Dedication
To all of my nieces.
I love you to pieces.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Crystal Allen
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
I’m only wearing five braids to school today. I usually wear nine because that’s how old I am. But this week I’m counting down the days to Spirit Week using my hair instead of a calendar. On Tuesday I had seven braids. Yesterday, six. When I get to one, it’ll be time for Spirit Week!
I push both feet into my cowgirl boots without sitting down just like I’ve seen real cowgirls do, then decorate my wrist with the yellow bracelet I made last night. My posters of Annie Oakley and Cowgirl Claire seem to root for me as I ka-clunk around in my boots, pretending to lasso the cows and horses that Dad painted on my walls. One day I’ll be on a poster too, as the first jewelry-making, calf-roping cowgirl from Bluebonnet, Texas.
Dad even put different words to that song “She’ll Be Comin’ ’Round the Mountain When She Comes” just for me! I grab an imaginary microphone and sing as if I’m in a concert.
“She’ll be ropin’ all the cattle when she comes!
Ruby gems and yellow diamonds on her thumbs.
Mya Tibbs is such a winner,
Because winning is what’s in ’er.
She’ll be ropin’ all the cattle when she comes!”
Knock, knock.
I drop the mike, open the door, and frown. It’s my brother. His real name is Micah, but I call him Nugget because his skin is brown and his head is shaped like a chunk of chicken. He thinks I named him after a piece of gold.
“This better be important,” I say.
He puts a finger to his lips. “Shh. I need a favor.”
He’s got a copy of the Bluebonnet Tribune stuck between his armpit and his ribs. I think he’s the only fifth grader on the planet who reads the paper before breakfast.
“I have a meeting at the park this morning with Solo Grubb. It’s about Spirit Week.”
I roll my eyes. “So what’s the favor?”
“Shh!” he says again. His face has worry in it, so I lose my frown and listen as he whispers like we’re in church. “I can’t walk with you all the way to school today. Don’t tell, or I’ll get grounded, okay?”
I think about the time I tried to swing across the dining-room table on the ceiling fan and pulled it clean out of the ceiling. We were out of glue, so Nugget used toothpaste to put it back up, but it fell down in the middle of dinner and smashed Mom’s meat loaf. He took the blame.
“I won’t tell,” I say.
He grins and then gives me a little shove on the shoulder. That’s his way of saying thanks. I shove him back. That’s how I say you’re welcome.
He hands me the newspaper. “Looks like Naomi Jackson won the pageant last night.”
She looks beautiful. To think, my best friend is Junior Miss Lone Star!
Nugget snatches the paper back. “Come on—enough staring at her picture. I smell pancakes. Last one to the table eats Mom’s sandwich,” he says, racing me downstairs.
“Ugh! That’s gross!” I say, running as fast as I can to beat him.
Mom’s got a thing for the color red, and it shows all over our kitchen. We’ve got red pots, red dishcloths, a red stove, and a red refrigerator. She even shuffles around in red house slippers shaped like cowgirl boots. Nugget and I bought them for her when she stopped wearing real ones. I guess it’s hard to ka-clunk when you’re going to burp out a baby in a month.
Nugget bows. “Greetings and salutations, my lady.”
Mom curtsies. “Good morning, Sir Nugget,” she says, eating a peanut butter–and-onion sandwich. Since she’s been pregnant, Mom wants onions on everything.
I give her a hug. “How are you feeling?”
She rubs her belly. “Oh Mya, the baby kicked all night, and I’m so hungry all the time.”
I cover my nose. “You know, onions are really evil unicorn eyeballs. If you don’t stop eating them, our new baby might grow a horn in the middle of her forehead.”
Mom’s eyebrows rise. “That sounds like a taradiddle to me.”
We both grin. Taradiddles are what cowgirls call good traveling stories. They’re different from lies or fibs because taradiddles aren’t meant to hurt anybody. The real reason I want Mom to stop eating those nasty sandwiches is because it makes her breath smell like the big green Dumpster at our school. But I would never say that to her face.
