Akeelah and the Bee (6 page)

“Try again,” the Judge said. “Take your time.”

“‘Rhesus,’” Javier said with slightly more clarity. The Judge nodded. Javier rolled his eyes up, muttered something under his breath, and said, “Could I have a definition, please?”

The Pronouncer said, “A brownish-yellow monkey of India.”

“Oh,
that
little fellow. ‘Rhesus,’ yes. R-h-e-s-u-s. ‘Rhesus.’”

There was no bell. Javier started imitating a monkey as he returned to his seat, and drew a big laugh from the audience.

Now it was Akeelah’s turn and she was petrified—too petrified to move, to think, even to breathe. She stared out at the sea of faces in the audience and they were a blur. Then an image of her father filled her mind. She could see his gentle eyes and feel his warm smile and hear his carefully chosen words as he told her that he was there for her, that he was watching. He spoke to her, saying,
You can do it, baby. I know you can do it. And I’m right here with you….

“Number one-oh-eight,” the Judge said.

Akeelah slowly rose to her feet, fought for a lungful of air, and stepped up to the mike.

“The word is ‘eminent,’” said the Pronouncer. When she didn’t respond immediately, the Judge said, “Did you hear the word?”

“Uh…I’m not sure if he’s saying ‘imminent’ or ‘eminent.’”

“Would you like a definition?” the Judge asked.

“That’d be cool,” Akeelah said.

That brought a small ripple of laughter from the crowd, and Akeelah started tapping her foot nervously.

The Pronouncer said, “‘Eminent.’ Rising above other things or places; high; lofty….‘Eminent.’”

“E-m-i-n-e-n-t,” she said quickly. “‘Eminent.’”

When there was no bell, she exhaled sharply and scampered back to her chair, relieved. Javier gave her an enthusiastic nod and a big grin.

Moments later, Dylan Watanabe sauntered up to the mike, all businesslike confidence, bordering on the arrogant. His word was “hypertrophic,” which he spelled instantly, and then he returned to his seat without a smile or acknowledgment of the audience applause. Akeelah noticed that Dylan’s father—arms crossed over his chest, expression grim—did not applaud.

Akeelah stepped up to the microphone for the next round.

“The word is ‘concierge,’” the Pronouncer said.

She started tapping lightly on her thigh. “Uh…is that,
like, a guy who stands around in a hotel? Wears a uniform ?”

“Speak into the mike, please,” the Judge said.

“A concierge,” said the Pronouncer, “is a head porter or doorkeeper. The origin is French.”

Akeelah nodded as she continued to tap her leg. “Co-n-c-i-e-r-g-e. ‘Concierge.’”

As she returned to her seat. Javier leaned toward her and whispered, “You’re doing great.” He raised both of his thumbs.

“I’m gettin’ mad lucky. I could be gettin’ words like ‘vinculum.’ Really tricky words.”

The speller at the mike put one too many “n’s” in “vinculum,” the bell went
ding!
and the speller left the stage, fighting back tears. Akeelah and Javier exchanged knowing glances.

Half an hour later, only a handful of spellers remained onstage. Many of the disappointed parents in the audience had left. For those remaining in the auditorium, the tension had grown more palpable.

The Judge approached the podium and spoke loudly into the mike. “As you can see, we’re down to eleven spellers. The top ten qualify for the Southern California Regional Finals. So in the next round if you miss a word, please do
not
leave the stage….”

Suddenly the loud crying of a baby erupted from the sparse audience. Akeelah felt her stomach tighten. She shot a look at Kiana that could kill (she and Mr. Welch had moved closer to the stage) as Kiana tried to calm her child. But the crying soon turned to wailing.

Akeelah half rose from her chair and said in a kind of strangled shout, “Kiana, get that baby outta here.”

Kiana huffed with indignation and threw up her free hand in protest before marching out of the auditorium with her screaming baby. Akeelah smiled sheepishly at the Judge, who looked unmoved.

“So let’s begin,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later, the eleven remaining spellers were still in contention. Javier was up and his word was “syllogize.” He cocked his head to one side and stared at the ceiling, peered out at the audience, and milked the moment for all it was worth.

“Mr. Mendez,” the Pronouncer said, with a hint of impatience.

Javier nodded and gave the Pronouncer a brilliant smile. “‘Syllogize.’ S-y-l-l-o-g-i-z-e.”

His parents cheered as he gave a high sign and moonwalked over to the right side of the stage where the other finalists were congregated.

It was Akeelah’s turn to step up to the mike. Kiana peeked through the small window in a door near the stage, watching her sister intently.

“‘Synecdoche,’” said the Pronouncer.

Akeelah’s hand froze on her thigh. “‘Si-neck-do-key?’ You wanna tell me what that means?”

“It is a figure of speech in which a part is used for a whole, an individual for a class, a material for a thing, or the reverse of any of these.”

