Miami Jackson Gets It Straight Read online

  Originally published as Miami Gets It Straight by Golden Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 2000.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2000 by Patricia C. McKissack and Fredrick L. McKissack, Sr.

  Illustrations copyright © 2000 by Random House, Inc.

  Cover illustration copyright © 2008 by Frank Morrison.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Random House and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

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  The Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition of this work as follows:

  McKissack, Pat.

  Miami gets it straight / by Patricia & Fredrick McKissack ; illustrated by Michael Chesworth.

  p. cm. (A Stepping Stone book)

  Summary: The school year is almost over, but nine-year-old Miami still has to deal with his nemesis, Destinee Tate, and also faces a challenge when he shops for a gift for his teacher.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-77167-4

  [1. Schools—Fiction. 2. Gifts—Fiction. 3. African Americans—Fiction.]

  I. McKissack, Fredrick. II. Chesworth, Michael, ill. III. Title. IV. Series.

  PZ7.M478693Mf 2004 [Fic]—dc22 99036116

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For MaJon Carwell, Sarah Sade Davis, and John Fitzpatrick McKissack

  —P.M. & F.M.

  To Lucy

  —M.C.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Hot, Hot to Summer

  2. I Hate Destinee Tate

  3. A Jerome

  4. Sorry

  5. Friendship Is Priceless

  6. A Good Deal

  7. Prince Creep

  8. Saved!

  9. String Snaps

  10. A Gift that Matters

  About the Authors

  1

  Hot, Hot to Summer

  Monday, June 1, 7:02 A.M.

  We’re hot, hot to summer! Five more days ’til school’s out! No more math homework. No more book reports. No more geography work sheets.

  And no more big-mouthed girls. The ones who always got something to say. Like Destinee Tate. My main enemy.

  This time next week, String and I will be on our way to sports camp at Camp Atwater. That’s in Wisconsin. But for now, we’ve got to get through this week. First things first, as Daddy always says.

  String is my partner. We’ve been knowing each other since we hung out in strollers. We started school together. And we’re both in Ms. Rollins’s 3T class. For five more days, that is.

  String’s tall and skinny. Wears glasses and a major league baseball cap all the time. Backwards.

  Next to him, I’m average. Not tall. Not short. Just a regular nine-year-old young brother on the move. We share most everything—books, games, homework. We even had a birthday party together.

  I racked up $25 in gift money on my last birthday. Check this out. Mama says I get to spend it on anything I want! I’m getting cool stuff for camp.

  String plucks a hot waffle out of the toaster and drowns it in syrup. “May I have the rest of your banana?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  He cuts it up over his waffle. All the time I’m wondering where he’ll put it.

  String loves to eat. He talks about food. He sings about food. Food makes him dance.

  In fact, he eats breakfast at his own house. Then he has a second breakfast at my house.

  He should be huge. But instead, he’s real skinny. So skinny, he can hide behind a shoestring. That’s why everybody calls him String. Not by his real name, Christopher Tyler.

  Nobody calls me by my real name either. Mama and Daddy named me Michael Andrew Jackson after my two grandfathers. When I was two years old, some people started calling me Mike Andy for short. String thought they were saying Mi-a-mi. Miami Jackson. That’s me. I like my name. I like my friend.

  7:18 A.M.

  String pours himself a glass of milk. My sister Leesie lowers the Missouri drivers training manual from in front of her face. “Don’t they feed him at the zoo?” she asks.

  Leesie talks to us with her nose turned up.

  String’s an only child, but I’ve taught him how to handle a big sister. He comes back quick with, “Think you’ll pass your driver’s test … on the third try?”

  Slam! “Broke your face,” I say. I’m laughing so hard I almost fall out of the chair.

  Leesie glares at us. “I made a mistake last time, okay? I didn’t think they’d fail me for running just one little red light.”

  String and I are howling. Leesie tries for a rebound by saying, “When I do get my license, don’t either one of you come asking me to drive you anywhere.”

  I’m ready with the block. “Why would we want to ride with you?” We’re laughing even harder.

  “Give your sister a break,” Mama says as she comes into the kitchen. She’s talking and walking in a hurry. “One more week of school! One more! No more early classes. I’m just not a morning person.”

  Mama teaches instrumental music at the junior college. Her specialty is the oboe. Most of the time she schedules her classes in the afternoon. Things go much smoother when she does.

  “Hang tight, Mama,” I say. “We’re hot, hot, hot to summer.”

  Mama butters her toast. “What’s that mean?”

  I explain. “It’s like when we play the game Pin-the-flag-on-the-flagpole during rainy-recess. I’m blindfolded. Ah-right? I’m holding the little flag with a thumbtack through it. I’m trying to find the paper so I can pin the flag on top of the little flagpole.”

  I close my eyes and act out what I’m describing. “When I move away from the top, everybody yells, cold, colder, ice-cold! Got it, now?”

  String leaps to his feet. He licks syrup off his fingers. “I know. I know. And when you move closer to the top, everybody yells hot, hot, hot.”

  “Well, duh!” says Leesie.

  All I do is pretend to be driving and that shuts her up with a quickness. She rolls her eyes and goes back to studying.