Dad walks by with a cup of coffee and pulls out his chair. “Morning, everybody. Nugget, I need you and Mya to help out at the store on Saturday. Before we leave we’ll have to load Buttercup onto the back of the truck.”
Buttercup is a mechanical bull that Dad keeps in the backyard until he needs it at the store for things like sales or concert promotions.
Nugget stabs a piece of pancake. “But tomorrow we find out who our Spirit Week partners are going to be. I’ve got plans for the whole weekend. See, there’s this guy, Solo . . .”
Dad gives Nugget the look, the one that means “What part of ‘I need you at the store’ did you not understand?” My brother’s eyes drop to his plate of pancakes.
“What’s going on at the store, Dad? Are we getting a bunch of new stuff?” I ask.
Dad owns Tibbs’s Farm and Ranch Store on Main Street. His great-great-grandfather started the store. It kept getting handed down, and now it belongs to Dad. I thought hand-me-downs only happened with clothes and boots.
Dad nods. “Bronco Buck Willis canceled for the Fall Festival rodeo. Now I’ve got to send back all of those Bronco Buck items I special ordered. Sure hope I can get a refund.”
Mom shuffles over, pours Dad more coffee, and kisses him on the cheek. I drop my fork and frown. This is no time for kissing.
“Bronco Buck canceled on us? And he’s not even that good! You should’ve gotten Cowgirl Claire. She’s the best calf roper on the planet—and she’d never back out on a promise.”
Dad shrugs. “The festival committee is trying to find somebody to replace him.”
“I hope whoever they get is awesome, because I’m going to win VIP tickets to the Fall Festival, and I don’t want to waste front-row seats on a terrible roper,” I say.
Dad chuckles. “Where on earth can you win those?”
I run around to Dad and hold his face with both of my hands as I look him in the eyes. “Listen to this, Dad, you’re not going to believe it. Principal Winky is giving away VIP tickets to the best Spirit Week partners in each grade. I’m talking free food, front-row tickets to the shows, but best of all, you get to be first in line for all of the rides!” I let go of his face.
Dad’s eyebrows rise. “Holy moly! So it’s like a
contest? Winners get VIP tickets?”
“You got it,” says Nugget, giving Dad two thumbs up.
I grab my backpack. “And winning is exactly what I plan to do. See you guys later!”
On our way to school, I show Nugget my bracelet. “What do you think?”
He glances at my wrist. “The composition is impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though I have no idea what composition means.
Two boys dash by on bikes. They’re both in Nugget’s class. One points at my brother. “Look! It’s Word Nerd Nugget and his sister, Cowgirl Mya!”
Nugget balls up his fists. “Stop calling me that! I mean it!”
“Don’t listen to them,” I say. “They’re just mad because you’re the Wizard of Words. So why are you talking to Solo about Spirit Week anyway? Isn’t Fish your Spirit Week partner?”
Nugget holds up a finger, then smiles. “Yes, but I have a theory. It involves Solo Grubb. If my theory works, I won’t get called Word Nerd Nugget anymore. Maybe I’ll even get picked to play basketball.”
My nose wrinkles as I think about what’s happened to him in the past. “Every time you try to shoot hoops at recess, you end up in the nurse’s office. Is Solo going to teach you how to play? Are you and Solo good friends already?” I ask.
“Not yet,” says Nugget. “But I’ve been calculating the possibilities of Solo and me becoming best friends during Spirit Week. The odds are significantly high. I’m factoring in—”
I snap at him. “Best friend? No way. Solo Grubb is rude and thinks he’s the coolest guy on the planet. You’re nothing like Solo, and you hardly even know him.”
Nugget snaps back. “How long did you know Naomi Jackson before she became your best friend? She’s been at our school less than a month. Solo’s been here since kindergarten. At least Solo and I both like basketball. What do you and Naomi have in common?”
