Dedication
To Heather Renz, Kay Reidy,
and all dedicated teachers and
librarians around the world.
Thank you for making a difference.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Crystal Allen
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
I push my cowgirl hat down on my head until it feels just right and then straighten my new outfit. I don’t need anyone to tell me how boo-yang good I look in my new Annie Oakley skirt and vest. Mom made one for me and one for herself. Ever since kindergarten, we’ve worn matching outfits to Open House, and tonight, we’re going to be the best-lookin’ cowgirls on the planet! And as a bonus, I’ve got a folder full of A+ papers just sitting on my desk, waiting to make Mom holler “Yee-haw!”
But when I get downstairs, Mom is still in her robe, sitting on the sofa with Dad. I think you have to sit a lot when you have a little one in your belly. Mom’s nine months pregnant with my baby sister, Macey, and she’s always sitting, which proves my point. She said this October is the hottest one she remembers here in Bluebonnet. Maybe so, but if Mom doesn’t hurry, we’re going to be late to Open House.
I smile and twirl slowly so she can see how awesome I look. “I love this outfit and can’t wait to see yours. You better get dressed. It’s almost time to leave.” Her face has a lot of sad in it. “I’m sorry, Mya. I won’t be going to Open House tonight.”
I stare at Mom, waiting for her to say something like “Just kidding!” or “Gotcha!” But she doesn’t.
There is nothing worse than a bad surprise, and I just got one.
“But, Mom, you always go to Open House,” I say.
“It’s still hot outside, Macey’s been kicking all day, and my stomach’s sore. I hope you understand,” she says.
I’m trying, but right now, the only thing I understand is that I made all of those good grades for nothing. At every Open House, Mom gives me super-duper hugs that make me feel good from my boots to my braids. That’s not going to happen tonight.
My brother shuffles over and stands beside me. His real name is Micah, but I call him Nugget because his skin is brown and his head is shaped like a chicken tender. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reads Does the Name Pavlov Ring a Bell? It doesn’t to me, but Nugget laughed out loud when he saw it at the children’s science store.
“Sorry you’re going to miss Open House, Mom,” says Nugget.
She nods at him. “Me too.”
Dad lowers his face to Mom’s stomach and talks to it. “Macey? It’s Daddy. What are you doing in there? Are you playing baseball?”
I clear my throat, even though there’s nothing stuck in it. “Huh-hmmmm! So Dad, are you taking us to Open House? I don’t want to be late.”
He checks his watch. “Is it that time already? Let’s go!”
Mom waves to me. “You’re not upset with me, are you, Mya?”
I shuffle over and hug her with both arms. As Mom keeps rubbing her stomach, I’m thinking maybe it’s good she’s not coming with us. If Macey’s kicking because she’s trying to find the exit door out of Mom’s belly, I don’t want her poppin’ out during Open House.
So tonight, it will just be Dad, Nugget, and me. That’s not as fun as having Mom with us. Dad gives fist bumps, and my As are super-duper-hug As, not fist-bump As.
On our way to Open House, the heels of my pretty pink boots go ka-clunk, ka-clunk when they touch the sidewalk. They’re supposed to, because that’s how real cowgirl boots sound. We walk and talk about Open House until Nugget changes the subject.
“Dad, did you see the pitching line-up for game one of the World Series? The Yankees are throwing Wicked Willie Combs.”
Dad puts his arm around Nugget’s shoulder. “The Cardinals are going to have a hard time hitting Wicked Willie’s curveball.”
I keep walking, hoping this conversation doesn’t last, because I don’t know much about baseball.
Nugget kicks a rock off the sidewalk. “I’ve been studying his pitches. Now I can tell what Willie’s going to throw before the announcer calls it. It’s all in his arm motion,” he says.
Dad chuckles and shakes his head. “Son, you’re a baseball genius! I’ve never met anyone who can pick up baseball facts like you do.”
