The Magnificent Mya Tibbs

by Crystal Allen

  I bet Lisa’s sneezes cause cattle stampedes and dust storms. If Mrs. Davis had asked me how many times Lisa blows her nose in class every day, instead of that House of Representatives question, I could have told her.

  “Sorry,” says Lisa as we all look around for sneeze damage.

  “You may want to keep a tissue in your hand, Lisa.”

  She sniffles. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Davis grabs a stack of papers from her desk. “All right, class, these are Monday’s Wall of Fame Game questions. You have all weekend to study. Every day next week, those of you participating in the Wall of Fame Game will get a handout with three questions. The handouts will be different, so each student will have his or her own questions to answer. I’ll hand them out before the after-school bell rings.”

  Good gravy. I didn’t know that. How can I study with Connie if our questions are different?

  Mrs. Davis keeps talking. “After the announcements, I’ll call students starting with the row closest to the door. When you hear your name, come join me at the front of the room. We will walk together to the back of the Cubby Cave, the traditional place where Wall of Fame Game questions are asked and answered.”

  Kenyan raises his hand. “How will you know when our time is up?”

  “I have an egg timer. When the timer dings, the challenge is over. All questions must be answered, in their entirety, before the timer goes off, or it will be considered a missed question. A perfect score is fifteen. In order to make the Wall of Fame, you must get at least fourteen questions right. Remember, I count questions, not answers.”

  Mrs. Davis puts the stack of papers back on her desk, holds up both hands, and smiles. “That’s it! If you need more explanation, please see me at lunch or recess.”

  If that House of Representatives had been a real question, I would have been hogtied and helpless, and only one question away from elimination. I need to put my thinking cap on. I’ve got to tighten my belt, and . . . whatever else I need to do to get through this.

  The day drags, but at two thirty, Mrs. Davis hands out our Wall of Fame Game questions.

  WALL OF FAME GAME QUESTIONS FOR MYA TIBBS:

  MONDAY

  1. Name a famous scientist.

  2. Name a Native American tribe.

  3. How many members are there in the House of Representatives and Senate combined?

  Questions one and two are simple. I love math, and sometimes I love science, so I’ll pick Albert Einstein for my scientist. I’m not sure about a Native American tribe, but thanks to Lisa, I already know the answer to number three! For a quick moment, I smile and relax, but seconds later, I feel sick. This is just the beginning. It’s going to get harder. A lot harder.

  Mom says, “If you want to cook a frog, you put him in cold water first, so he’ll be good and comfortable. Wait awhile, and then turn the fire on low under the pot. Slowly keep turning up the heat. By the time that frog realizes things are getting hot, it’ll be too late.”

  I feel like I’m sitting in a pot of cold water right now because these questions are easy-breezy. But I know Mrs. Davis is going to turn up the heat. The only way I won’t end up being a dead frog is to figure out how to study, and what to study, so I can stay in the game without getting cooked.

  Chapter Eight

  I’m so glad it’s Friday, and school is over for the week. At home, I let my backpack slide down my arms and onto the sofa. Mom’s sitting with her legs propped on pillows. I sit next to her. Since the weekend is here, I’ve got a little extra time to relax before I have to study Monday’s Wall of Fame Game questions and answers. Mom smiles, and for a moment, I think back to all the Friday afternoons when we’d get our nails done at Mani-Pedi by Betty. And every Wednesday, Mom and I would sit in front of the television with cheese popcorn and lemonade, watching Wednesday’s Wild Wild Western movie together.

  But we haven’t gone to see Mani-Pedi Betty in months. And Mom falls asleep so early now that I watch the westerns by myself.

  “Hey, Mom. Did you go to your appointment? What did the doctor say?”

  She touches my hand. “He said I have to stay off my feet. I can only stand for three hours a day. That means the rest of the time, I’m supposed to keep my legs propped on pillows. Look at my swollen ankles. And he said I couldn’t eat any more peanut butter-and-onion sandwiches.”

  Ya-hoo! No more stinky sandwiches! If I could climb on top of the roof, I would dance until Dad came and made me get down. But Mom’s face is so sad. I hold her hand.

