The Magnificent Mya Tibbs

by Crystal Allen

“But you’re going to ruin my Open House with that face! I didn’t ruin your Open House, did I? So don’t go ruining mine!”

  “You didn’t ruin it, but somebody else did.”

  I ka-clunk closer to him since we’re almost at my classroom. I know he’s talking about Solo. So I give him an earful. “Listen, Nugget, don’t let Solo change your happy mood.”

  His face is still angry, so I add a bit more. “He’s just being a jerk. He’s probably worried that if you try out, you’ll show him up. You know more about baseball than . . . than whoever invented it.”

  Nugget doesn’t answer, but I keep walking with him, hoping he’ll smile, but he doesn’t. Soon Mrs. Davis greets me with a pat on the shoulder and shakes Dad’s hand.

  “Mya, I love your outfit! You look like you should be in the Cowgirl Hall of Fame!”

  I grab the edges of my vest and grin. “Thanks, Mrs. Davis.”

  She pats Nugget on the shoulder, too. “And here’s one of my star students from last year.”

  “Hey” is all he says before walking into my classroom. It’s one thing to be mad and not want to talk about it, but it’s a whole other thing to act grumpy at my favorite teacher. I give him a stink eye that I hope he can smell.

  Mrs. Davis tells Dad that I’m an excellent student and my grades prove how hard I try. I keep listening as I watch my brother sit down with his bottom lip poked out. My face warms, because if he was going to be upset, he should have done that in his own classroom, not mine.

  All my classmates step out into the hall so the parents can talk to Mrs. Davis. I join them.

  On normal school days, standing out here means you got kicked out of class, but not tonight. Mary Francis talks first.

  “Connie, are you signing up for the Wall of Fame Game?”

  She nods. “Definitely.”

  Lisa pulls a tissue from her purse as she sniffles. Her nose leaks more than my bathroom faucet. “I don’t know if I can remember all those facts. Mrs. Davis hands out the questions right before we go home. That means I’ll have to study all night before and after dinner. That doesn’t sound like ahh . . . ahh . . . achooooooooooo!”

  We turn away from her and close our eyes.

  “Sorry, everybody,” she says.

  Soon Skye, Starr, and Naomi join us. Naomi stands next to Kenyan, and the twins come over by me. Sometimes it’s hard to believe Naomi wins so many beauty pageants with that bad attitude she’s got. All the judges see is her skin that’s the color of buttermilk pancakes and her wavy hair, how it seems to blow off her shoulders even when there’s no wind. I think it’s her green eyes that make the judges pick her. What those judges don’t know is that Naomi is also green on the inside, and it’s a stinky, dusty, moldy green.

  She glares at me. “Hey, Mya Tibbs Fibs. Cute outfit, but don’t you ever wear anything besides those ugly pink cowgirl boots?”

  I don’t answer her for three good reasons: she called me that terrible nickname, and my boots are not ugly—but the biggest reason is that Naomi’s fake, phony, and full of baloney.

  She rolls her eyes. “I bet you don’t even own a regular pair of shoes. I have eight different pairs, all different colors. When you have to create a portfolio for beauty pageants and modeling agencies, you can’t wear the same things for every picture. Anyway, are you signing up for the Wall of Fame Game? I’m not sure how big a cowgirl’s brain is, but if it’s not big enough to keep a promise, it’s definitely not big enough to remember all those facts.”

  Just last month, Naomi and I were best friends—until I accidentally broke a promise to her. We were supposed to be Spirit Week partners, but I pulled Connie’s name out of the partner-picking hat, and Connie wouldn’t trade partners so I could be with Naomi. Naomi was friend-ending mad at me. I tried to say I was sorry, but instead she started calling me Mya Tibbs Fibs. Now we’re enemies for eternity times infinity.

  Why does Naomi care if I sign up for the Wall of Fame Game? Why does anybody care? First it was Fish. Then Connie. Now Naomi. I’m already sick of hearing about it, and I’ll be so glad when it’s over.

  Chapter Four

  Naomi steps closer to me. “I asked you a question, Mya Tibbs Fibs. Are you signing up for the Wall of Fame Game? Not that it matters—everybody knows you’re not as smart as your brother.”