I tug on Dad’s shirt sleeve. “Excuse me, but we’re on our way to Open House, not the ballpark.”
Dad’s eyes widen as he smiles. “Yes, ma’am!”
As we get closer, cars and trucks line the street in front of Young Elementary School. Little kids run in the grass as groups of grown-ups talk and laugh under the streetlights.
“Hey, Nugget, wait up!”
It’s Fish Leatherwood and his dad. Fish is my brother’s best friend. His real name is Homer because his dad loves baseball, but Fish looks more like a boy than a home run. It’s his big blue eyes that got him the nickname Fish. I can only look at them for so long, and then I get dizzy. Tonight he’s wearing a T-shirt that reads Either You Like Bacon or You’re Wrong.
As our dads shake hands and talk, Fish gives Nugget a fist bump and then turns my way. “Hiya, Mya Papaya!”
I love when he calls me Mya Papaya. It’s not a good western name like Annie Oakley, but I still like it. “Thanks, Fish. I like bacon,” I say, and point to his shirt.
“Me too,” he says.
I add some giddy-up to my walk when I see Principal Winky at the front door. He’s dressed in a blue suit and white shirt. Those are our school colors! He waves and gives us a big Texas-size smile.
“Here comes my favorite plate of Fish Nuggets and a Texas cowgirl! Yee-haw! It’s Open House, and we’re going to have a wonderful evening at Y.E.S. Yes, yes, yes! Please take a program off the table on your way inside. Classrooms will open in thirty minutes. Until then, there are lots of things to enjoy, like refreshments and face painting in the cafeteria, picture taking for a good cause near the library, and of course, catching up with your neighbors. Have a wonderful time, yes, yes, yes!”
“Let’s go get some punch,” says Dad.
“We’ll see y’all in Fish and Nugget’s Open House,” says Mr. Leatherwood.
Fish nudges me. “I bet Mrs. Davis talks about the Wall of Fame Game tonight. That’s what she did last year when Nugget and I were in her class. Don’t forget to sign up for it.”
The smile slides off my face. “I’m not signing up for the Wall of Fame Game. Annie Oakley’s movie marathon starts next week. Mom and I already have plans to watch it. I just need to get my folder and take it home
so Mom can see it.”
“Oh, okay, that sounds like fun,” says Fish. “See you later, Mya Papaya.”
I guess Fish doesn’t check the TV Guide, or else he’d know that Annie Oakley’s movie marathon starts on Monday, the same day the Wall of Fame Game begins, and there’s no way I can do both. If I signed up for the Wall of Fame Game, I’d have to study from the time I got home from school until I went to bed. Good gravy. Why would anybody want to do that?
I’m not making my brain do any extra remembering, and that’s what the Wall of Fame Game makes everybody do. The truth is, this Wall of Fame Game isn’t really a game at all. It makes kids study a bunch of boring facts when we could be having boot-scootin’, loud-hootin’ fun.
I know a dirty rotten trap when I see one. And I’m not falling for it.
Chapter Two
This has to be a record-breaking crowd for Open House! It’s so loud in the cafeteria that at first I have to cover my ears. Voices echo off the walls as people stand around talking and holding cups filled with punch and little snack plates. If we were this noisy during lunch, Mrs. Davis would stand on the stage, hold up two fingers, grab the microphone, and count to five—that means zip your lip. But I don’t think that’s going to happen tonight.
There are two refreshment tables against the back wall. One has fancy bowls filled with red and blue punch. The other has cookies, cakes, and three big veggie trays with ranch dressing. On the other side of the cafeteria, there’s a long line of kids waiting to get their faces painted. As I ka-clunk over to the veggies, I spot my best friend, Connie, and her little brother, Clayton, standing next to their mom.
I run to them as if we haven’t seen each other in weeks, even though I just saw Connie in school a few hours ago. “Hi, Mrs. Tate. Hi, Clayton. Hi, Connie.”
