Spirit Week Showdown

Dedication

To all of my nieces.

I love you to pieces.

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.”