  All eyes move from Naomi to me. Heat rises from my boots, through my legs, up my spine, and into my brain. I don’t want to get in trouble again, especially since Dad’s right there inside my classroom. I want Open House to be awesome, and it won’t be if I stay here arguing with Naomi.

  Connie whispers to me. “She’s just trying to get you in trouble.”

  I nod. “I’m going back in to make sure Dad found my folder. You can—”

  Naomi interrupts me. “Hey, Mya Tibbs Fibs, I just remembered something. I bet you’re not playing the Wall of Fame Game because there’s an Annie Oakley movie marathon next week. I thought about you when I saw the commercial. I just can’t believe anyone would choose a dumb western over getting your name on the wall, but what can you expect from someone who watches baby stuff like cowgirl movies and dresses as if she’s in the Wild Wild West.”

  That’s it. I show her my fist. “Take that back, you tiara-wearing turkey! You think you’re so smart!”

  As I’m stepping toward Naomi, Connie gets a handful of my vest. “Stop, Mya. No name-calling. Just because she does it doesn’t mean you have to.”

  “I’m five hundred times smarter than you!” says Naomi, stepping into the middle of the circle.

  I pull away from Connie and join Naomi with my hands on my hips. “I bet you get all of your Wall of Fame Game answers ping-pong, ding-dong, double-X wrong!”

  It’s dead-people quiet around the circle except for Lisa’s sniffles. Naomi crosses her arms. An evil grin spreads across her face.

  “Are you playing in the Wall of Fame Game, or are you chicken? Everybody in here knows that celebrities like me are way smarter than cowgirls, and I’m going to prove it.”

  Good gravy in the navy. She just insulted the entire cowgirl nation right in front of my face! My eyes half close as all eighty of my teeth—or however many I have—clamp for battle.

  “You can’t prove that, because it’s not true,” I say.

  She walks as she talks. “It’s easy to prove. At the end of the Wall of Fame Game, whichever of us has answered the most questions correctly will be the smartest. If we tie, nobody wins. But if one of us misses more questions than the other, the loser has to bow to the winner and admit she’s not as smart. And all that bowing and admitting has to be done in the cave, in front of the whole class.”

  Connie whispers in my ear. “Don’t take that bet, Mya.”

  Everybody’s looking at me. Naomi just called me out like the bad guys called out Annie Oakley, back in the Wild West, for a duel in the middle of the street.

  I whisper back to my best friend. “I don’t have a choice.”

  Naomi puts her hands on her hips. “So are you in or not?”

  I stand tall and speak for every member of the cowgirl nation, dead or alive.

  “I’m in! And Mrs. Davis should start a Wall of Lame for trash talkers like you!”

  Connie taps my shoulder. “Mya, let’s get out of here before you get in trouble.”

  Naomi puts her finger on her chin and stares at the ceiling. “Wall of Lame. Yeah, let’s add that to the bet. The loser bows to the winner, plus has to wear a lame T-shirt. Why don’t you have your new BFF, Mean Connie Tate, make us one, since she’s so artsy-smartsy?”

  My face must still have anger on it when I turn to Connie. “Make it extra lame.”

  Connie tries to pull me away. “Mya, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  I yank my arm from her grip. “Sometimes you have to shut people up! Think about all the ugly things she’s said about us. This is your chance to get her back, too, Connie. You can make the lamest shirt ever, and she’ll have to wear it!”

  I�
��m expecting Connie to look pumped up, but she doesn’t. Instead she just shrugs.

  “Fine. I’ll make the T-shirt.”

  Naomi looks at me. “So does this mean we have a deal?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Whatever makes your socks stay up.”

  Naomi gets closer to me. “Good. And no takebacks.”

  My classmates shake their heads and shuffle back into our classroom. The longer I stand there, the more I realize I just got suckered. Naomi’s last words bang around inside my empty head. And no takebacks. That means I can’t say I was just kidding, or I didn’t really mean it. Or flat out say I made a mistake.

  I grab two of my braids and pull down on them as I close my eyes. What was I thinking? Saying yes to the Wall of Fame Game also means saying no to Mom and me watching the Annie Oakley marathon. I rub the side of my head because I’m sure it’s going to start hurting soon. Connie’s still with me. Everybody else is inside the classroom.