Both Mrs. Tate and Clayton hug me. Connie and I grab little plates and fill them with carrot and celery sticks and a glob of ranch dressing, and then shuffle back to the hall.
“It’s kind of creepy being in school at night, isn’t it? Where’s your mom?” asks Connie.
This feels like the perfect time to tell a taradiddle. That’s cowgirl talk for a story. I put my plate down on the table with flyers about Open House, hold both edges of my vest, and look as serious as I can.
“Mom’s surfing the Nile, Amazon, and Mississippi, trying to set a record as the only pregnant woman to catch a wave on the three longest rivers in the world.”
Connie laughs and rolls her eyes. “You and those taradiddles. And I don’t think you surf rivers. You surf oceans.”
I pick up my plate and sweep a carrot stick through the puddle of ranch dressing. “Well, it’s true what I said about the rivers. They’re the longest ones.”
Connie and I both chomp down on the veggies. Her head tilts as she chews.
“Geez, Mya, how do you remember that stuff?”
I smile. “Every taradiddle a cowgirl tells has some facts in it!”
Connie nudges me with her elbow. “Speaking of remembering stuff, are you signing up for the Wall of Fame Game? You should. I bet you’d make the wall. The way you hold on to facts, it would be easy as cake. We could sign up together!”
I flip my wrist at her. “No way. There’s an Annie Oakley marathon starting on Monday. It’s kind of a big deal for Mom and me. We wear our cowgirl hats, eat popcorn, chew beef jerky, and drink lots of root beer. Dad even brings Buttercup into the house. When Annie chases the bad guys, Dad puts me on Buttercup and I pretend I’m riding with Annie to catch them!”
Buttercup is our mechanical bull. Everybody from bullriding beginners to cow-ropin’ professionals likes to climb on his back for a spin. I’m not afraid to ride him, but only on level one.
“I saw a commercial for the marathon on the western channel. I bet you and your mom have a bunch of fun,” says Connie.
I grab a celery stick from my plate. “After that, Mom and I have to get ready for the chili cook-off next week. Cowgirls first, chili second. I can’t wait! Look out, Annie Oakley, ’cause here I come! Yee-haw!”
There’s lots of noise coming from the hall by the library, so we make our way to the front, and find Starr and Skye Falling smiling and greeting people. On the other side of them is Naomi Jackson, my old best friend, and her parents, looking proud and happy.
Skye holds up her camera. “We’re helping Naomi. For a small donation, you can get your picture taken with her dressed up as Junior Miss Lone Star.”
Naomi’s wearing a white pageant gown, a blue sash across her shoulder that reads Junior Miss Lone Star, and of course, her shiny tiara.
“She’s charging money to get a picture taken with her?” asks Connie.
I shake my head. “I can’t believe it.”
Skye nods. “All the money goes to the homeless shelter. You want to get a picture taken with her?”
Connie frowns. So do I. Naomi is the one who gave both of us our terrible nicknames—Mya Tibbs Fibs and Mean Connie Tate.
It’s been three weeks since I lassoed Naomi in the hall during Spirit Week. I remember like it was yesterday. Connie and I had just become friends, while Naomi and I dropped from BFFs to worst enemies. So when I had spotted Naomi leading a stampede of students toward Connie’s art room, I’d thought she was going to trash it. I had to do something.
So I did.
Right there in front of my classmates, I lassoed her. In four seconds flat! I got in trouble for it, but I also set a new roping record.
I know she hasn’t forgotten. I haven’t, because it was one of the best roping days of my life. But I know she’s going to try and get me back for that.
I take off my right boot, turn it upside down, and shake it over the donation bucket. Two quarters fall out.
“That’s all I have. I don’t want a picture with her, but I do want to help the homeless,” I say.
Nugget and Fish race by on the way to their classroom. Dad and Mr. Leatherwood wave at Naomi and her parents, and they wave back. That’s when I notice Naomi watching me. She rolls her eyes. I roll mine back. Dad puts his hand on my shoulder.