  “Anyway, Mama,” I go on, “we’ve got one week left before school’s out. So, we’re hot, hot to summer. Look out Camp Atwater.”

  String and I slap hands.

  “Has anyone seen my keys?” Mama asks. “My glasses? Who’s fed Shimmy and Shammy? Of all times for Mack to be out of town.”

  Daddy and Uncle Jay own a general contracting company—J-2 Engineering. Daddy’s been away a lot this spring. They’re working on a dam along the Mississippi River. I miss doing the Daddy things.

  See, there’s stuff I do with Mama. We watch sci-fi videos from the olden days. Back when the monsters were dorky-looking.

  Then there are things I do with Daddy. Like, he’s into coin collecting. He takes me hiking. He’s teaching me about both. I miss him.

  But I’ve got baseball. That’s my thing. I like coin collecting and sci-fi. But baseball is it. And at sports camp I’m going to play until I drop. Five more days.

  I’m hot, hot to summer.

  7:28 A.M.

  String feeds our fish, Shimmy and Shammy. He’s got a soft spot for animals. He likes taking care of them. People, too.

  Mama finds her keys in her pocket. Her glasses are on her head. She’s washing a vitamin pill down with grapefruit juice. She turns to Leesie and says, “I’ll pick you up at three for the driver’s test. Don’t be nervous. Try to stay calm.…”

  Suddenly Leesie slams the book shut. “Mama! I wasn’t even thinking nervous until you said the word!”

  We laugh. Water fills Leesie’s eyes. “You just wait,” she screams at String and me. She grabs her backpack and rushes out the door in a huff. Mama steps to the side and lets all the drama slide past.

  I’ve finally got Leesie figured. She’s a homonym. Those are words that are spelled and said the same way. But they’ve got different meanings. Like a strike at a baseball game and a strike at the bowling alley. That’s my sister. One minute she’s Leesie-Laughing. In a heartbeat, she’s Leesie-Crying. Spelled the same way, said the same way, Leesie is never the same. She’s a walking, talking homonym.

  Mama’s leaving. She calls over her shoulder, “Give Leesie a break.” She chuckles. “No pun intended.” Mama likes to play with words, too.

  She stops in her tracks. Sighs, then turns back to get her briefcase. It’s still sitting on the counter. “What was that you said about being hot …?”

  “Hot, hot to summer,” I answer.

  “Yes. Thank goodness we’re hot, hot to summer.” She throws us a kiss. Then she’s gone.

  Mrs. McCurtle wheels the big yellow school bus around the corner. String gulps the last swallow of milk. He tosses the banana peeling in the trash.

  “Hurry up,” I say. “We’re hot, hot to late.”

  2 r />
  I Hate Destinee Tate

  Same day, 8:28 A.M.

  There goes Ms. Rollins, standing beside the door to Room 16. She’s been greeting our third grade, Class T, the same way, every day, all year. And there go all the girls hanging around her. Sucking up. Especially the chief suck-up, Destinee Tate.

  She’s like the leader of the girls. A real bride of Dracula. I guess I’m sort of like the leader of the boys. The girls think the boys are all maggot brains. We’re too cool for them, that’s all!

  Just five more days of Destinee Tate and the rest of the girls in 3T. Then I don’t have to see them all summer.

  But I will miss Ms. Rollins.

  Come Friday, Class T is heading for fourth grade. Ms. Rollins is leaving Turner Elementary.

  She’s heading for Ghana, West Africa. Going there to teach for two whole years.

  Man, are those kids lucky. Ms. Rollins is a great teacher. And looking good, too!

  We all hop in our seats just as the bell rings at eight-thirty.

  “I hate Destinee Tate,” I mumble under my breath.

  String hears me. “You’re still mad ’cause she won the spelling bee. You can’t win everything, Miami!”

  Destinee Tate is about the only thing we really disagree about. String likes her. I don’t get it. He’s friends with both of us.

  I used to get mad at him for even talking to her. Made no difference. String will turn double-Dutch rope for the girls. Then he’ll run over and hit a homer with the boys. He even sits with Rashetta Lewis—with her nose running all the time. Nasty. Gag!

  String’s okay like that. I understand. But I can’t hang with Destinee Tate.

  “You should get to know her,” String is always saying.

  “I know enough,” is always my answer.

  Ms. Rollins comes into the room. The Star-Spangled Banner crackles over the intercom. We stand. We sing. We say The Pledge of Allegiance.

  That reminds me of Michael Keller. He made a big mistake last year. He started off the Pledge with the preamble to the Constitution. “We the people …”

  The girls aine never forgot it. They still call him We-the-People and fall out laughing. Poor Michael. I don’t usually laugh at one of the boys in front of the girls, but that was funny.

  Somebody hits my arm. It’s Destinee. “We’re having a meeting of the class officers at lunch,” she whispers from two seats back. “Be there.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Let’s listen!” Ms. Rollins claps her hands.

  “It was Miami,” says Destinee.

  Ferret-nose teacher’s pet! Always got to be first. The best. The winner! Even if she has to cheat!

  That’s how Destinee Tate got to be class president. She cheated.

