wouldn’t let anyone else touch his lawn. He cut it twice a week, watered it by hand every other day, and trimmed its edges so neatly it looked like he’d
used scissors.
Although his lawn was off-limits, he would hire Jack to shovel his walks and driveway in winter.
His front yard was open but he kept his back fenced in to protect his vegetable gardens from rabbits and the Pinelands deer that wandered through
town. Except for the paths between the beds, almost every square inch of his backyard was planted with tomatoes, zucchini, asparagus, and half a dozen
varieties of peppers.
Toward the end of summer—like now—he’d set up a table in the shade and sel the excess from his garden. Jack’s mom was a regular customer for his
huge Jersey beefsteak tomatoes.
But Jack wasn’t in the market for tomatoes.
He leaned his bike against a tree and waved to where Mr. Canel i sat in the middle of his lawn pul ing crabgrass by hand.
Jack inspected the peppers on the table. He saw green, red, and yel ow bel s, and pale green frying peppers. Not what he was looking for.
“Do you have any hot peppers?” he said, walking up to the old man.
Mr. Canel i looked up from under a broad-brimmed straw hat.
“Of course,” he said in his Italian accent. “But I keep for myself. They much too hot for people around here.”
“I’d like to buy the hottest you’ve got.”
He shook his head. “You won’t be able to eat. I can eat habaneros like they candy, but my hottest—no-no-no. I use a tiny, tiny amount in soup or gravy.”
“It’s not for me. This person wil eat them.”
He gave Jack a long stare, then raised his hand. “Help me up and I show you what I got.”
Jack helped pul him to his feet, then fol owed him into the backyard.
“These are jalapenos,” he said, pointing at some dark green oblong peppers maybe two inches long. “They hot.” He moved on and pointed to a shorter
orange pepper. “Even more hot habaneros.” And then he stopped at a bushy plant with little berry-size peppers. “And here the king. The smal est of the lot,
but the most hot. A special breed of tepin I cross with habanero.”
“Tay-peen?” Jack had never heard of it. But then, what did he know about peppers? “How much apiece?”
Mr. Canel i shook his head. “I don’t sel . Too hot.”
“Please? Just a couple?”
The old man stared at him, smiling. “You up to no good, eh?”
Jack fought to keep his expression innocent. How did he know?
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. But you a good kid. I see you with the lawn mower, I watch you shovel snow. You work hard. I give you some.”
“I can pay.”
“I have dried one inside. You wait.”
While Mr. Canel i went inside, Jack wandered through the garden, marveling at the size of the tomatoes and zucchinis. The old guy definitely had a
green thumb.
When he returned a few minutes later he handed Jack a smal white envelope.
“You take.”
Jack peeked inside and saw half a dozen little red peppers.
“Hey, thanks.”
“You be careful. You wash you hands after you touch. Never rub you eyes. If you burn you mouth, take milk. Or maybe butter. Water only make worse.”
“Got it,” Jack said. “Thanks a mil ion.”
He hopped on his bike and stifled himself until he was wel down the street. Then he did the
5
As Jack was biking to USED at midday, he heard someone cal his name. He looked around and saw a long- haired, bearded man waving to him from the