  “Back in the old west, ankles used to swell up all over the ranch. Those cowgirls figured out the peanut butter they ate was sliding all the way down to their ankles and staying there. That’s not swelling, that’s peanut butter!”

  Mom laughs, and so do I. “Mya, you and your taradiddles. But part of that is right. The salt from the peanut butter is what’s causing the swelling.”

  I nod. “You’ll be better soon. Did you go sign up for the chili cook-off today?”

  The Annual Chili Cook-off is a big event in Bluebonnet. There are always a bunch of chili makers, but only one award. The winner gets an apron that says I Make the Best Chili in Bluebonnet. Mom’s already won two aprons, and she even lets me wear one! It’s not easy making first-place chili, but working with Mom in the kitchen is so much fun. But the sad is still all over her face.

  “Mom?”

  She shakes her head. “Oh, Mya, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. We won’t be able to enter the chili cook-off this year.”

  This can’t be happening. I exhale without inhaling first. Two bad surprises in two days. Both from Mom. That has to be a record. Maybe I misunderstood her, so I flat out ask again.

  “Are we or are we not doing the chili cook-off?”

  Mom shakes her head, and stares at her ankles. “Making chili takes a lot of time and patience. You can’t rush it, Mya. There’s stirring on the stove, walking back and forth to the pantry to add this spice or that spice . . . and the doctor won’t let me do it. I have to think about getting Macey’s room ready. I haven’t even put away the presents from the two baby showers! These ankles couldn’t have swollen up at a worse time. I’m so sorry, Mya.”

  Sometimes I wish I was Annie Oakley, so I could jump on my horse and ride as fast as I can, and as far away as my horse will take me. But I’m not her. All I can do is lean my head on Mom’s shoulder. We sit in silence because there’s just nothing to say. My brain makes a movie out of the memories of cooking with her during the last two chili cook-offs. I hold her hand again as I remember how much fun we had, how proud we were when we won, and how awesome she looked in that best-chili apron.

  I hate seeing it as a memory, and not something I’m going to be doing soon. Mom and I should be adding another cook-off to this brain movie.

  “So what now? You didn’t come to Open House last night. We’re not watching Annie Oakley because of the Wall of Fame Game. Now you’re telling me the doctor took away the chili cook-off. This is like . . . I’m so sad right now, Mom.”

  “Me, too, Mya,” she says as she rubs her thumb across the back of my hand.

  “Everybody is going to be upset that we’re not in the cook-off this year,” I say.

  Mom sighs. “Not everybody. Some people will be very happy about it.”

  I sit up. “No way.”

  Mom’s chili is lick-the-bowl good. And when she’s making it, the whole house smells just like I imagine food in the old Western movies would smell. I can almost hear Mom telling me what she does to get that special flavor. “I take my time. No shortcuts. Everything has to be done with love and patience, Mya. You can’t change those things. I put the meats, spices, and sauce in a pot together so they can introduce themselves to each other on a low fire. Then I’ll put a top on the pot, and let all those different ingredients become family. That’s what the letters in chili stand for: Cooked How I Love It.”

  Mom lifts her feet off the pillows and stands. “Come walk me to my room. I’m goin
g to lie down for an hour.”

  I take her hand, and we walk together as she talks to me. “The cook-off is very competitive, and we’ve won the last two years. Some people will be very excited for the chance to take my first-place apron this year. It’s okay. You have the Wall of Fame Game you have to study for, and I have to take care of myself and Macey. But I’m sure going to miss competing this year.”

  I help her lie down. “Something could change. Your ankles could unswell! It ain’t over till it’s over, right? That’s what you always say.”

  “Well, the deadline to sign up for the cook-off is tomorrow, and I don’t think my ankles are going to be better by then,” Mom mumbles as her eyes close.

  I’m so sick of bad surprises. Right now, I feel like a balloon that someone stuck a pin in.

  The chili cook-off is important to me. It’s important to Mom! We do this together every year. I guess I should say . . . we did it every year, before this one.

  I close her door and tiptoe into the living room to get my backpack. The doorbell rings, and I see Connie standing outside. I open the door, and then put a finger to my lips. “Shhh. Mom’s taking a nap. Let’s go upstairs.”

