The Magnificent Mya Tibbs

by Crystal Allen

  “I didn’t notice,” says Connie.

  “Seemed like less than a minute.”

  As we get closer to the park, Connie and I hide behind trees, trash cans, anything we can to make sure we don’t get busted for spying. Finally we make it to the bleachers, but then I notice Dad is sitting with Mr. Leatherwood. I’m supposed to go straight home after school, so I don’t want Dad to see me. Connie and I tiptoe back behind the tree and watch from there.

  Coach has the players taking hitting practice. Solo’s up first. The coach is pitching, and he whizzes one right past Solo. “Strike one!”

  Nugget stands nearby and watches everything Coach does on the mound.

  “What’s Nugget doing? Why isn’t he in the dugout with the other players?” whispers Connie.

  “I’m not sure,” I whisper back.

  Coach throws another heater. Solo swings and misses. “That’s two!”

  Suddenly Nugget runs toward Solo. “Time out!”

  Coach yells, “Tibbs, get back in the dugout!”

  Nugget holds up a finger. “I just need to tell Solo something.”

  “Make it fast!” says Coach.

  Nugget whispers something to Solo, who’s nodding as they both look back at Coach standing on the mound. Soon Solo gives Nugget a fist bump. Then my brother trots back to the dugout. Coach hollers to Solo.

  “Okay, here comes the pitch.”

  Coach throws. Solo holds his bat high and waits.

  Smack!

  Connie jumps like it scared her. “Geez, Mya! That ball’s going over the fence!”

  Nugget’s teammates wait for Solo at home plate. They jump and holler. Solo gives Nugget a high five. Nugget pats him on the helmet before the two of them jog back to the dugout together.

  Three batters later, Fish comes to the plate and hits one to the outfield. The batter on second base comes home, and Fish ends up on second base. Mr. Leatherwood whistles and claps. I clap too, until Connie grabs my hands.

  “We’re not supposed to be here, remember?”

  “Oh, right! I forgot. Anyway, it’s Nugget’s turn.” I close my eyes and cross my fingers. Please, please hit the ball.

  Coach throws three fast pitches. Nugget swings and misses all of them, then throws his bat down and stomps to the dugout. Coach blows his whistle.

  “Tibbs! Get back out here and pick up that bat! Then you can run two laps around the field for attitude. Don’t let me see you acting like that again!”

  Dad steps down the bleachers and walks to his truck. Soon he’s heading back to work.

  “I think we’d better go,” I say.

  “Yeah, this is a good time to leave,” says Connie.

  On the way to my house, I can’t help but think out loud. “I’m not sure what Nugget whispered to Solo, but whatever it was helped Solo smack a home run. So why can’t Nugget hit a home run? I’d be happy if his bat just accidentally touched the ball.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, but I don’t know enough about baseball to even have a conversation like that with myself.”

  “Me either. But the way he threw down that bat . . . I’m getting really worried about him.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m not going to mention to Nugget what I saw at the baseball field today. I’m not a low-down dirty rat, and neither is Connie. If Dad wants to talk to Nugget about it, he can mention it, but I won’t.

  When we get home, Connie and I go straight to Mom’s room. She’s sitting on her couch reading with her feet up on the ottoman. She pats the cushion for us to take a seat with her. “So, how was the first day of the Wall of Fame Game?” she asks.

  Connie and I talk at the same time, and then we tell each other to go ahead and talk, and then we talk at the same time again! I begin to tell Mom something about the Wall of Fame Game, and Connie finishes my sentences! It’s funny, but it feels so good that both of us went three for three today.

  “Mom, we have to study. Is there anything special you want to tell me about making chili today?”

  She nods. “I put all the ingredients out again, but this time you have to chop them up yourself with that Kitchen Kid’s safe-blade chopper. Do you remember how to use it?”

  “Of course,” I say. “It’s easy-peasy! I’ve used it at least ten times since you bought it.”

  “Good. It will help you chop your veggies into small, perfect pieces. Take your time, and do it right. Your father brought home five individual packs of precooked hamburger crumbles. That is going to be your chili meat to practice with. You can only make one practice bowl in the microwave a day, so make it the best you can.”

  “I promise we’ll watch the bowl this time, Mom.”