  Here’s what happened. There are fifteen girls and twelve boys in 3T. Destinee tells the girls to vote for her. She promises to make sure the girls get what they want!

  There’s another way to divide 3T. We’ve got sixteen kids of color. And eleven white kids. I could have asked all the black kids to vote for me simply because I’m black.

  But I chose to run straight up. I told everybody to go with the best. That went over like two dead flies. I lost big time!

  Well, not really. I’m the vice-president. Being vice-president is like beige wallpaper. Who notices? Who cares?

  I wasn’t the only boy to lose to a girl either. Destinee helped Amika take out Horace as class secretary. Lisa nudged David out of the treasurer’s seat.

  The only boy who got everybody’s vote was String. He’s the sergeant at arms. Destinee, Amika, and Lisa are the majority. So they get everything their way.

  If you say anything, they get all up in yo’ face—bad breath, yellow teeth, and all. And whatever you do, don’t make a mistake in front of the girls. They’ll never, ever let you forget it. Just like poor We-the-People Michael Keller.

  8:41 A.M.

  Some fifth grader is reading the menu over the intercom. “For lunch, you will have a choice between a slice of vegetarian pizza. Or a sausage pizza. Buttered corn. Cinnamon applesauce. And chocolate pudding for dessert.”

  Everybody groans and starts to gag. Slop is slop—no matter what you call it.

  I’m quiet. But I don’t listen. I look at the bulletin board. There’s a picture of Destinee right after she won the spelling bee. I missed the word unanimous. Too many n’s.

  It’s not about losing the spelling bee. It’s about all that studying, for what? To stand there trying to look cool while Destinee walked off with four tickets to a Cardinals baseball game. Destinee wouldn’t know a baseball if it fell in her Cheerios.

  The announcements end with the student reader giving the word for the day—“compromise.” The intercom crackles. It sputters and shuts off. And as always, every girl’s hand shoots into the air. “Me, me, me, me,” they whine.

  We boys just sit with our arms folded. Waving our hands in the teacher’s face is not cool.

  Ms. Rollins looks around. “Destinee. You are our spelling bee champion this year. Spell the word for the day.”

  Man! I slide down in my seat. I don’t want to hear all-a that.

  Destinee bounces to her feet. I don’t look at her. “That’s an easy one,” she says. She calls out the letters. “C-O-M-P-R-O-M-I-S-E. Compromise. Do you want me to tell you what it means?”

  Show off!

  “No,” says Ms. Rollins. Her eyes move like radar around the room. “Miami. What do you think compromise means?”

  Me? Ah-right! I stand up real slow, ’cause I’m thinking. “It’s … it’s a Jerome.”

  Destinee giggles. All the others girls do, too. I try not to pay any attention to them.

  “It’s like this. The Red Hawks wanted to sign Jerome Streeter for $17 mil. Jerome asked for $20 mil. The Red Hawks came back with an offer of $18.5 mil. Jerome signed. That’s a compromise. Right?”

  Ms. Rollins nods. “Good,” she says, smiling.

  That shut Destinee’s mouth! The girls got nothing on me.

  “Compromise is a word that helps us resolve problems,” says Ms. Rollins.

  Why is she looking at me?

  “One side gives a little and the other side gives a little. They go on like this until they reach an agreement that makes each side feel like a winner. Compromise. Make it your own word. Use it.”

  3

  A Jerome

  Same day, 11:58 A.M.

  The morning zooms by and before I know it, it’s lunch time. I’m chewing on a piece of veggie pizza with cardboard crust. Even String can’t eat but one piece.

  Here comes Destinee. Lisa and Amika are following. Their braids and beads are flipping and flopping from side to side. They remind me of Moe, Larry, and Curly.

  As always, Destinee does the talking. The other two sock puppets do what she says.

  “We think it would be a good idea to give Ms. Rollins a going-away gift. If everybody in class puts in a dollar,” Destinee says, adding in her head, “that comes to … to …”

  “Twenty-seven dollars,” I answer.

  “I knew that,” Destinee says, waving me off with her hand. “We’ve decided—”

  “Wait a minute,” I put in. “Who is we?”

  “The class officers,” Destinee answers, pointing to herself, Amika, and Lisa.

  “What’s your trouble?” says Lisa. “You should be happy we’re telling you anything …”

  “ ’Cause there are more of us than you!” Amika finishes. They slap hands. They know how to get to me. But I’m cool.

  Destinee goes on with her plan. “It’s Monday. We’ll tell everybody today. We’ll collect the money on Tuesday and Wednesday. Amika and I will buy the gift at the mall on Wednesday afternoon. Then Lisa will wrap it and get everybody to sign the card on Thursday. We’ll give it to Ms. Rollins on Friday, the last day of school.”

  I hate Destinee Tate. Especially when she acts like she’s president of the world.

  “Why not have a party? Buy Ms. Rollins a big cake … have some punch and stuff?” says String.

  Destinee gives him her chocolate pudding cup. “I don’t think so,” she says.

  Course not. It wasn’t her idea.

  The girls act like they’re all of that and a bag of potato chips, too. Ha! I’m tired of them bossing me—us—around.