I grab my brother’s backpack strap and then deadeye him. “We’ve got lots in common. We both like jewelry; we like the twins, Starr and Skye; we like our teacher, Mrs. Davis; we both like the color red; and we like being best friends.” I hold up a finger. “Plus, we both want those Fall Festival VIP tickets, and we’re going to get them.”
Chapter Two
I could have given Nugget a bunch more reasons why Naomi and I are best friends. It’s not because Dairy Queen writes Congratulations, Naomi Jackson right above their Blizzard specials every time she wins a beauty pageant, or because she does car commercials on TV with her dad.
She’s the only person at school who knows that I use my braids as a calendar. Some kids might think that’s silly, but Naomi doesn’t. She even pinkie promised that she wouldn’t tell anyone just to make sure no one laughs at me. She’s awesome at keeping promises. So am I.
I remember the day she asked me, “You want to be best friends?” I swallowed my answer and choked right there in the hall. Once I stopped coughing, I said “Yes.”
That was only twenty-two days ago, but I think we were born to be best friends.
“Hey Nugget, Mya, wait up!”
It’s Fish, waving his arms in the air to get our attention.
“Don’t say anything to him about my meeting with Solo,” says Nugget.
Fish’s backpack bounces up and down as he runs. He fist-bumps Nugget and then me.
“Hiya, Mya Papaya! Happy Aardvark Day! Did you know aardvarks are fast diggers?”
I love it when he calls me Mya Papaya. It’s not a giddy-up-cowgirl name like Cowgirl Claire or Annie Oakley, but it’s good enough for me. I give him a big smile.
“Hi, Fish! Nope, I had no idea.” I ask my brother, “Did you?”
Nugget shrugs, shakes his head, and rolls his eyes like we’re bothering him. “I read that somewhere. They eat ants and termites just like anteaters. No big deal.”
Fish has one of those weird holiday calendars. If something is celebrated anywhere on the planet, Nugget and Fish celebrate it, too.
Fish turns around so he can walk backward and face Nugget as he talks. “Did you read about aardvarks in that Safari Journal newsletter or was it in the Animal Education magazine? Geez, Nugget, you’re a walking computer. You must have two brains. One for input, one for output!”
Nugget doesn’t smile. “I’m not weird. I’ve got one brain just like everybody else.”
I glance at my brother. I can tell he’s still angry with those boys on the bikes, but he shouldn’t take it out on his best friend.
Fish’s real name is Homer Leatherwood. His dad named him that because he loves baseball. He has eyes bluer than the sky, but they are belly-whopper, bullfrog huge. His curly blond hair sits high like the bubbles in my bathtub. He’s Nugget’s best friend, but Fish is one of my favorite people, too, because he’s always nice to me.
“I can’t believe all of the stuff we’ll get with those VIP tickets! I can see myself getting free funnel cakes and buffalo burgers,” says Fish.
“Last year I wasn’t tall enough for all the good rides,” I say. “But I am now!”
“Don’t forget front-row seats and backstage passes for all the shows,” says Nugget.
I pretend I’m roping a calf. “Including the rodeo!”
Fish rubs his hands together. “Nugget, we’re going to be fifth-grade VIPs!”
I hold up a finger. “Naomi and I are going to be the fourth-grade winners!”
We stop at the corner and wait for the crossing guard’s signal. My brother stares across the street. “There he is! Hey, Solo, over here!”
Inside the park fence, a boy swishes a shot. He has brown skin and shiny black hair, and he wears expensive basketball shoes. He waves. I wave back, even though I’ve never met him.
“He’s good,” I say.
My brother laughs. “He’s not just good. Solo’s boo-yang good. Fish, you know Solo?”
Fish spits in the grass. “You mean the kid who thinks he’s cooler than ice?”
“He’s not just cool. He’s boo-yang cool,” says Nugget, looking across the street.
