Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop by Mary Quattlebaum

C HAPTER O NE

    He's driving hard down the court. Ball under perfect control. Fake right, pivot. The way is clear…. YES! Ball headed for basket and … it's innnnn. Two points. Victory!
    “You dreaming?” Reuben, my best friend, poked me.
    I sighed. I could catch the far-off sounds of the game down the street. The mind picture of me quick-dribbling, shooting, scoring … disappeared.
    No, I was rooted at Rooter's. Stuck in my plot at the community garden.
    “Whatcha think of the name?”
    I stubbed a weed. “Good for a monster.”
    “It'll be huge, green, and hated by all.”
    “Entire galaxies will tremble.”
    “The Unspeakable Z.”
    Reuben and I slapped skin. We had the perfect villain for our next comic strip.
    Since third grade, Captain Nemo Comics has been our life's work. Reuben and I are an excellent team. I write; Reuben draws. I work fast; Reuben peers and puzzles, eyeballs and erases. Poke-turtle slow, that's Reuben. And finicky! But he does make Nemo look good.
    Our favorite part is creating the villains. We make them mean, scary, and outer-space strange. Captain Nemo has tackled a six-headed Cerebral and a no-armed Flawt. Would the Unspeakable Z bring him down?
    “Hey, you two,” Mr. Kerring hollered from his fold-up chair. “You been on that weed for an hour. You think it's gonna pull itself up?”
    Mr. K. is the oldest Rooter in the garden. And the best. His plot next to mine is laid out like a kingdom. Beet greens march in neat rows; leeks line up like soldiers. He can remember back to the garden's beginning— in 1944.
    He can tell you how city folks grew food during World War II. “There was none of this running to 7-Eleven for chips,” he humphs. Mr. K. calls Rooter's a victory garden.
    Victory.
I knew the word. It meant the drive to the basket. Slam dunk—and SCORE. The other team left in the dust.
    Victory had nothing to do with a rosebush and squash.
    The stuff surrounding me now.
    People might have needed city gardens in the old days. But now? You can buy tomatoes and lettuce from Safeway. Gardens belong in the country. Deep in the country with cow muck and wasps.
    Try telling that to my mama, though. She grew up in the country. And she
loved
every cow-flopping, bee-stinging minute. She worries that the city is no place for a boy.
    So she made me a Rooter, last April. My tenth birthday, and I got … dirt. A patch of ground on Evert Street. Plot 5-1 rented in my name.
    And there was no way I could give it back.
    Mama's eyes had been so shiny-happy. “A little piece of country,” she called my present. She had wanted to give me my own green spot.
    So I dug and sowed, watered and waited. I dealt with puddles and thorns, a stingy bush with no roses. Now it was almost September, one week till school started. My crop had been mostly weeds—and trouble.
    Here came some more.
    Huge, green, and hated. The very thing Captain Nemo must conquer. The thing that made galaxies tremble.
    The Unspeakable Z.
    Zucchini.
    Mailbags Mosely, who has the plot two over, laid it at our feet. He gave Reuben and me an easy smile. The man is as BIG as a buffalo— but that green vegetable, I swear, was as long as his shoes. Mailbags actually liked growing weird garden things. He passed them round like Hallmark cards.
    Bang!
went the garden gate. And more trouble blew through. Gaby and Ro Rivera, followed by their big sister, Juana. She washollering at them in English and Spanish. Whatever the language, they paid no attention. They rushed through Rooter's like two wild winds.
    We all live in the same apartment building. Juana, Reuben, and Mailbags are excellent neighbors. Gaby and Ro are not. Those two know only three volumes: loud, extra loud, ear-breaking. Their mission in life: to annoy.
    The Riveras made straight for that zucchini. Gaby poked it with her toe.
    Zucchini. It grows better than weeds at Rooter's. I have had it fried, stewed, sliced, and diced. I have had it baked, boiled, broiled, and breaded. I