“We’re heading to Nugget’s classroom, Mya. Meet us there in two minutes.”
“Okay, Dad,” I say.
Connie’s mom waves as she leaves the cafeteria, holding Clayton’s hand. He’s got balloons painted on his face.
“Your little brother is so cute. I hope Macey makes people smile as much as he does,” I say.
Connie sticks her tongue out at him. He laughs, and so does she. “Anyway, Mya, about the Wall of Fame Game—I’m definitely signing up. If I make it, I’ll be the first Tate on the wall. Both my parents tried, but they missed two questions on the last day. I think they’d be really proud of me if I made it. Have you ever read all the names on the wall?”
I shake my head. “Every time I try, I lose my place and have to start over. There’s so many names up there.”
“I know! It looks like a thousand!” Connie walks toward our homeroom. “I bet your two minutes are up. You better get to Nugget’s class before your dad comes looking for you. I’ll see you in Mrs. Davis’s room. We are going to have the best Open House.”
I head in the opposite direction, toward the fifth-grade hall. “It’s going to be a yippee-ki-yay kind of Open House, Connie! I can’t wait!”
Chapter Three
I make it to Nugget’s classroom and stand next to Dad and my brother. The teacher, Mr. Booker, makes Nugget sound like the smartest kid in the universe. Dad grins as Mr. Booker hands him a flyer about Whiz Kid Camp. It’s a special science and math place for geniuses. Mr. Booker didn’t actually say “geniuses” when he gave Dad the flyer, but I bet he was thinking it. Dad takes the flyer and winks at my brother. Nugget looks down at his shoes, but I can still see the grin on his face.
Mr. Leatherwood has a flyer, too. He shows it to Dad. “Mr. Booker is coaching Bluebonnet’s Little League team this fall. Fish and I have been waiting for him to be old enough to play in this league! Is Nugget going to
play?”
Five more dads gather around Mr. Leatherwood. They have baseball flyers, too. Dad shakes hands with all of them before answering. “I didn’t know anything about it. Nugget definitely knows baseball, but I’m not sure he’s interested in playing.”
It seems like every dad around us slides his eyeballs down to glare at my brother. It’s quiet for a moment, and I feel like it’s time to go, but Dad doesn’t move.
“Not interested! Aw come on, Tibbs! I’m sure he’s got some of your baseball blood running through his veins,” says Mr. Leatherwood. “I remember playing ball with you from Little League all the way up to high school. You were the only guy in Bluebonnet who got a baseball scholarship!”
The other dads nod and tell stories about how good Dad was at baseball. Mr. Leatherwood nudges my brother. “I’m sure you want to play, don’t you, Nugget?”
Dad moves Nugget behind him and faces the other dads. “I’ve got a feeling my boy’s more interested in that Whiz Kid Camp.”
Solo Grubb, the coolest fifth grader in our school, joins the group. He’s wearing sunglasses, even though it’s dark out. While the dads are talking, he whispers, just loud enough for me and my brother to hear.
“Yo, Nugget, doesn’t your dad want you to try out for the team?”
Now Nugget’s whole face frowns. “Mind your own business, Solo!”
Solo holds up both hands. “It was just a question. Chill out.”
I finish the last of my veggie sticks, throw my plate in the trash, and then tug Dad’s sleeve. “I think we should get going to my class now.”
“Me too,” says Dad. He shakes the other dads’ hands again. “I’ll see you guys around. Have fun at the ballpark. Come visit the store when you have a chance.”
I hope Mrs. Davis gives Dad a flyer for me. Maybe there’s a cowgirl camp with line dancing, and calf-roping lessons and a trail ride. I’m good at calf roping and two-stepping.
On our way to my class, Nugget’s face is wrinkled with mad, and he’s talking to himself.
I lean toward him. “What’s wrong?”
“Leave me alone, Mya,” he says.
The Magnificent Mya Tibbs Page 1