly that cold, lonesome feeling passed through me again. On the ledge, the cutting trembled.

Yes, the fewer grown-ups who knew about the haunted twig, the better.

“Jackson!” Mama's voice brought me back. “Are you okay?”

I sat back down. “Mama, you just gotta trust me. Tomorrow after the show, we take back the plant. Promise?”

Mama promised, but a worry frown stayed between her eyes.

As we ate, I thought about the twenty-four hours ahead. Reuben and I had planned to spend tomorrow, a Saturday, creating our next Nemo strip. But with the twig around, I drew a big Xin my mind through those plans. I didn't want to be in the same building with that haunted thing. I'd be constantly watching for poison ivy and bees. Worrying about my bones. As for my friends, I didn't want them zapped by the curse.

“Can Reuben and I come with you to the garden show?” I spoke up. “Juana, too? And, I suppose, Gaby and Ro?”

“I guess there's enough room in the van,” Mama said, surprised. “Oh, let's invite Mr. Kerring. He might enjoy seeing the displays. He's been stuck so long with that broken ankle.”

“Sprained,” I corrected. “But like Reuben said, an ankle is part of his leg and so the curse—”

I broke off. Luckily, Mama had taken that moment to scrape a plate and hadn't heard.

“Can Mailbags come?” I added.

“Please don't bug that poor man,” said Mama. “He has enough to do.”

“Mailbags
likes
to be bugged. You know that home for Ro's worm? He made it.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, you can't ask Mailbags. He's busy.”

I slumped in my chair. “Well, I call that mean,” I grumbled. “Mailbags is always saying nice things about you.”

I peeked at Mama, trying some strategy. “He said he would never try to tell you what to do.”

“Is that so?” said Mama.

I smiled. “He said it
very
complimentary.”

“The man knows a strong mind when he meets one.” Mama laughed.

“So?”

“No.”

All I can say is, if bees and poison ivy showed up at the apartment building the next day, I hoped Mailbags would be out. And, please, let him avoid all bone-damaging situations.

That ghost gave me the jitters all night long. And all through breakfast, too.

“This is the third time you've jumped up,” Mama fussed. “And the third time you've bumped my cup.”

“Sorry.” I slid back in my seat. “Thought I heard a bee.”

“Relax.” Mama mopped a coffee spill. “No bee can fly through a closed window.”

Except a ghost bee
, I thought, remembering Blood's panic the day before. And his puffed-up face a few weeks ago.

“Lord knows I'm jittery, too.” Mama sighed, rubbing her finger. “All the money spent renting a booth for the garden show. You've got to
advertise for a business to grow. Still, what if no one comes? With the weather so dry—”

“You're scratching,” I cried, grabbing her hand. “Poison ivy!”

“Poison ivy in the city?” Mama's worry frown crossed her brow. “You seem awful tense, Jackson. Maybe you should stay home.”

With the haunted plant? I jumped up, gathering dishes. “I'll clean the kitchen. You go get ready.” I waved her toward the bathroom.

Mama shot me a puzzled look as she left. I turned to the cutting on the ledge. I knew what I had to do.

Mama chatted to plants, encouraging growth. Mr. K. bossed them into bigness. This rose twig needed a different kind of talk.

It needed the facts.

“Listen,” I said very firmly. “I know you want to go back to your graveyard.”

I waited for the plant, ghost, something to react.

The air was very still.

“This is how it is,” I continued. “I promise to
take you tonight. Till then, I don't want any trouble. No broken bones, no bees, no poison ivy. No bad luck for Mama's business. Understand?”

I paused.

There it was again, that cold, lonesome feeling. Making me shiver.

“You miss your home,” I spoke softly to the twig. “I'm sorry I moved you.”

I stayed by the window for a while, keeping it company.

“You did
what?”
Reuben dropped the watering can with a clatter.

“Careful! That's Mama's display.” I grabbed the can by the spout and shoved it into the Green Thumb van. All over again, I explained to Reuben how I had talked to the twig. Sort of the same way the school principal or Mama sometimes talked to me. Slowly. Firmly. No bees. No broken bones. No poison ivy. No trouble. “The ghost understands,” I said. “Everything will be fine.”

Reuben heaved a doom-and-gloom sigh.

“What?” I said.

“You never know with ghosts,” Reuben said in his careful, poke-turtle way. “They're … unpredictable.”

“Everything will be fine,” I repeated.

We finished loading Mama's signs, spades, and shears, and squeezed in beside Gaby, Ro, and Juana. Mama gave an embarrassing
toot-toot
on the horn to Mailbags in his truck, and the zuke mobile was off.

No bees, no broken bones, no poison ivy.

No jitters for me. I felt relaxed all the way to Mr. K.'s building.