Fish rolls his eyes and then looks at me. “He’s not boo-yang cool.”
The smile slides off of Nugget’s face. “That’s your opinion.”
TWEEEEET! The crossing guard stops all traffic. Nugget gives me a friendly shove and a smile. “I’m crossing here. Catch up with you later.”
Fish and I watch Nugget run inside the park and high-five Solo. I keep my lips zipped because Nugget asked me not to tell Fish about his secret Spirit Week meeting. I worry about how Fish is going to feel when he finds out what Nugget is doing.
“You’re his best friend, Fish,” I say.
Fish is still watching Nugget and Solo. “Yeah, I’m still his best friend.”
To me, Nugget can’t win Spirit Week without Fish. Best friends make awesome Spirit Week partners, and I’ll prove it when Naomi and I win those fourth-grade VIP tickets.
Fish opens the school door and lets me walk in first. “See you at lunch, Mya,” he says.
“Happy Aardvark Day,” I yell as he rushes down the hall.
Everywhere I look there are posters and signs about Spirit Week. My favorite is the one with two cowboys sitting on horses. One says “Howdy, Partner.” The other cowboy says, “I’m not just a partner. I’m your Spirit Week partner! Yee-haw!”
I spot Naomi near the water fountain, surrounded by boys and girls congratulating her on winning the pageant, and she thanks them with a smile.
When I reach her, she touches my braids. “Your hair’s so cute today. Where’s Nugget?”
I point toward the school door. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Last year, I had two friends, Skye and Starr Falling. We were just regular girls. But now, we’re popular because of Naomi, and I’m megapopular since she’s my best friend. Soon Nugget shows up, sweaty and out of breath. “Greetings and salutations.”
Naomi plays with her hair and smiles at my brother. “Hi, Golden Nugget.”
I frown. “Why’d yo
u call him that?”
Naomi shrugs. “He told me his first name is Golden.”
I glare at my brother. “Chicken is more like it.”
He grins. “Just call me Nugget. See you at lunch, Mya.”
Naomi watches him jog down the hall. “Are you sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend?”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe Godzilla, but I think she broke up with him.”
She laughs. “You’re so funny, Mya. We better get to class.”
One of the best things about being in fourth grade is our classroom. It has an extra room near Mrs. Davis’s desk. She calls it our adjoining room. We call it awesome! This extra room has a rainbow-shaped door with “The Cubby Cave” written above it. We just call it the Cave, because no fourth grader in their right mind would use the word “cubby.” Inside the Cave, each of us has a long wooden cabinet with our name on it. They look like lockers only way better because they have tons of space and they’re all different colors instead of the ugly gray ones they have in middle school.
Inside each cabinet, there’s a square at the top for books, a hook for our coat and backpack, and a drawer at the bottom for supplies and lunchboxes. It’s boo-yang cool, and a fun place to hang out before the bell rings. By the time Naomi and I get to our cabinets, the place is packed with our classmates.
Suddenly the Cave goes from rock-concert loud to dead-people quiet. Students freeze. Even the air conditioner cuts off. I’m scared to look, but I have to know what’s happening. A tall girl, taller than most teachers, stands next to me. I slowly back away from my cabinet.
It’s Mean Connie Tate.
There are fifteen rumors about Mean Connie, and all of them are true. Rumors like breaking her brother’s fingers, stealing boots off a homeless lady, and trashing the Bluebonnet Bakery because she ordered chocolate doughnuts and they accidentally gave her lemon filled.
She glares at Naomi. “Get your grimy hands off my door.”
“I hope I didn’t get any of your bully germs on me,” says Naomi.
It only takes two seconds for the Cave to empty. I’d leave, too, if Naomi wasn’t my best friend, because it’s going to get ugly in here. I think there’s going to be blood. Lots of blood.
Mean Connie steps closer to Naomi. “Stay away from me, Jackson.”
Spirit Week Showdown Page 1
