Mya's Strategy to Save the World Read online

  PUFFIN

  an imprint of Penguin Random House Canada Young Readers, a Penguin Random House Company

  Published in hardcover by Puffin Canada, 2019

  Text copyright © 2019 by Tanya Lloyd Kyi

  Cover illustration by Kris Mukai

  Cover design by Five Seventeen

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Kyi, Tanya Lloyd, 1973-, author

  Mya’s strategy to save the world / Tanya Lloyd Kyi.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 9780735265257 (hardcover).—ISBN 9780735265271 (ebook)

  I. Title.

  PS8571.Y52M93 2019   jC813′.6   C2018-900691-9

                     C2018-900692-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018936946

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  v5.3.2

  a

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part I: One Week without Mom

  Part II: Three Weeks without Mom

  Part III: Five Weeks without Mom

  Part IV: Seven Weeks without Mom

  Part V: Nine Weeks without Mom

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  For Julia,

  master of the multi-pronged strategy

  THERE ARE TWO TYPES OF PEOPLE IN THE WORLD: those who sleep with tissue boxes on their bedside tables, and those who pick their noses before bed and wipe their boogers on the sheets. I am the first type. My sister, Nanda, is the second.

  I know this because (a) we share a bedroom, and (b) my mother once read that kids who get more sleep are more intelligent. Which meant I had to go to bed at 8:30 p.m., the same as Nanda (who is FOUR YEARS younger than I am). It’s practically still light outside, which meant I could see her wipe her snot on her sheets.

  And Mom and Dad wonder why I refuse to share a bed with Nanda on vacation. Who would want to share sheets with a known snot-wiper?

  On the Saturday night after our second week of school, I was awake for plenty of time to watch Nanda handle her snot, and for a long time after. Mom was away and Dad had a work party to attend, so I was left babysitting. I had been begging them, forever, to stop hiring Joanna from down the street because I was twelve years and three months old, almost a teenager myself, and it was ultra-humiliating to be babysat when I wasn’t a baby and did not need to be sat upon. I was totally up for the job.

  It wasn’t easy to supervise my eight-year-old sister, though. At first, I thought Nanda would watch TV and I would call my best friend, Cleo, so we could talk about how Drew cried in the cloakroom at lunchtime after his soccer team lost. But we had hardly started discussing whether Drew was wonderfully sensitive (Cleo’s opinion) or weirdly competitive and a bad sport (my opinion) when, from the corner of my eye, I saw zombies. Nanda was watching a show about dead things with flesh still hanging from them. They were staggering around a city as if that was the best thing dead people could find to do with their time.

  Nanda always ruins everything.

  After I made her turn off the TV and put on her pajamas, she threw a fit.

  “Mya, I’m not making this up,” she said. “There’s something outside the window.”

  There was nothing there, of course, but I had to open our bedroom window and yell, “Come and get us, flesh-eating figments of Nanda’s imagination,” before she would believe me. Then I had to stay in our room while she curled up, picked her nose and went to sleep.

  I got out my flashlight and read a book until 9:30 as a matter of principle. After that, I lay in the bed across from Nanda’s with my eyes wide open, thinking every sound was the creaking of rotten bones. There were a lot of sounds outside. I kept popping up to look. Once it was someone skateboarding. Once it was our neighbor parking his car. But there were also noises I couldn’t identify. Squeaks and rustlings. It even seemed as if something bumped against our roof.

  Eventually, I went downstairs and got the rolling pin from the kitchen drawer and stashed it beneath my bed, so I could defend our home if necessary.

  About six billion hours later, Dad’s keys jingled in the lock. I closed my eyes and listened to him tiptoe up the stairs, which wasn’t quiet at all because his knees went crackle-crackle-crackle with every step. (This was also how I knew for certain that he wasn’t a zombie.)

  Dad paused in the hall and peeked into our room. I pretended to be asleep, of course, because that was the sort of mature, under-control babysitter I was determined to be.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Breakfast perfection

  Dear Mom,

  I babysat for Nanda last night while Dad was at his work event. Everything went super smoothly. I am now your trusty, reliable live-in babysitter, available night and day. And while this first session was free, I think you should consider the low, low rate of five dollars per hour. Who can compete with that?

  Also, why have you never bought us Toaster Strudels? They are the most delicious things EVER, and Dad says we can have them every single morning until you get home from Myanmar. I know you’ll have to stay until Grandma is feeling better, but how long will that be, do you think? Dad might need to buy a few more boxes, and the picture on the back of the box says there are also chocolate and blueberry varieties.

  Please kiss Grandma and tell her it sucks that she caught pneumonia (except I know we can’t say sucks to Grandma, so please reword for me). I hope she heals quickly and you can come home soon. But not too soon because, you know, chocolate and blueberry varieties still to try.

  Miss you tons and tons and TONS!

