The Jump

“I know you don’t think they work,” says Mama, pulling out another crystal on a string and turning to me, “and you probably won’t until you really need it. But even if it only works as a visual reminder of what it represents, it works.”
The string goes over my head, and I look down at the pointy
purple crystal sitting in the middle of my chest.
“Amethyst today,” says Mama, “for protection. ”
That’s a new one.
“Why do you think I’ll need protection today?” I ask. She shrugs and scratches around a bandage taped to the inside of her forearm, covering a new tattoo.
“Just a feeling,” she says, leaning in and kissing my forehead. “There are a lot of protests going on downtown today-okay, Juju- bean? Be careful.”
My phone buzzes again.
My heart skips.
I glance at the clock.
7:47 a.m.
Too early to leave for school.
I open my mouth to make an excuse to leave the table besides the fact that I want to go look at my phone. Maybe I forgot my backpack upstairs. Shit, it’s on the floor next to me. My phone? Nah. As soon as I stand up, everyone will be able to see its imprint through my sweat- shirt pocket. Maybe I need to pee? Nah, Mama knows that one well.
Before I can think of an excuse that will work, the conversation continues.
“She’s right,” says Zaza, glancing over at all of us at the table and setting a colander full of zucchini on the kitchen counter. “Lots of protests. Everyone’s angry right now.”
“People are always angry,” Ava mutters, shutting her journal and taking a sip of her breakfast tea. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.” “Well, today the protests involve the garden,” says Mama, “so
even I’m a little angry. We’ve had refineries in Puget Sound, but never one smack dab in the middle of a residential neighborhood. And certainly never one that’s wiped out a community garden.”
Never mind. The puzzle can wait.
Mama’s forehead is furrowed, and her fingers whip the yarn around the needle lightning-fast. I clutch the crystal around my neck and wish there was something I could give her to make her feel better through all of this. But all I have are my words.
“I don’t think it’ll go through, Mama,” I say.
“It is going through, Jax,” Ava insists with a finality that sours my stomach. “The city has officially submitted a notice of intention to repurpose the land.”
“But we’re in the middle of Beacon Hill,” I argue, as if fighting Ava is fighting what’s inevitably going to happen to our garden. “Why would they put an oil refinery here?”
“Likely because we’re by an airport,” she grumbles. “How much do you wanna bet Roundworld has a deal with King County Inter- national to supply their fuel?” “We’re also in the not-so-expensive part of Beacon Hill, Jax,” says Zaza, carrying the colander to the kitchen table. Before they sit, they lean down and give Mama’s lips a quick kiss good morning. Zaza pulls out a kitchen chair and settles into it, peeler in hand, and soon peels begin falling into a bowl in their lap as they continue, “And the gar- den is a community space. State-provided. Land isn’t cheap in Puget Sound like it used to be, so it’s fair game for them to take back and repurpose whenever they want.”
I can feel my blood warming with rage. How the hell is this legal? Matter of fact, how the hell hasn’t someone stepped in to stop this? Some rich company must have a bunch of money to throw at this for environmentalism clout. Maybe one will buy Roundworld out of the land? Protests are great and all, but how has no one from the bottom tunneled in from the inside? Actually, why hasn’t the Order gotten wind of this shit? They were there to rat out social media accounts after the Capitol invasion, and after the Taliban took over Afghanistan. Not that Mama’s garden is anywhere near the same scale of importance in the world, but…
It is in my world.