Chapter Twelve
I wish I knew what to say to make Nugget feel better about his tryout, but I can tell he’s not in a talking mood. I’m glad because I need to get upstairs and look over my questions again. Naomi’s probably got the whole study sheet memorized by now.
Nugget lets his bike fall in the front yard. He never does that. I pick it up and push the kickstand down. He can thank me later.
I know we’re in trouble as soon as we walk in the door. With his arms folded across his chest, Dad gives us a firm look. “Where have you two been? It’s two forty-five!”
I point, like that’s going to help. “We were over . . . wait. See, we went . . . and then we . . . remember, I told you we were going . . . okay, let me tell you what happened.”
Dad’s got all kinds of mad in his face. “The last thing your mother needs right now is to be worried about where her children are!”
Mom’s feet rest on a fluffy pillow on the ottoman. She looks down and rubs her belly.
My brother yells, “I went to try out for baseball!”
His words echo off the walls in the living room.
Dad’s head tilts to one side. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nugget doesn’t wait for Dad to finish. He rushes up the stairs. “I just wanted to prove to you that I could make the team! Fish’s dad takes him to Burger Bar for breakfast! You’ve never taken me to the Burger Bar for breakfast. I bet Solo’s dad takes him, too!”
“So this is about breakfast?” asks Dad.
Nugget runs to his room and closes the door.
Dad turns to Mom and me. One part of his face looks surprised, while another part is still frowning from when we walked in. “How did this end up being about me? Did I miss something?” he asks.
“Just let him cool down,” says Mom. “I’m sure you remember what tryouts were like.”
Dad sighs. “Yes, I do. That’s why I don’t understand why he didn’t talk to me first. Anyway, I’m going to Macey’s room to put her crib together. Yell if you need me.”
I ease over to the sofa, take a seat, and keep my mouth shut. Neither Mom nor Dad has said my name since Dad asked, “Where have you two been?” So I’m feeling pretty good. I even slap a grin on my face and look Mom’s way.
“Mya, I just got off the phone with Mrs. Frazier.”
That has to have been the shortest grin in the history of grins.
Good gravy.
Mom’s got that same tilt to her head that Dad had when he was talking to Nugget. I grip the sofa cushions and hold on. I don’t know if she’s going to punish me or make me go back to the church and apologize to Mrs. Frazier. But first she needs to hear my side.
“Did Mrs. Frazier tell you about what she said at our store, on our store property, around our store stuff?”
“No she didn’t,” says Mom. “She just wanted to make sure I knew you had signed us up for the cook-off. What’s going on?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Did she ask how you were feeling? Did she ask about Macey? Did she even give you any advice for swollen ankles?”
Mom shakes her head. “No. We weren’t on the phone very long.”
I put my hands on my hips and stand. “Mrs. Frazier is not your friend, Mom! I’m an expert in having friends that aren’t really your friends. When Dad told Mrs. Frazier that you weren’t going to be in the chili cook-off, she smiled, and then she got on her cell and blasted the news all over Bluebonnet like she was happy! Is that what a real friend would do? I don’t think so. Even with swollen ankles, I bet your chili would beat hers.”
Mom’s still frowning. “But I told you I wasn’t going to compete this year, Mya. Then you deliberately went behind my back and signed us up anyway.”
Without thinking, I blurt out, “What else was I supposed to do?”
Mom sits up. “What?”
My bottom lip trembles. I blink hard, hoping the tears stay away, but they don’t listen to me. I try to explain the best I can.
“We’re in the chili cook-off every year. Now all of sudden we’re not. Then Mrs. Frazier started talking about how happy she was that you weren’t going to be in the contest, right there in our store as if . . . as if I was invisible! Like it didn’t matter that I was standing there! It just seems like . . . I got so mad because . . . everything is getting canceled, and it’s not fair.”
I want to tell Mom that I’m scared that I’m going to be invisible to her, too, but my words won’t come out. So I just stop talking. Mom nods and stretches out an arm for me to come to her. I put my head on her shoulder, and she leans hers against mine as she wipes the tears from my face. We sit in silence for a long time.