  Love,

  Mya

  xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

  * * *

  —

  ONE DAY, I’LL HAVE AN AMAZING JOB WITH THE UNITED Nations. They’ll send me all over the world. I’ll fly into countries that have wars and famines. I’ll find brilliant solutions. Once everyone agrees to my suggestions, I’ll be famous.

  I already have plenty of experience with that sort of thing.

  Cleo and I sit beside each other in Ms. Martinson’s English class, in the prime spot under the windows. Which would be perfect EXCEPT that all desks in her classroom are in groups of four. The other two desks in our square are occupied by Drew and his best friend Ian, and even though we are in seventh grade, not second, the two of them spend ridiculous amounts of time making fart sounds with their armpits and knees.

  On Monday, while we were supposed to be working on letter writing, Ian passed a note to Cleo that said, “Cleo wants to kiss Drew.” Then Ian started laughing hysterically. Cleo was already turning purple when Drew grabbed the note and added to it. Now it said, “Cleo wants to kiss Drew’s butt.” I reached for it, but before I could grab the paper, Ian got it back. (This is the sort of thing that UN negotiators have to deal with all the time.) Now, the note said, “Cleo wants to kiss Drew’s butt—BAD!” Whi
ch wasn’t even grammatically correct.

  Drew added more exclamation points, and that was when Cleo threw her water bottle at Drew’s head.

  He clutched at his forehead and wailed like a baby. “What did I do? I didn’t even write it!”

  Of course I was on Cleo’s side, but who throws a METAL water bottle? Plus, who would drink from a water bottle once it had touched Drew’s head? Now she’d never be able to use it again, which was a total waste and environmentally damaging too.

  By that time, Ms. Martinson was standing over us, pointing to the door. She sent Cleo to see Principal Richards and Drew to the first aid room. Ian folded his hands, smirking as if he were king of the world. So I kicked him in the shin—hard—as soon as Ms. Martinson had turned away. He yelped, but not like Drew and not loudly enough to get Ms. Martinson’s attention.

  At least he showed some signs of intelligence.

  Drew and Cleo never came back to class, so I put my conflict-resolution skills to use at recess. First, I told Ms. Martinson that her unit on symbolism had been fascinating.

  “Your examples of rivers representing the passage of time were very thought-provoking,” I said.

  My mom is a freelance editor. She says that whenever you have to say something difficult, you should make a “poop sandwich” and put the bad thing between two good things. So after I told Ms. Martinson what an awesome teacher she was, and how I fully supported her decision to send Cleo to the office, I mentioned that there were extending circumstances for Cleo having thrown her water bottle.

  “Extenuating?”

  “Sure. My point is, there was note-writing going on. It was inappropriate, and Cleo was justified in her actions.”

  Which is exactly how I’d address the United Nations.

  “Thank you, Mya,” Ms. Martinson said. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

  “I’m sure that with you in charge, justice will prevail,” I said, adding the final piece of tasty bread in my poop sandwich.

  I spent the rest of recess organizing the classroom library, so Ms. Martinson could see what a reliable and trustworthy witness I was.

  Cleo totally owed me.

  * * *

  —

  I THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF I THREW A metal water bottle at someone’s head and got suspended from school for a day. Here’s a brief outline:

  a) My dad and I would meet with Principal Richards, and Dad would force me to apologize for my behavior.

  b) We would drive to my victim’s house, where I would have to apologize in person, even if the water-bottle throwing had been completely justified.

  c) Once in our own living room, we’d have a long family discussion about patience, because Mom grew up Buddhist, and Buddhism is all about patient acceptance.

  d) Next, we would have a long discussion about forgiveness, because Dad and his family are Christians, and they’re all about turning the other cheek and not throwing stones, or water bottles either.

  e) There would be many words about how I’d disappointed my family, and many long, sorrowful looks as Mom and Dad wondered aloud where they’d gone wrong in their parenting decisions.

  f) Nanda would walk past the living room as many times as possible, smirking at me every time.

  g) I would be grounded for life.

  That was what would happen to me. Apparently, things were different in Cleo’s world, even though Cleo’s mom is a police officer, so you’d think she would have high standards in the truth, justice and punishment departments.

  Cleo and her mom and Principal Richards had a long meeting, during which Cleo told them a sob story about struggling to adjust to being a tween with her mom working so many long hours and night shifts. The next day, the very day of her suspension, Cleo did not have to go to Drew’s house and apologize in person. Instead:

  CLEO GOT HER OWN PHONE!

  Which basically made me the last person on the entire Earth without proper communications technology. I may as well have been grounded myself. For life.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: The twenty-first century

  Mom!! CLEO GOT HER OWN PHONE!!

  Could I have one? It would be very helpful while you’re away. After all, what if I’m in an emergency situation? I asked Dad once last year, and he said I couldn’t have one until I was thirty-five, but I think he was kidding.

  Please, please, please?

  Hugs to Grandma.

