The Magnificent Mya Tibbs

by Crystal Allen

  “At least you and your dad have baseball. Seems like he’s always doing stuff with you.”

  Fish shakes his head. “Only during baseball season. One of the first things he ever bought me was a glove. I was two! Sometimes I wonder if I’d even play baseball if Pop didn’t love it so much.”

  Nugget stops opening boxes. “Are you serious? I thought you loved playing.”

  Fish shrugs. “I do, but it’s not my number one reason for trying out. This is the only time of the year that Mom and I get to see Pop, because he works so much overtime at the factory. But no overtime during baseball season. After every practice last year, he took me out to get a hot dog or a burger, just him and me. We didn’t talk about his job. We talked baseball. But when the season’s over, he goes back to working overtime. Baseball season is all I’ve got with Pop. That’s my top reason for playing.”

  Mr. Leatherwood calls from the front of the store. “Hey, Fish! Let’s go, slugger! How about we stop at the Burger Bar and get some breakfast? We can have some pancakes and a protein smoothie. Sound good?”

  Fish gives us a long look. “He loves baseball more than anything.”

  Just as Fish is about to leave, Nugget grabs his jersey. “What time are tryouts?”

  “One o’clock.”

  We all glance at the clock on the wall. It’s ten thirty.

  Nugget wipes sweat from his face. “See you there.”

  I rush over to my brother. “You can’t be serious.”

  He rips open another box. “Come to the ballpark at one o’clock. You’ll see how serious I am.”

  Holy moly. Nugget stinks at sports. And the only thing he’ll hit with the bat is himself. I really need to be at home studying, making sure I don’t miss any of Monday’s Wall of Fame Game questions. I’m sure Naomi’s working on her answers.

  Beating that tiara-wearing turkey is number one on my brain, but I love my brother. I’ve got to be there for him at the ballpark, just in case he needs me.

  Chapter Ten

  I can tell by the way Nugget’s ripping open boxes and yanking out supplies that he’s madder than a rodeo bull. My friends and I stay away from him. The twins walk side by side as they take shirts, pants, and overalls out of boxes and fold them before placing the stacks on our display table. Connie grabs camping gear and stocks it in the camping aisle.

  Clankity-clankity-clank.

  A woman with short, twisty curls walks in wearing jeans, a white blouse, and western boots as red as her lipstick. It’s Mrs. Frazier from our church. Dad walks over to her.

  “How you doin’, Mrs. Frazier?”

  She walks down the aisle. “Fine. Do you have any of those heavy metal kettles like your wife used last year in the chili cook-off?”

  Dad nods. “I just got one in, and it’s on sale for seventy dollars.”

  “Oh, perfect! How’s Monica, and the baby?” she asks.

  I smile at her. It’s so nice of her to ask about Mom and Macey.

  Dad’s face wrinkles a bit. “Monica’s got swollen ankles. The doctor shut her down.”

  I’m sad all over again, thinking about my conversation with Mom last night.

  “What about the chili cook-off? Tomorrow’s the last day to sign up,” says Mrs. Frazier.

  Dad grabs the heavy metal kettle. “I’m afraid she’s out of the running this year.”

  A smile bigger than Texas spreads across Mrs. Frazier’s face. Connie stops stocking. The twins stop folding. Nugget watches her, too. When she sees us glaring, her face changes from glad to sad. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Tell Monica I’ll be thinking about her.”

  Dad brings her the kettle. “Do you need me to carry this somewhere for you?”

  “Yes. Would you please put that in my car? It’s unlocked.”

  “Sure,” says Dad. “Mya, ring up Mrs. Frazier’s kettle for me, please.”

  When the cowbell rattles, Mrs. Frazier rushes to the front. I silently signal the twins to follow her on the other side of the store. Connie stands near Buttercup and pretends she’s dusting his head. I ka-clunk up to the front like I own the place.

  “Will that be all?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  Mrs. Frazier glances at the door and then lifts her neck up like a turkey to look toward the back before pulling out her cell and punching in a number. Soon she turns her back to me and moves farther away from the counter. She’s whispering, so I step closer and listen.