  “Let’s go in, Mya. There’s nothing you can do about it now. You heard Naomi. No takebacks.”

  She’s right. Firecrackers! I take a deep breath and follow her into the classroom.

  My classmates stare at me when I walk in. I spot Nugget still sitting in the same chair with his lip poked out. I don’t even care about that anymore. I’ve got bigger problems.

  Our teacher raises her hands in the air. “Welcome, everyone. Please take a seat. My name is Mrs. Davis, and I’m the fourth-grade teacher. I’d like to speak with you about the Wall of Fame Game. First let me give you a little background. Many years ago, a teacher by the name of Mrs. Heather Renz created what we now call the Wall of Fame Game, an exciting question-and-answer game of facts.”

  I look over my shoulder. Naomi’s looking at me. I frown and then turn back to Mrs. Davis as she continues to talk.

  “Every student who masters the Wall of Fame Game gets their name added to the wall in the back of this classroom. The word FAME is an acronym meaning ‘For All My Efforts.’ The names of the students who make the Wall of Fame will never be painted over. Now we’re edging close to seven hundred names on the wall, including congressmen, farmers, judges, store owners, and more. For some students, their entire family is on the wall.”

  I think I’m going to be sick. I lean back in my chair, hoping to make myself feel better.

  Mrs. Davis continues. “Two weeks ago, I handed out study sheets with various subjects and categories. Every day next week, each student will get three Wall of Fame Game questions taken directly from the study sheets. On Monday, each question will require one answer. On Tuesday, each question will require two answers. On Wednesday, three; Thursday, four . . . and the big finale will be on Friday when each question will require five answers!”

  There’s lots of mumbling and whispering as everybody figures out what I already know. That’s way too much studying. Mrs. Davis continues.

  “At the end of the week, if a student gets all of the answers right, or misses only one question, his or her name will become part of the Wall of Fame forever!”

  As everyone claps, I scratch my arm and neck even though they’re not itching. I turn around and stare at the Wall of Fame. It seems bigger than it ever did before.

  Dad leans toward me. “Are you okay? You don’t look so well.”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  Mrs. Davis continues. “For those of you who’ve never had a close look at the Wall of Fame, I’d like to give you that opportunity right now. If any of my students would like to sign up for this year’s Game, the sign-up sheet is on my desk.”

  I spot Naomi Jackson walking toward the sign-up sheet. She stands in front of it, staring at me as she picks up the pen and then points it in my direction. I can feel my classmates’ eyes bouncing from Naomi to me. Dad puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Your mom wanted me to tell you that she doesn’t want you signing up for the Wall of Fame Game just because your brother did. I totally agree with her, understand?”

  I nod my head, but it’s too late for that kind of talk. I ka-clunk to Mrs. Davis’ desk, take the pen, sign my name, and then drop the pen on top of the sign-up sheet.

  “There, I did it. You’re going down, Naomi,” I say.

  She grins at me. “We’ll see about that, Mya Tibbs Fibs.”

  My face gets crooked. “Yes we will, Naomi, fake, phoney, and full of baloney.”

  I see Dad looking my way, so I straighten all the crooked in my face and smile as I make my way back to him.

  “I signed up for the Wall of Fame Game.”

  He holds out his fist, and I bump it. “Well, okay. Good luck, Mya.”

  We walk to the wall and stare at all the names. “For all your efforts, Mya. That’s what this wall is all about,” he says.

  I just nod and stare because I’m not signing up for the Wall of Fame Game for any other reason than to beat the stew out of Naomi Jackson.

  Chapter Five

  Open House is over, and so is my life. I just gave up the best western marathon ever, to do schoolwork. If I could get my boot up high enough, I’d kick myself in the back of my skirt.

  It’s so quiet on the way home that I feel like I’m walking with two strangers. The ka-clunk of my boots is the only sound. Nugget’s staring at the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, and Dad’s not talking at all.

  I’m walking as fast as I can to get home so I can show Mom this folder of A+ papers and then start studying. How in the world am I going to become a genius over the weekend? There’re over fifty different questions I have to memorize. Fifty!