  Love,

  Mya

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: AHHHHHHHHHHHH!

  I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE YOU GOT A PHONE!

  * * *

  —

  ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL ON WEDNESDAY, CLEO SHOWED me all the features of her new phone. ALL OF THEM. Because everything she said was, “My phone…my phone…my phone…”

  She could text, take pictures, check the weather, bake pretend cupcakes and raise a family of dragons. The dragon game was actually amaZING, but just as she was explaining how the app notified her whenever a dragon egg was ready to hatch, Nanda caught up to us on the sidewalk, stuck her fuzzy head between our shoulders and ruined everything.

  “This should count as part of your screen time,” she said. “I’m telling Dad.”

  Nanda and I had a strict thirty-minute screen-time limit, which was torture, and proof that Mom and Dad did not live in the twenty-first century. It was probably grounds for intervention by social services. How were we supposed to become educated citizens of a high-tech world when we weren’t allowed to look at screens for more than half an hour a day?

  “Shut up, Nanda,” I said.

  “I’m telling Dad you told me to shut up.”

  Nanda and I didn’t go to the same school, but her elementary school was right beside my middle school, so it was my job to drop her off every morning. Now that Mom was away, I had to pick her up every afternoon too. My semi-Buddhist genes told me I probably did something terrible in a previous life in order to deserve this.

  “Look, Nanda,” Cleo said, holding out her phone, “I have a huge music library.” Cleo has curly brown hair and big green eyes. When she opens them really wide, it’s as if she’s casting a spell. You can’t help but agree with everything she says.

  Nanda loves music, so she shouldered in right next to Cleo. Which was (a) hypocritical, since she was the one who complained about screen time, and (b) annoying, because Cleo was my best friend.

  I was left trailing behind them on the sidewalk.

  And speaking of being left behind in a friend-less, phone-less state, Mom called last night. She’d seen my email and said she’d talk to Dad about “the phone issue” when she got home. But who knew how long that would be? I asked how Grandma was doing, and Mom said people healed more slowly when they were older.

  That wasn’t encouraging. Grandma was ancient.

  Not having a phone when everyone else did would be like floating around in outer space by myself while all my friends had a dance party in the space station. What if I was stuck in this state for months? Or years? Or forever?

  Mom and Dad were living in some sort of time warp and thought I was still ten years old. It wasn’t just the phone-less-ness and the screen-time limits. It was my entire existence. For example, we live in a three-bedroom town-house. Two of the bedrooms are on the top floor, and one of the bedrooms is in the basement. Most parents would allow their almost-teenaged daughter to sleep downstairs, where she could have her own SPACE and INDEPENDENCE and FREEDOM FROM SNOT. But no. Mom and Dad said it was too far away from the family.

  It was possible my parents were trying to permanently sabotage my life.

  WRITING PROMPT:

  THE MOMENT EVERYTHING CHANGED

  Mya Parsons, Division 3

  My mom is in Myanmar looking after my grandma. You might be wondering how this happened, especially since you just saw my mom at our school’s September Open Hou
se. Well, there was a moment that everything changed.

  It was the day before Mom left, at six in the morning.

  The phone rang.

  This almost always means a call from Myanmar because either (a) everyone in that country calculates the time change wrong or (b) everyone in that country thinks 6 a.m. counts as morning.

  I didn’t worry about the call at first. But as I was trying to drift back to sleep, the sounds from my parents’ bedroom weren’t the usual chatting-with-relatives variety. Mom was opening and closing doors. Dad murmured a few things, then left the room and crackle-crackle-crackled down the stairs.

  Something weird was happening.

  My sister, Nanda, and I hauled ourselves out of bed at the same time. We pulled on our robes, then I pulled mine off again because my Auntie Winnie bought us matching fluffy purple robes for Christmas last year, and while I particularly love mine, especially at 6 a.m., I refuse to match my sister.

  Nanda made it to the hallway first. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, honey, it’s early. Go back to bed,” Mom said.

  “Can’t sleep,” Nanda said.

  “Because you guys are stomping around like elephants,” I grumbled, shivering. “Who called?”

  “Auntie Pyu from Myanmar,” Mom said. I have a vague memory of Auntie Pyu, who is actually some sort of great-aunt. I have a LOT of relatives in Myanmar, and they all kiss me and pinch my cheeks and hand me presents. They tend to blur into one another.

  “Grandma’s a bit sick.”

  My grandma and grandpa immigrated to Canada when Mom and her older sister, Auntie Winnie, were kids. But five years ago, after my grandpa died, Grandma moved back to Myanmar. She missed the heat, she said.

  “Sick how?” I asked Mom.

  “Pneumonia. She’s in the hospital. Dad’s trying to book a flight right now.”

  “We’re going to Myanmar?” Nanda lit up. She loves Myanmar. And I have to admit I do too: great food, endless sunshine, no school. What’s not to love? But it was pretty obvious…