  I tell Connie what happened. She looks as sad as I feel. I turn on my radio and listen to a country-western song about a brokenhearted girl. That’s the perfect song for me right now. Connie shuffles around my room.

  “Hey, look, it’s not like it’s the end of the world, Mya. You can always enter the chili cook-off again next year. And your mom has to be careful. I mean, she’s got to think about your little sister. One day you’ll be happy that she chose to back out of the competition.”

  My shoulders lower, and my body feels so heavy. “Yeah, you’re right. Mom’s and Macey’s health come first. But I’m still sad about missing the cook-off.”

  Connie grabs my rodeo rope off the wall. “Anyway, let’s talk about the Wall of Fame Game. Have you figured out how you’re going to study for the questions?”

  “The only plan I have is to beat that trash-talking Naomi Jackson.”

  Connie tries to twirl my rope in the air, but she can’t.

  I giggle as I watch her. “I was hoping you would be my study buddy.”

  Now her feet are tangled in the rope, and she has to sit on the floor to untangle herself.

  “We won’t have the same questions.”

  I keep giggling. “I know. But we can still help each other memorize the answers.”

  She throws the rope at me and grins. “Actually, that’s a great idea. And we can quiz each other, too, because at some point, the questions you have one day may be the questions I have on a different day.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I say.

  Connie grins. “Perfect. Hey, where’s Nugget?”

  “He’s in his room, sorting his baseball cards for the thousandth time.”

  Connie sits on my bed. “I didn’t know Nugget was into baseball.”

  “He’s a baseball genius! I’ve heard him tell Dad things that even Dad didn’t know about the game! But he’s not very happy right now.”

  Connie shakes her head. “Oh. Is he going to be okay?”

  I shrug. “He said when he was little, Dad stopped teaching him how to play baseball because Dad thinks he’s a loser. Is that, like, the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard?”

  Connie makes a funny face. “Uh . . . yeah.”

  I’m walking and talking now. “And then Dad said something about Macey playing baseball in Mom’s belly. So now Nugget thinks Dad is looking forward to playing baseball with Macey instead of him, and he’s trying to figure out how to spend time with Dad before Macey downloads, because after she’s born, Dad might not have time for him.”

  Jambalaya.

  That’s exactly how I feel about Mom. I stare out the window, not really looking at anything. “You know, don’t think I’m weird, but I totally understand what Nugget’s doing. Now that the Annie Oakley marathon is off, and the chili cook-off is canceled, Mom and I don’t have any plans. Nugget’s right. Once Macey gets here, we’ll be invisible.”

  Chapter Nine

  I love Saturdays, but I don’t like this one. Usually I’m doing things with Mom on the weekends, or at least planning for something fun that’s going to happen next week. But the last two things on my calendar to do with Mom got kicked to the curb, flat-out canceled. Now my calendar is as empty as my piggy bank.

  I sit on the edge of my bed and wonder if this is what my Saturdays will be like when Macey gets here. Am I going to have to work at the store every weekend? I don’t want to empty boxes and stock shelves every Saturday morning.

  But today, Dad needs me.

  This morning, I set my alarm a half hour early so I can study my Wall of Fame Game questions. I wonder if Naomi’s up. She probably is, and I bet she’s already memorized her answers to Monday’s questions. I won’t let her beat me. That’s why I’m up, too. Dad’s going to ask me for the answers while we’re at the store, so I better know them. I already chose Albert Einstein for my famous scientist. I’ll never forget Lisa’s answer to the House of Representatives and Senate question. The only one I need to memorize is a Native American tribe. I’m thinking it would be fun to choose Native Americans with a Texas connection.

  I turn on my computer and Google Texas Native Americans. Holy moly, look at all the information from this website about the story of Texas! It says the Caddo tribe was here over a thousand years ago, according to archeologists! Whoa. And they actually came up with the name Taysha, which means friend, but the Spanish people translated it to Tejas, which means Texas! I’ve never heard of the Caddo tribe. Their history is really interesting. I’m going to pick them. I wonder what I’d find out about Albert Einstein if I Googled his name.

  I’m so caught up in reading about Caddo history and my favorite scientist that I lose track of time. I take a quick shower and put on my work uniform. It’s time to take off my Wall of Fame Game thinking cap and put on my Tibbs’s Farm and Ranch Store hat.