  She nods. “Let me know as soon as you turn the microwave on.”

  Connie and I unload our backpacks on the dining-room table. I bring my computer downstairs and plug it in. This is where we’ll work this week so that we can study and make chili in the same place. I get my questions out.

  “I bet Naomi hasn’t memorized any of her answers yet. She’ll probably miss one tomorrow. You know, Connie, Naomi’s really not that smart.”

  Connie lets out a big sigh. “Will you please stop talking about her? I’m trying to study.”

  “I can’t help it. Beating her is all I can think about.”

  I plop down at the table and turn on the computer. I already decided on blueberries and watermelons as my fruits that don’t grow on trees. That wasn’t hard at all. But finding inventors makes me go to the internet.

  I definitely want women inventors. Oh, check this out! I’m choosing Mary Anderson because she invented the windshield wiper for cars. I bet a whole lot of people don’t know that! And I’ll take Marion Donovan, the lady who invented throwaway diapers. I wonder what babies wore before throwaway diapers? I wonder if Mrs. Davis knows about Mary Anderson and Marion Donovan. If she doesn’t, she’ll know about them tomorrow!

  Mom calls from her room. “Are you and Connie ready for me to quiz you?”

  “We’re on our way! Be there in a minute,” I say.

  She calls to me again. “Check the refrigerator. I made us a snack.”

  Connie and I dash to the fridge door. There’s a tray with celery and carrot sticks, ranch dressing, and juice boxes. I grab it and walk toward Mom’s room. “After Mom quizzes us, let’s take a break and work on the chili for a few minutes. Then we can go back to studying.”

  Mom’s still sitting on the couch with her legs propped on pillows.

  “Thanks for the snack tray, Mom.”

  “Yes, thanks, Mrs. Tibbs. I was getting hungry,” says Connie as she takes a carrot stick.

  We eat as Mom asks us questions and we give her answers. Connie and I both miss one, so Mom makes us talk about the ones we missed. When she quizzes us the second time, we both go three for three!

  “Now that’s worth a super-duper hug,” says Mom. She hugs me first, and then reaches her arms out for Connie.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Tibbs.”

  I’m so happy that Mom shared her hugs with my best friend. Now I don’t have to try and explain to Connie what those hugs feel like anymore.

  Mom rubs her belly. “Macey and I are going to take a nap. Mya, will you take the clothes out of the washing machine for me and put them in the dryer?”

  “Sure, Mom. Connie and I, we’ll get it done.”

  It doesn’t take long to unload the washer, fill the dryer, and start those clothes tumbling dry. I turn to my friend. “Ready to cook?”

  She nods. “I’ll go wash my hands.”

  I do the same before getting all of the vegetables in one spot on the counter. I think about how Mom made me chop vegetables with the Kitchen Kids chopper because she said it was safer. She said I could chop the vegetables into the perfect little pieces this way.

  While Connie puts the spices in alphabetical order, I chop the vegetables, but it’s taking a lot longer than I thought. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea to have bigger pieces of onion and
bell pepper in the pot, do you?”

  Connie shrugs. “I don’t know. Let’s try it.”

  So instead of chopping the veggies three times, I only chop them once. They’re a lot bigger, but it doesn’t take nearly as much time as it usually takes Mom to do the same thing. If the chili turns out good, I’ll share my chopping secret with her! She’ll be so proud.

  Once I’m done with that, I dump tomato sauce and a can of diced tomatoes into the bowl, wipe my hands on a dish towel, and smile at Connie.

  “I need chili powder, please,” I say.

  Connie holds up the container. “My name is Charlotte. I live in Chicago. And I make chili powder for a living.”

  I nod and grin, knowing she’s playing the name game that Mom and I play when we make chili. “Well, Charlotte from Chicago, I’m getting ready to turn on the microwave.”

  “Okay, remember to stir everything a few times first.”

  “It looks good, Connie.” I stuff Mom’s recipe back into the coffee can. “Mrs. Frazier is going to have a cow when she realizes two fourth graders beat her.”

  I poke my head into Mom’s room to let her know it’s microwave time.

  Connie dips a spoon into the bowl for a taste. “Not bad! But we had more bowls of ingredients yesterday, didn’t we?”