  “Hey, I’ve got good news! Monica Tibbs isn’t going to be in the chili cook-off this year. Yeah, she’s got swollen feet or something. I’m at the Tibbses’ store, picking up one of those kettles she used in the contest last year, and I just found out! Isn’t that awesome news? What? No, I’m not going by to see her. I’ve got chili to make. It’s time for a new champ, and this is my year. Just thought you’d want to know. We’ll talk more later.”

  She stuffs her phone back in her purse. “Okay, what’s the cost?”

  I thump numbers on the cash register without even knowing the bar code of the kettle, and then I press the total button.

  “That will be six hundred and fifty-four dollars.”

  Her eyes get as big as the cash register. “What! I thought it was on sale for seventy.”

  I glare at her. “Plus tax.”

  She frowns at me. “That’s absurd!”

  Clankity-clankity-clank.

  Dad comes back behind the counter. “Okay, Mrs. Frazier, you’re all—”

  “Mr. Tibbs, your daughter is trying to charge me over six hundred dollars for that kettle.”

  Dad’s eyebrows smush together as he stares at the register. “Hmm. I don’t know how that happened. The kettle is seventy dollars, Mrs. Frazier. Will that be cash or credit?”

  “Credit.”

  Dad clears the cash register, taps in seventy dollars, and then swipes her credit card. The receipt prints, and he gives it to her. “See you in church tomorrow.”

  My boots can’t get me to the back of the store fast enough. I’m ready to rip open boxes just like Nugget did. My friends are waiting on me when I get there.

  “I never knew this store had so much drama,” says Starr.

  “Total reality show,” says Skye.

  Nugget interrupts. “Mom would be infuriated with Mrs. Frazier.”

  Skye shakes her head. “I have no idea what he just said.”

  “No idea,” says Starr.

  I walk up to Nugget and frown at him. “I guess kids aren’t the only ones who get treated like they don’t exist. Did you see how happy Mrs. Frazier was about Mom being out of the cook-off?”

  “She totally hated on your mom,” says Skye.

  “I bet Mrs. Frazier drinks Hater-Ade,” says Starr.

  “Mya, you’ve got to do something,” says Skye.

  “You definitely have to,” says Starr.

  They’re right. The way I see it, Mrs. Frazier is just like Naomi Jackson, except she’s a grown-up, and Naomi said things about cowgirls to my face. Mrs. Frazier is talking behind Mom’s back. That’s total disrespect. There’s no way I can let Mrs. Frazier get away with this. Mom is the reigning champ, and I’m her assistant. We deserve a shot at defending our title. And we’re going to do it. I’m sure Mom will thank me later.

  I drop the supplies back into the box. “I’m entering that chili cook-off.”

  “What? News flash. You don’t know anything about cooking,” says Nugget.

  “Bad chili can cause red chili bumps, or green chili-itis,” says Starr.

  “You could die from red chili bumps or green chili-itis,” says Skye.

  I’ve never heard of either, but the twins look serious.

  “You don’t know anything about cooking, and you definitely don’t know anything about making chili, except for helping Mom,” says Nugget.

  “You don’t know anything about trying out for baseball, either,” I say.

  “She’s got you there, Nugget,” says Skye.

  “She’s definitely
got you,” says Starr.

  Connie grabs my arm. “What about the Wall of Fame Game? We have to study.”

  “I know, but I can’t just stand here and do nothing. I’ve got to sign up for that cook-off. Mom’s title is at stake. I’ve got to defend it! Connie, will you go with me? If Mrs. Frazier is there, I might need some help.”

  “I’m your best friend, and you know I won’t leave you hanging,” she says.

  I hug her. “Okay, let’s get these boxes emptied so we can get out of here.”

  It’s boo-yang cool having friends like Connie and the twins. We’re working together and getting everything done way faster than if it had been just Nugget and me.

  When we finish, we all head for the door. Dad stops me. “Where are you going?”

  “To the . . . park,” I say.

  “What about those Wall of Fame Game questions? Did you bring them like I asked you?”

