Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop by Mary Quattlebaum Page A

have had it up to here with zucchini.
    “Jackson should get the zuke.” Gaby grinned slyly. “His mama
loves
plants.”
    True. Our apartment is crammed with strange-sounding greens. Philodendrons, geraniums, begonias. But here's the embarrassing part: Mama chats with the things. Gives them pep talks. And they grow like the Amazon rain forest. Other kids have brothers, sisters, pets;I live with a six-foot ficus. It towers by the phone, where, as Mama says, it has optimal light.
    “But those plants are still growing.” Juana spoke up fast. “Jackson's mama doesn't talk to
produce.”
    Juana. She is one Super J. To the rescue, quick as Captain Nemo. Saving me from a meal of Unspeakable Z.
    “Zucchini that size is too tough to fry,” Mr. K. pronounced from his chair. “Make it into gazpacho.”
    “Mama doesn't know how to cook gaz— whatever,” I said quickly.
    “Neither does Miz Lady,” Reuben said of his grandma. “Anyway, she's sick.”
    Mr. K. snorted. “Gazpacho's easy to make. Practically makes itself. In fact, young man”— he turned to Mailbags—”you hand that zuke to me.”
    Listen to the man bossing Mailbags! Huh, I know why Mr. K. has no weeds. He's commanded them to leave.
    “Everyone's invited for dinner tomorrownight.” Mr. K. smiled upon us all. “Jackson, bring your mother.”
    I blinked and nodded.
    As we hurried out the garden gate, I whispered to Juana, “What's gazpacho?”
    “Soup,” she whispered back.
    Soup. That didn't sound so bad.
    Right then, I should have sensed even more trouble. But I was too focused on Captain Nemo and the Unspeakable Z.
    That's how trouble could creep up on me so easy. Creep up and whomp me on the head.

C HAPTER T WO

    Gazpacho.
    Crammed with zucchini.
    Cold.
    Reuben and I stared into our bowls. Put down our spoons.
    Mr. K. humphed while Mama and Mailbags spooned and sipped and paid compliments. Lucky Juana. She'd gone school-shoe shopping with Gaby and Ro. Lucky Miz Lady, at home with a cold.
    “Now we have two Nemo villains,” Reuben murmured. “Unspeakable Z and Gazpacho of Doom.”
    “They're closing in,” I whispered. “Nemo's mission:
urgent.”
    “Shhh,” Mama said.
    I slumped, glancing round the apartment. Brown couch, square TV, books stiff on a shelf. The one plant looked lonely without a green buddy.
    Mr. K. lived in a building for old people. In this retirement home, Mama told me, the furniture came with the room. There were rules about what you could have.
    Huh, no wonder the man dragged his lawn chair to Rooter's. In that mishmash of plots, no one cared what you grew.
    “More soup?” Mr. K. peered from his kitchen.
    No more, no way, I wanted to say.
    Then I caught Mama's worry frown. It shows whenever she frets. Like when I talk back. Slip on my homework. Fill up on soda and chips.
    So I decided to smooth on some strategy. My mission: to save myself from eating cold soup.
    “Mr. K.,” I said, “you ever hear how Mama rescued a ficus?”
    Normally, I would never mention this tree.Talk about embarrassing! Mama had hauled it out of the Dumpster in May. She had carted it home, cooed to it.
    The thing had flourished. Like one of my weeds.
    I plowed forward with my story. It was that or stare at cold soup. “Mama poked the soil and—”
    “Overwatered,” declared Mr. K.
    “How did you know?”
    Mr. K. shrugged. “Houseplant's number one problem.”
    “That's what Mama said,” I told him. “That tree used to be so scrawny. Now it is looking
fine.”
    Mama smiled; the worry frown disappeared.
    I swelled, full of compliments. “You should be a doctor, Mama. A doctor for plants.”
    “You think so?” Mama asked.
    I should have shut up then. I should have stopped trouble right there.
    But I never realized trouble was coming— till it had bonked my head and kicked my behind.
    So, like a fool, I said, “A doctor, yeah. For trees and flowers and stuff.”
    Reuben stared like I had lost my mind. Mr. K. shot me a sly look. Wise to