“Tomorrow, after church, I want you to go straight upstairs and study your Wall of Fame Game questions, and then bring them to me so I can quiz you.”
I let out a big mouthful of air. “But Dad already quizzed me on them.”
Mom smiles. “Good! Then you shouldn’t have any trouble when I quiz you! After that, we’ll switch over to the kitchen for one hour. When it comes to cooking, you’ve got lots of things to learn, like measurements and temperature, and how long something should cook. You have to take your time and be patient. Making a mistake with any of those things could completely ruin your meal. And Mya . . . making prize-winning chili has nothing to do with winning a prize.”
“Huh? Then why would you even bother?” I ask.
Mom sits up. “I’ll let you tell me that at the end of the week. Because this year, I’m not making the chili. You are.”
I think about what Mom said all day Saturday. I even think about it in church on Sunday morning. I ask God to forgive Connie for lying yesterday, and to forgive me if I make bad chili and someone gets red chili bumps or green chili-itis. What if people end up barfing in the grass near the Little League fields because they ate my chili?
Maybe I’m thinking too much. Or maybe it’s this itchy church dress that’s got me all uncomfortable. And these white tights made me scratch a rip so big that my knee sticks out like the top of Mount Everest. I’m sure both this dress and these tights are made out of mosquito bites.
After church, I change clothes and study some of the Wall of Fame Game questions that I haven’t studied before. I know the answers for tomorrow already, so I might as well try to memorize some of the other ones. I go to the nightstand next to my bed, grab my clock, and place it next to my computer. Then I close my eyes and point to a question on the study sheet. When I open my eyes, I know I’m in trouble.
Name five countries in Europe. Good gravy. I know France is over there, and Hungary, and Russia. How many is that? Firecrackers! I’m never going to get these answers right. Naomi’s going to crush me.
I march to my mirror, put my hands on my hips, frown at my reflection in the mirror, and go off on myself. “She challenged you! Naomi called Annie Oakley a baby show! And she said beauty pageant winners are smarter than cowgirls. Well then—bring it, missy!”
Mom calls to me. “Are you ready for me to quiz you?”
I grab my sheet. “I sure am! Here I come.”
I stand in front of her as she asks me the questions. I go three for three and get a super-duper hug. I close my eyes as Mom holds me. It feels wonderful.
“Keep studying, and do the best you can. Your dad and I are so proud of you and Nugget. With your brother trying out for baseball, and you signing up for the Wall of Fame Game, and the chili cook-off, both of you are going to be stronger and more dedicated young people.”
I smile, because now I know Nugget and I did the right things. Signing up for baseball and the chili cook-off means Mom and Dad will not forget about us. My reasons for taking on the Wall of Fame Game have nothing to do with my family. They don’t need to know that.
Knock, knock.
The front door opens. “It’s me . . . Connie. Can I come in?”
“Sure!”
“Hi, Mrs. Tibbs.” Connie takes her backpack off her shoulders. “Mya and I are going to study. We�
�re ready for tomorrow, but we’re going to try and memorize the harder questions that will come later in the week. We need to figure out how we’re going to do that.”
Mom gives a thumbs-up. “Good plan!”
I lead the way to the stairs and into my room. Connie’s already talking about study plans.
“You don’t need a study buddy for Monday’s Wall of Fame Game answers, but Tuesday, each question will have two answers. Three questions means six answers.”
“I need a study buddy every day if I’m going to beat the ba-jeebies out of Naomi Jackson. I’ve got to know the answers like I know my own name. I’m sure Naomi has someone helping her study like that.”
Connie smiles at me. “I need a study buddy too. We’re perfect for each other!”
I hug my best friend. “Okay, I don’t want to talk about the Wall of Fame Game right now. You’re not going to believe what happened yesterday before I got home. Mrs. Frazier called.”
Connie puts down her study sheet. “She is so mean.”
“Mom wasn’t happy, but I told her what Mrs. Frazier did, and you know what? I think she totally understood, because guess what—I’m making the chili this year, all by myself!”
Connie’s eyes widen. “No way!”