  I reach inside my blue jeans pocket, pull out my questions, and then hand them to Dad. He doesn’t waste any time. “Name a famous scientist.”

  “Albert Einstein.”

  Dad grins. “Good. Name a Native American tribe.”

  “Caddo. You should check them out on the internet,” I say.

  “Awesome, Mya. Last question. How many members are there in the House of Representatives and Senate combined?”

  “This one’s going to get her,” says Starr.

  “Got her yesterday,” says Skye.

  I surprise them both. “There are four hundred and thirty-five members in the House and one hundred in the Senate, so that makes a total of five hundred and thirty-five.”

  Dad gives me a hug. “Good job! You’ve got a great jump on the Wall of Fame Game.”

  I’ve got a great jump on beating Naomi, but I can’t tell Dad that. Right now, I need to kick her and that lame T-shirt out of my mind so I can focus on the cook-off.

  “Be back home by two o’clock in case your mother needs you. And thanks for your help today, all of you,” says Dad.

  Once we’re outside, I hug the twins. “You rock. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

  Skye takes her sister’s hand. Connie and Nugget stand beside me. I feel like an army sergeant. “Nugget, go change into your tryout clothes. Connie and I will be at the park as soon as we can. But right now, I’ve got to sign up for the chili cook-off before it’s too late.”

  Chapter Eleven

  As Connie and I run to Bluebonnet Baptist Church to sign up, I hope I’m not too late. When I open the door, the sound of the choir practicing for tomorrow’s service fills my ears with awesome music. They’re rocking, clapping, and singing.

  “We have to go back there,” I say, pointing to a door with Offices written on it.

  We walk slowly to the door and turn the knob. Inside, a lady sits at a desk with a sign that reads Last Day to Sign Up for the Chili Cook-Off. She’s very pretty, and I like her red jewelry.

  “Can I help you? Your name is Mya, right?”

  I look around the office for Mrs. Frazier, hoping she’s not hiding behind a trash can or one of those fake plants by the water cooler. When I don’t see her, I nod. “Yes, I’m Mya.”

  “I’m Paula. Do you need some help?”

  I take another glance around the place, just to be sure Mrs. Frazier isn’t going to jump out from behind a desk or something. “The chili cook-off. I’m here to sign up for—”

  Paula smiles. “Of course! Your mom is Monica Tibbs, the reigning champion. Mrs. Frazier will be right back. She’s in charge of the cook-off.”

  My heart pumps double beats. “Wait! Well, couldn’t you sign us up this one time? We’re kind of in a hurry,” I say.

  Connie looks at her watch, and then at the door. I don’t know if she’s worried about Mrs. Frazier, or if she’s trying to help me look like I’m short on time.

  Paula smiles. “Okay, I can sign you up, no problem.”

  Connie and I exchange a grin. This could be the best luck I’ve had all day. Paula keeps talking as she taps on the keyboard.

  “And because your mom is the reigning champ, your entry fee gets waived. Here, fill out this form, and you’re all set.”

  Connie looks at the door again. “When did you say Mrs. Frazier will be back?”

  “Any minute now,” says Paula.

  I write as fast as I can, hoping Mrs. Frazier doesn’t show up and bust me.

  “Monica Tibbs . . . found her. Oh, and you’re listed as her helper! Nice. All right, as soon as you’re finished with that form, you can leave,” says Paula.

  I’m almost at the bottom of the form. My fingers can’t write any faster.

  And then . . . the door opens.

  Connie pulls on my arm. “Oh, no! Hurry up, she’s back!”

  I sign my name and give the form to Paula. “Thanks so much. The only person who could cancel this would be me or my mom, right?”

  “That’s right,” says the young lady. “And here’s your entry receipt. Good luck!”

  Mrs. Frazier’s eyes are as big as Mom’s stomach. She blocks the door. “What’s going on here?”

  “We’re just looking for the restroom and made a wrong turn,” says Connie.

  We zip around her, open the door, and sprint to the back of the church. I’ve been told never to run in church, but I’m hoping that rule is only good on Sundays. Just before we leave, Connie stands in front of a picture of Jesus and folds her hands as if she’s praying.