  Our store has been in the family for years, and I know my parents are so proud to own it. My great-great-grandfather started Tibbs’s Farm and Ranch Store a long time ago. Then he passed it down to his son, and it kept getting passed down like a pair of boots, until it got to us.

  I stare in the mirror to make sure I look nice and neat. The bright red T-shirt and cap make me feel like a professional. Maybe I should practice acting like one. I smile at the mirror and hold out my hand as if I’m shaking a customer’s hand.

  “Howdy! Whatcha lookin’ for?” Ew. I sound double dorky. “Hi, welcome to Tibbs’s Farm and Ranch Store. Are you just browsing, or can I help you find something?”

  Nailed it! Time to go.

  It’s not long before Dad pulls into a parking space at Tibbs’s Farm and Ranch. Fish and his dad stand near the store door. Connie and the twins are there, too. Nugget rolls down the window.

  “Greetings and salutations, Mr. Leatherwood! What’s up, Fish? Wow, it’s a party!”

  I nod at my friends, then whisper their way. “Watch this.”

  With confidence, I ka-clunk over to Mr. Leatherwood and hold out my hand for him to shake. “Good morning, Mr. Leatherwood. Are you just browsing today, or can I find you help something? I mean, can I browse you find nothing?”

  Skye crosses her arms and shakes her head. “Horrible sentence structure.”

  Starr does the same. “Just horrible.”

  Connie giggles. “You need to work on your customer service skills, Mya.”

  Mr. Leatherwood chuckles and shakes hands with Dad. “I need four big bags of weed killer and two bags of fertilizer for my yard. We’re getting it in shape for baseball season.”

  “Sounds good. Come on in.” As soon as Dad unlocks the door and opens it, a cowbell rattles.

  Clankity-clankity-clank.

  That’s how we know when customers come in. Dad and Mr. Leatherwood walk side by side toward the lawn supplies. Fish, Nugget, and Connie
walk behind them, and I ka-clunk with the twins. We’re all quiet as Mr. Leatherwood talks.

  “Baseball tryouts are tomorrow. Our boys are finally old enough to play real baseball, not that T-ball stuff.”

  Dad tosses two big bags of fertilizer to Mr. Leatherwood, a bag of weed killer to Nugget, and another one to Fish. Then he picks up two more bags of weed killer as they head to the front counter.

  “Mya, come ring these up for us,” says Dad.

  Holy moly! It’s been a month since Dad let me use the cash register. Last time I used it, I gave a customer an extra ten dollars. Not because I couldn’t count, but because I overheard them say they were hungry but had used their money on the supplies they’d just bought at our store. I felt great about sending them to the Burger Bar for lunch. Dad did not.

  Connie and the twins rush behind the counter to watch me. I feel like a rock star holding the scanner and running it across the bar code on the weed killer bags. The prices show up on the register. Nugget and Fish walk toward the door.

  “We’ll put these on the back of your truck, Mr. Leatherwood,” says Nugget.

  “Tibbs, you were the best ballplayer we had back in the day. Sure would like to see if some of that rubbed off on your boy,” says Mr. Leatherwood.

  Dad puts both bags of weed killer on the counter. “I just don’t think my boy’s the baseball-playing type. He’s more of a team owner than a player.”

  “OMG, Nugget was right,” says Connie in a whisper.

  I’m scared to turn around. Maybe Nugget didn’t hear that. I scan a bag of fertilizer and look his way. His back’s to me, but he and Fish are staring at each other. Fish opens the door. Nugget follows him outside and down the sidewalk.

  Clankity-clankity-clank.

  I give Mr. Leatherwood the bill. He gives me cash, and I make sure he gets the right amount of change. “Thanks, and come again,” I say.

  “Thank you, Mya,” he says with a smile before turning to Dad. “Should I put the weed killer down first, or the fertilizer?”

  While Dad and Mr. Leatherwood talk, Fish and Nugget come back in. Connie, the twins, and I follow them to the back of the store. Instead of putting on his work gloves, Nugget rips open supply box after supply box with his bare hands. Some boxes have overalls in them. Others have camping gear and big cooking pots. We’re all scared to say anything to him. He looks up at Fish.