  I set the microwave timer for three minutes and then close the door. “We couldn’t have. We had all of our ingredients on the counter, and all of the spices. This pot of chili is going to be good. Let’s get back to studying.”

  It’s hard to study knowing I have chili in the microwave. Every three minutes, I stroll to the kitchen, open the microwave door, stir the bowl, and restart the timer. As it gets hotter, I take a good sniff. It smells like chili, and I’m feeling pretty good about it. Mrs. Frazier’s face pops into my head. She’s going down.

  Just as the microwave dings and I take the chili out, Mom waddles into the kitchen. She stirs the chili and smiles. “I could smell it in my room! You and Connie definitely did better than yesterday. You didn’t burn anything, but you may want to chop your vegetables smaller next time. Did you use the Kitchen Kids chopper? And where’s your chili meat?”

  Connie’s chair makes a screeching noise as it backs away from the table. “That’s it! I knew there was something we were forgetting!”

  Firecrackers!

  Mom hugs me. “It’s okay, Mya, but the judges are very strict about food items that are too big, or too small, or in your case, not in the chili at all, unless you specify you’re making vegetarian chili. You’ve still got a few days before the cook-off to practice. Right now you need to study your Wall of Fame Game questions.”

  After Connie leaves, I trash the entire bowl of chili. Huge pieces of bell pepper and onion plop to the bottom of the trash bag. I should have taken the time to make small pieces. Why can’t I get this right? When Mom and I made chili, it was easy-breezy. We had so much fun, and it didn’t seem like it took a long time. Now look at me. I can’t even remember to put the right ingredients in the bowl!

  Dad and Nugget talk about baseball during dinner. Dad goes on and on about a great catch Nugget made in the outfield. He doesn’t mention Nugget’s temper tantrum at the ballpark when he threw his bat on the ground. Nugget doesn’t mention it either. Actually, my brother doesn’t say anything. And that tells me everything.

  He struck out again.

  I’m really confused now. I thought Nugget tried out for baseball because he wanted to spend time with Dad. Well, Dad’s coming to his practices, but Nugget is still mad. There must be something else going on that he hasn’t told me. I’d ask him, but I’ve got my own problems to deal with. I can just see Naomi in her bedroom, with a candle lit, studying her Wall of Fame Game questions. And I bet Mrs. Frazier made ten pots of practice chili today.

  “I’m finished eating, so I’m going to study my Wall of Fame Game questions,” I say.

  Dad nods. “Good plan. What about you, Nugget?”

  He scoots back from the table. “I’m going to call Fish.”

  Nugget and I leave the table as Mom and Dad look at each other and shrug. I put on my pajamas and study a few more hours. Since one of my questions tomorrow is about birds that can’t fly, I thought I’d check them out in my book about birds. By ten thirty, my eyes water, and I can’t concentrate. I grab my Wall of Fame Questions for tomorrow and lay them on my pillow. Maybe if I keep the questions close to my brain, I won’t forget the answers like I forgot to put meat in the chili.

  Once my head hits the pillow, my first little mini dream is Naomi Jackson wearing that Wall of Lame loser T-shirt. I grin and roll over. That’s a good sign.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When the alarm buzzes, I hit it with my fist. No way. How can it be Tuesday already when I just closed my eyes a few minutes ago? And what’s this stuck on my face? Oh, my Wall of Fame Game questions. I peel them off, toss the paper on my bed, and drag myself to the bathroom. I turn on the light, look in the mirror, and—

  AAAAAAGH!!!

  My eyes open so wide that my eyeballs almost fall into the sink.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Mya! What’s wrong? Are you okay? Open up!”

  I can’t let Nugget see my forehead. I can’t let anyone see it! “I’m . . . I’m fine, Nugget. I . . . bumped my toe on the door.”

  “Oh, okay,” he says. “Just checking.”

  When I hear him shuffle back to his room, I dunk my whole face under the faucet, scrub soap across my forehead, and pray everything comes off. It’s not coming off! Firecrackers! How can I hide my forehead?

  The idea comes so quickly that I rush to finish washing up, brush my teeth, and get dressed. My cowgirl hat covers my forehead just right! And it matches my pink cowgirl boots. What a perfect idea! Yippee-ki-yay! Yes, sirree!