  “Sorry about that lie I just told back there in your office. I’ll talk to you more about it tonight at bedtime prayers . . . after my parents leave my room. But right now, I’ve gotta go.”

  We run down the street without looking back, but deep in my gut, I know what Mrs. Frazier is going to do. Hopefully Mom will listen to me when I get home. Right now, I need to get to the ballpark and root for my brother.

  When Connie and I reach the ballpark, we bend over with our hands on our knees as we catch our breath. I stare at the ground and wonder if I just made the biggest mistake on the planet. I’ve signed up for two huge things in the last three days, and I’m not ready for either one of them. But I do know that Naomi Jackson isn’t going to beat me without a good fight, and I won’t let Mrs. Frazier beat Mom without one either.

  “Micah Tibbs, you’re up.”

  The sound of my brother’s name makes me snap out of my thoughts and remember where I am. “Connie, let’s go! We can’t miss Nugget’s tryout.”

  We sit on the first bench of the bleachers. Even though I want to root for my brother, the faces of Naomi and Mrs. Frazier circle my brain like sharks. I have to get rid of them. So I stand and shout good things to my brother. But it comes out all wrong.

  “Crush that ball, Naomi!”

  Good gravy.

  Connie stares at me as I slowly take a seat.

  “She’s not here.”

  I frown. “Yes, she is, and I can’t get her out of my head.”

  Connie unzips her backpack. “I know Nugget was in a bad mood at the store. Maybe if I draw a picture of him whacking a home run, he’ll feel better.”

  My brother rushes out of the dugout. Coach frowns at him. “Where’s your gear, Tibbs?”

  Nugget touches his hair. “Oh, right, I need a helmet! Sorry, Coach.”

  Nugget’s dressed in blue shorts and a T-shirt Dad bought him at the Children’s Science Store that reads Never Trust an Atom. They Make Up Everything. Must’ve been on sale because they misspelled Adam. Why is Nugget wearing his sandals?

  I stand and clap before he bats. “Hit the ball, Nugget!”

  “Come on, Nugget! I’m going to draw a picture of you hitting the ball!” yells Connie.

  He holds the bat high. The pitch comes in fast. Nugget swings and misses. The second pitch comes in. He misses again. When Coach throws the third pitch, Nugget hits the ball, but it’s more of a baby tap, since it barely rolls back to the pitcher. When Coach Booker throws the next ball, Nugget swings so hard that the bat hits him in the back
of the head.

  Clunk.

  “Ouch!”

  I knew it.

  Connie lets out a big sigh. “He didn’t really give me anything to draw.”

  “Tibbs, go to left field!” yells Coach. “Here comes a fly ball.”

  Nugget holds his glove up, moves to the left, to the right, and then . . .

  Plop.

  He picks up the ball and throws it back toward the infield.

  Running drills are a little better. He doesn’t finish first, but he isn’t last, either.

  Soon tryouts are over. Connie and I stay quiet as Nugget unlocks his bike from the rack. I can’t take the silence anymore.

  “So, what did the coach say?”

  “Tomorrow he’s going to post the roster on the bulletin board near the concession stand over there. Everybody who tried out made the team,” says Nugget.

  “Yay! Wait . . . so if everybody made the team, why have a tryout?” I ask.

  “So Coach can see who’s good at catching, batting, throwing, running—you know, things like that. It will help him figure out our positions on the field.” He swallows hard. “Tryouts were a lot harder than I thought they would be.” He stares at his sandals. “I don’t know why I wore these. Let’s go home.”

  “Those are nice sandals. I’m going to go home and study,” says Connie.

  I hug my friend. “I’ll call you later. Thanks for going with me to sign up for the cook-off.”

  I’m almost jogging trying to keep up with my brother as he walks his bike home.

  “Why aren’t you happy? You made the team. That’s all that matters, right?”

  He shakes his head. “What if I don’t get any better, Mya? Instead of proving Dad wrong, I proved him right. I stink at baseball! Did you see how badly I missed that easy pop-up in the outfield? It landed right next to my feet. Dad and I are never going to do things like Fish and his dad. That’s because I’m a loser.”