  When Mrs. Davis gave us the study sheets, I stuffed them in my boot because I had no plans to sign up for the Wall of Fame Game. I don’t even know where those sheets are right now. I’m lucky Mrs. Davis had extra study sheets on her desk. I grabbed a set on my way out.

  I can’t let Mom or Dad know my real reason for signing up for the Wall of Fame Game, because I’m sure I’ll get in trouble. They’ll try to tell me that my reason isn’t very honorable, and winning a bet is the only thing I’ll have For All My Efforts.

  But right now, that’s all I want.

  Dad unlocks the front door and turns on a light. It’s just as quiet in here as it was walking home. Mom’s asleep on the couch. Dad touches her shoulder. “Honey?”

  Mom wakes up and rubs her belly. “I’m okay; just tired. Macey finally stopped kicking about ten minutes ago, and I’m cold.”

  Dad helps her off the sofa. “Come on, you need to lie down.”

  I step to the other side of Mom. “I brought my folder home for you to see.”

  Mom smiles. “I’ll look at it later, Mya.”

  “Right now your mom needs rest,” says Dad.

  I nod like I understand, but I don’t. Mom didn’t go with us because it was too hot outside, and Macey was kicking. Now she can’t even take two minutes to look at my folder because she’s cold, and Macey stopped kicking. This has been the worst Open House ever. And I haven’t even told Mom the bad news about our Annie Oakley marathon. If Buttercup had feelings, I’m sure he’d be sad, too.

  I climb the steps to my room and open the door. My life-size posters of Annie Oakley and Cowgirl Claire stare back at me. They’re both wearing jewelry I made, because I taped earrings and necklaces to the posters.

  “It’s not my fault, Miss Oakley. I got suckered. You want to see my folder? Nobody else does.”

  I wonder if this is the beginning of how my life is going to be when Macey gets here. Mom will be busy with the baby, and I’ll be stuck doing things all by myself.

  Knock, knock.

  Nugget’s standing at my door with his hands still in his pockets. He steps inside my room. “I need to talk.”

  He paces, and I let him because I’m in a horrible mood anyway. When he turns to me, his face is full of mad.

  “Dad thinks I’m a loser.”

  I plop on my bed. “Dad doesn’t think you’re a loser.”

  “Then why didn’t he ask me if I wan
ted to try out for baseball? I’ll tell you why. Because Solo was right. Dad thinks I stink at sports. I remember, back before kindergarten, being in the backyard with him, tossing a baseball. I only remember two days of Dad trying to show me how to bat and catch. I guess he didn’t think I was going to be any good. He didn’t even bother to finish teaching me how to play.”

  I wrinkle my face to match his. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Nugget.”

  He sits on the edge of my bed. “It’s as if Dad doesn’t even want to try and help me be better at baseball. Mr. Leatherwood and Fish go to the batting cages and play catch almost every day. Dad and I used to play ball in the backyard, and then we just stopped. Bam. Nothin’. Now he’s all excited about Macey being a ballplayer. Did you hear him say that when Mom said Macey was kicking?”

  I nod.

  He gets up and paces again. “Dad’s waiting on Macey to play baseball because he doesn’t think I can. I must be the biggest loser ever if Dad’s picking my unborn baby sister to play baseball over me. We almost missed Open House because he was so busy trying to talk to her through Mom’s belly.” I read in Science magazine that infants hear voices while still in the womb. I bet Dad was telling Macey a bunch of batting tips that he never told me.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t blame Macey.”

  He snaps at me. “I’m not!” His head lowers as he sighs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell at you.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t know anything about that science stuff, but I was really looking forward to watching the Annie Oakley marathon with Mom, and signing up for the chili cook-off. She loves Annie Oakley as much as I do. Now I have to do the Wall of Fame Game instead.”

  I feel kind of itchy about telling Nugget the truth. It doesn’t matter why I signed up, does it? I’m doing the Wall of Fame Game. No one has to know my reasons. But that’s not my problem right now. I go stand next to my brother.

  “Do you think Mom and Dad will be too busy for us when Macey comes? You don’t think Mom will back out on the chili cook-off, do you? That’s all we’ve got left to do together.”