  Downstairs, Mom stands with a comb and brush. “How many braids—”

  I wave at her and push my hat farther down on my head. “Not this morning, Mom! I’ve got to go. See you later.”

  I grab an apple off the table, close the front door, and ka-clunk down the street with my brother. He’s walking with his head down and his hands stuffed in his pockets. That should give me more time to go over my Wall of Fame Game questions in my head. But first I need to make sure he’s okay.

  “How’s baseball practice going?”

  “It’s not,” he says. “I got to bat twice yesterday, and struck out both times. Dad was there.”

  I slow my walk, just enough to get up enough nerve to tell my brother about yesterday.

  “Connie and I hid behind a tree and watched your practice.”

  He nods. “I saw you.”

  I’m happy that he’s not mad, but upset that I’m not a better spy. “Oh. Well, I have a question. What did you tell Solo? Whatever it was helped him hit that home run.”

  Nugget’s face brightens as he yanks his hands out of his pockets and pretends to hold a baseball. “It wasn’t just Solo. I showed all of my teammates how to watch the spin of the ball. It takes a lot of focus, but if you do it, your chances of getting a hit are good. A breaking ball has a spin on it that looks like—”

  I put up a hand. “I don’t really care about all that. So, my second question is, if you can tell everybody else how to hit the ball, why do you keep striking out?”

  He stuffs his hands back in his pockets. His head drops back down, and I know I asked the golden question.

  “If I knew why, then I could fix it and really help my team.”

  I nudge my shoulder into him. “When you figure everything out, you’ll be boo-yang good.”

  The walk to school is a fast one. As soon as I step into the hall, Mr. Winky stops me.

  “Good morning, Mya. You sure look like a famous cowgirl this morning. But remember to remove that hat, okie dokie?”

  Nokie dokie. “Mr. Winky, I’m . . . uh . . . having a bad hair day. Please don’t make me take my hat off. I need to concentrate on making the Wall of Fame, not on my hair.”

  He
smiles. “Sometimes bad hair isn’t fair, and it’s not that I don’t care, but a rule is a rule, especially at this school.”

  Great. My principal thinks he’s Dr. Seuss. “I’ll take it off as soon as I get to class,” I say. I ka-clunk down the hall and into my classroom.

  “Good morning, Mya,” says Mrs. Davis. “Nice hat, but you’ll have to take it off.”

  “Can I take it off in the cave?”

  Mrs. Davis shakes her head. “Now, Mya.”

  I slowly take off my cowgirl hat and stand in front of my teacher like I have the worst haircut in the history of haircuts. A wrinkle forms above her eyebrows.

  “What is that on your forehead, Mya?”

  I don’t answer her because I know that soon, someone will . . .

  Michael yells. “Look! There’s an eagle on Mya’s forehead!”

  My cheeks heat as I stare at the floor while a mob of classmates rush out of the cave and surround me. They giggle, whisper, and point. I keep my eyes on Mrs. Davis, because she looks how I feel; shocked, embarrassed, and wishing the hat had stayed on. Naomi worms her way through the crowd, points at my forehead, and laughs louder than anybody.

  Suddenly she stops. “Mrs. Davis, I think Mya is trying to cheat. Does she have a Wall of Fame Game question about birds? I did yesterday.”

  Mrs. Davis flips pages on her clipboard. Oh, no! If I don’t say something, Naomi is going to get me disqualified, just like she did for the Fall Festival VIP tickets a few weeks ago. I’m embarrassed enough for having an eagle on my face. Now I have to tell everybody how it got there.

  “I fell asleep with the Wall of Fame Game questions on my pillow. When I woke up this morning, the paper was stuck to my face, and I had an eagle on my forehead. I swear that’s what happened.”

  “An eagle on your forehead is good karma, Mya,” says Starr.

  “It’s definitely good karma,” says Skye.

  “I like eagles,” says Connie. “And seriously, how can Mya cheat with a tattoo on her forehead? It’s not like she can see it.”

  Mrs. Davis waves her hand. “I agree, Connie, and besides, an eagle is not the correct answer for any of Mya’s questions. All right, class, the bell will ring in a few minutes. If you’re not at your seat, I will count you late. Mya, make sure that hat goes in your cabinet.”