Jackson Jones, Book 1_ The Tale of a Boy, an Elf, and a Very Stinky Fish - Jenn L. Kelly [23]
Little red tables lined the blue walls. Jackson stopped at the first one. The red table was old-fashioned with carved legs and had an ornate door handle that opened a little drawer. Sitting on top of the red table was a calligraphy pen. Jackson picked it up carefully, marveling at the weight in his hand. It fit perfectly. He unscrewed the top to examine its delicate nib. If this part is boring to you, it is because you have not yet learned to appreciate the fine quality workmanship of expensive calligraphy pens.
Jackson put the pen back with a longing sigh. Despite his young age, he could appreciate a fine pen. He glanced up at a mirror mounted in an old gilt frame that was hanging above the red table. Jackson looked into it and saw his very dirty nose. He wiped it self-consciously on his arm. His hair was messy, sticking up everywhere. He smoothed it down, but to no avail. The frame held a tiny brass plate with an inscription. Jackson looked closer. It read, “Zero”. Well that doesn’t make any sense, he thought.
He stopped at the next table, bending over to admire the little angel figurines on it “that we’re not allowed to touch,” Meeka explained. Her little hands twitched beside him and he knew she was just dying to touch them. She cleared her throat and, with great restraint, stepped away. Jackson stood up and glanced into the mirror hanging on the wall above this table.
Except it wasn’t a mirror this time, but a portrait. Well, not a portrait but a group picture. A group picture of baseball players. The player in the front row had a big grin on his face as he held a trophy. Jackson peered closer and…
Wh-at?
It was him!
But it wasn’t him!
Jackson shook his head and looked again.
Sure enough, it was him.
But it wasn’t him.
It was Jackson, but older. About ten years older. The twenty-and-a-half-year-old Jackson grinned broadly, clutching the trophy. He was taller, broader in the shoulders and…he was the captain of the team? Jackson looked at the other players in the picture. They were all smiling. He looked back at himself. Wow. On the gold frame was another brass plate with an inscription. It read: Ten. Ten what?
“How on earth could that be me? That’s ridiculous!” Jackson’s mind went a mile a minute. (That’s one point six kilometers a minute, for you metric folk.)
Jackson didn’t know what to think. He looked at the next picture.
It had another gold frame with another little sign, but it read: Forty. Jackson peered intently at the group shot. Fifteen people, all about forty years old, sat in three rows. They wore important-looking, official blazers.
Behind them was a university banner. Jackson scanned the faces looking back at him.
There he was! Wow. He was old!
He had graying hair and eyes that were starting to crinkle around the edges. He even had a moustache! Jackson laughed out loud. He was a teacher! Jackson remembered how his classmates laughed at him when he told them he wanted to be a teacher. His teachers told him he had to work harder, to study more, and to quit daydreaming for goodness’ sakes!
Jackson…a teacher. Wow.
“Meeka, what are these?” he asked quietly, still staring at the pictures.
She turned and walked back to him. “Oh, those are just the future mirrors.”
“Future mirrors? This isn’t a mirror; it’s a portrait!”
“They mirror who you will be later on.”
“So that’s me?”
Meeka shrugged, unconcerned. “If that’s what you see, then that’s what you are.”
Jackson ran to the next mirror, nearly knocking Meeka over in his haste.
“Hey!”
Jackson was shocked by the next mirror. The little sign in the gold frame read: Sixty. The man in the portrait was old. His white hair was slicked down and he had deep wrinkles on his gentle, friendly face. It was Jackson’s face. A very old Jackson. The very old Jackson was shaking hands with someone important-looking.