I nod. “Yes, way! I get my first cooking lesson on kitchen safety in just a few minutes. Wanna come? Mom’s going to show me what she knows, and then I’m taking it from there. Is that the coolest thing or what? Mrs. Frazier’s chili doesn’t stand a chance against chili made by the Magnificent Mya Tibbs!”
Chapter Thirteen
When Connie and I rush downstairs for our first cooking lesson, it’s very quiet. I check Mom’s room. She’s asleep. That’s okay, because by making this chili, I’m going to remind her how much fun we have together. I close her door and head to the kitchen.
There’re several bowls on the counter, and each bowl is covered with a napkin. I know what that is, and it makes me smile.
“Mom chopped up my ingredients for me! Boo-yang!”
Connie peeks underneath each napkin. “You put all this stuff in your chili? Our chili just needs a can opener. No wonder you win.”
Connie and I wash our hands, and I set the recipe on the counter. I figure if I throw some of each ingredient in a microwaveable bowl, that will do it, since this is just a test.
I read the recipe. “Hey, Connie, do you know what T-S-P or T-B-S-P stands for? It’s everywhere on this paper. And have you ever heard of a dollop? I know what a wallop is, but not a dollop.”
Connie puts her finger over her lips. “Let’s see, you beat eggs, and mash potatoes, but I can’t think of a food you’re supposed to wallop. That’s why I only make ham-and-cheese sandwiches for me and Clayton. No violence.”
I shrug. “When Mom and I make chili, my job is to put all the spices on the counter in alphabetical order. She asks for one, I hand it to her, and just for fun, I play the name game. Here’s how you play. For example, if Mom asked me for parsley, I’d have to use the letter P for a first name, a place where I live, and the kind of job I have. So maybe I’d say, ‘My name is Paul, I live in Pittsburgh, and I sell parsley.”
Connie straightens out the spices. “That sounds like fun!”
“It is, but I never did any measuring. It can’t be that hard.”
I’m still scratching my head about these initials. “Maybe T-S-P stands for ‘the salt and pepper’ and T-B-S-P stands for ‘tiny bit of salt and pepper.’ Makes sense to me.”
Connie shrugs. “Me, too. Okay, here’s the salt, and I want to play the game. My name is Sophie, I live in Switzerland, and I sell salt for a living!”
She giggles, and so do I. This is going to be fun. I’m adding salt, pepper, chili powder, and other ingredients as if I were Mom. And then, the absolute weirdest ingredient pops up.
“What does one clove from a knob of garlic mean?”
Connie checks the recipe. “You mean, like a doorknob knob, or a kitchen cabinet knob? Geez, Mya. Dollops and knobs? Seems like you’d find those in a hardware store. At my house, our garlic is in a jar, and it’s called minced garlic, not knob garlic. I’ve heard of cloves. It’s totally different than garlic. They don’t even smell the same. That’s got to be a mistake.”
I check the refrigerator and spot a jar of minced garlic. “Okay, I think I’m on to something.” Connie and I stare at the jar and then at the recipe before I shake my head. “How am I supposed to make a doorknob out of this?”
And then my best friend comes up with the best idea ever. “Let’s just forget about the clove part, because I think it may be a typo on the recipe. Maybe if I can get a big handful of that minced garlic, and squeeze the juice off, I can shape it into a knob. That would make sense.”
Connie makes a bowl with her left hand, pours the whole jar of garlic into it, and then squeezes her hand into a tight fist. Garlic juice seeps and drips between her fingers and into the sink.
“Hurry up, Connie. That’s going to make me barf,” I say.
She’s pushing and pinching the garlic in her hand. “I’m trying really hard, but it won’t hold together,” says Connie.
I shrug. “But I think you’ve got a knob of it, don’t you?”
She nods. “Oh, yeah, this is definitely enough garlic to make a knob.”
“Then let’s just dump it in the bowl and turn the microwave on. We’ve got to get back to studying.”
Seeing all the onions, garlic, bell peppers, chili meat, diced tomatoes, and tomato sauce in the bowl brings back more memories of Mom and me during the chili cook-off. We’d get to the booth early on Saturday morning, before the cook-off started. I’d hand her vegetables, and she’d chop them up as we’d talk about everything. She’d have a thermos of hot coffee, and she’d make me one full of hot chocolate.
My memory ends, and I stare at the microwave. Mom usually cooks this on the stove for four hours, but I’m not allowed to turn on the burners. So, to make up the difference in time, I set the microwave for two hours, since it cooks stuff faster than a stove.
When Connie and I get back to my room, I leave the door open so I can hear the ding of the microwave. I’ve got everything going that I need to beat Naomi and Mrs. Frazier! Soon Connie and I are quizzing each other on more Wall of Fame Game questions, and getting surprised when we give the right answers. To celebrate, I turn on the radio and teach her how to do the Mya Shuffle, a new two-step I made up.
“Take two steps to the right, lift your left leg, and tap your left heel with your right hand twice. Take two steps to the left, lift your right leg, and tap your right heel with your left hand twice. Good. Now heel, toe, stomp, with your right foot. Heel, toe, stomp with your left foot, and gallop on your horse like Annie Oakley as you turn to the left! Atta girl! You did it!”
Connie keeps going. “That’s fun! Come on, Mya, I want to do it again.”
I stop dancing. “Do you smell something burning?”
BEEEEEEP!!! BEEEEEEP!!! BEEEEEEP!!!
“What’s going on? That’s the smoke alarm!” I say.
Our eyes open wider than the top on a can of beans as we say together, “THE CHILI!”
Connie and I rush downstairs to the kitchen. Mom’s running water in a bowl that has lots of smoke coming out of it. There’s no happy in Mom’s face as thick black goo gluck-gluck-glucks out of the bowl and then down the sink.
Mom points to the window. “Mya, open that all the way to help get rid of this smoke. Connie, take this dish towel and fan the alarm to push the smoke away,” she says.
I rush to the window and open it. Connie grabs a dish towel and waves it to clear the smoke. Mom taps the reset button, and the alarm goes quiet.
Mom points to the dining room. “Go sit at the table and wait for me. You could have burned the house down.”
“Mom, I’m so sorry,” I say.
Connie looks like she’s going to cry. “Sorry, Mrs. Tibbs.”
As we sit and listen to Mom scrub that bowl both of my knees boun
ce, and I can’t stop them. Maybe that’s my body trying to show me how fast a fire would have moved through our house! I could have cooked my whole family.
The house smells worse than burned popcorn, and it’s all my fault. For the first time in my life, I realize the kitchen is a dangerous place. I thought I had everything under control. I thought I could cook and study at the same time. I thought making chili was going to be easy.
Mom grimaces as she slowly waddles to the table. Some of that frown may be from her swollen ankles hurting, but I’m sure most of it is from what I just did. She holds her stomach as if she’s already holding Macey in her arms. My eyes lower toward her ankles. It makes me hurt to look at them. As soon as she sits, I help her prop her legs up on a chair.
“Mya, you’ve got lots of things to learn about cooking in the kitchen. We are all very lucky. That could have been a deadly mistake.”
“I’m really sorry, Mom.”
“I’ll never help do that again without your permission, Mrs. Tibbs,” says Connie.
Mom looks at my best friend. “Connie, are you Mya’s assistant this year?”
Connie shrugs. “Since I assisted in almost burning your house down, I guess so.”
I’ve got the best friend in the world. She doesn’t back away from trouble. She doesn’t mind standing with me, even when things don’t turn out the right way.
“You’re an awesome assistant,” I tell her, and then turn to Mom. “Okay. I want to know everything, because we’re going to beat Mrs. Frazier, right?”
I glance at the clock on the dining-room wall. I hope Mom doesn’t talk a long time, because Mrs. Frazier isn’t the only person I plan to beat this week. “Is this going to take long? Connie and I need to study our Wall of Fame Game questions.”
“You can’t rush cooking, Mya. It’s about patience, and taking your time. Those things can’t change. And you have to learn your way around the kitchen.”
“But if you help me like you did today, by cutting up all the veggies, and cooking the chili meat for me, than that will make it so much easier. Thanks, Mom.”
“I can’t help you on Saturday, Mya,” says Mom. “You’ll have to do everything yourself. First, let’s learn how to use measuring tools in the kitchen.”
The Magnificent Mya Tibbs Page 6