Akeelah stared at the Pronouncer for a moment, then let out a breath and leaned her head against the microphone,
which made a popping sound. Her hand nervously tapped away, she blinked her eyes rapidly and cleared her throat. She saw Mr. Welch leaning forward in his chair, hopeful, seemingly willing her on. Then she caught sight of Dr. Larabee standing in the back, completely immobile, watching her intensely. She was surprised to see him and had to force herself to breathe.
Dissect it, girl,
she said to herself.
The problem is in the ending.

“We need you to spell the word,” the Judge said.

Akeelah nodded. She made a fist with her nervous hand, took a deep breath, and said, “S-y-n-e-c-d-o-k-e-y. ‘Synecdoche.’”

The bell dinged, which to Akeelah’s ears was the sound of doom. She glanced at Dr. Larabee, who was looking down, closed her eyes, and rocked back and forth as though she might fall to the floor. Utterly dejected, she walked with her head down to the left side of the stage and sat in one of the chairs, conspicuously alone—a loser on this side of the stage, with all the winners on the other side. When she dared look in Mr. Welch’s direction, his expression was grim.
I screwed up, Daddy. I ruined everything. Why couldn’t I spell that stupid word?
She fought back tears. The last thing she would allow herself was to reveal her wretchedness to the audience and the other contestants.

The final speller, a girl with spiky hair, nervously approached the mike.

“Your word is ‘carmagnole,’” the Pronouncer said.

“If you spell this correctly,” said the Judge, “you’ll be our tenth and last finalist.”

The girl nodded, looking frightened. Akeelah had shrunk into her seat as though she wanted to curl up and disappear—leave the earth and reappear as someone else. Kiana, with her face still pressed to the window of the door, concentrated on the spiky-haired kid, wanting to edge into her mind and will her to misspell the word.

“Could I get a definition?” she said.

“A lively song and street dance,” said the Pronouncer.

The spiky-haired girl nodded but looked confused. She coughed and cleared her throat. “Uh…c-a-r…”

Kiana noticed that in the audience, the spiky-haired girl’s mother was nodding to her in an encouraging manner. Kiana drilled her with her eyes.

“…m-a…,” the spiky-haired girl continued.

She stopped and stared hard at her mother. She watched her mother nodding. But the girl was stuck, with no idea how to proceed. Then Kiana saw the woman mouth the letter “g.”

The girl quickly spelled the rest of the word: “g-n-o-l-e.”

“Congratulations!” said the Judge, joining the girl at the mike. “You are the tenth finalist in the LAUSD Spelling Bee.”

Kiana shook her head and cursed under her breath. “No way. No
way.
” She barreled through the door, holding the baby, and rushed onstage.

“They cheated
,
”
Kiana yelled, scaring the baby into a fresh bout of crying. “I saw them! Her mama gave her the letter ‘g.’ She was sayin’ ‘Geeee’!”

All eyes in the audience were now turned to the mother.

“I didn’t help her,” the woman said, glaring at Kiana. “That girl is making it up.”

“She’s lying!” Kiana shouted. “I’m telling you she gave her daughter that letter. I saw her with my own two eyes.”

“But she knew the word,” the woman said, gesticulating wildly. “I mean—it’s one we studied. She
knew
it!”

“Ma’am,” the Judge said, his tone severe, “did you help your child spell the word? You have to understand this is a serious business.”

The mother was now flustered, her voice shaking. “You’re darn right this is serious. You’re giving these kids ulcers with the tension, the stress—all the hours they spend learning to spell words. And they have all their other work to do—and—and they’re driven crazy. You know how long she’s been studying for this? I’m telling you, she would’ve gotten the word by herself. I was just trying to help. There was no actual cheating here.”

Her daughter shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t have gotten the word without your help. I didn’t have a clue about the extra letter.”

There was dead silence in the auditorium. The girl wiped her eyes and bowed her head. Then the Judge said, “I’m sorry, Number thirty-four. According to the rules, you’re disqualified from the competition. Which means Number one-oh-eight”—he pointed to Akeelah—“you’re the tenth finalist, and you’re going to the State Regionals.”

Akeelah stood there looking stunned and then slowly
rose to her feet. Soon she was surrounded by a proud Mr. Welch and a whooping Kiana.

“Way to go, girl,” Mr. Welch exclaimed. “I knew you could do it.”

“But I missed a word.”

“It doesn’t matter—we’re in! Thank God for eagle-eye Kiana.” He gave her a hug. The baby was finally sleeping peacefully—now that the contest is over, Akeelah thought to herself. Wouldn’t you just know.

Moments later, as Akeelah and Javier moved toward the exit, he handed her a piece of paper.

“Here’s my number,” he said. “We’ve got a spelling club at my school. You should come and practice with us sometime.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“You’re good, Akeelah. You really are. I think you’ve got a great chance to get to D.C.”

“I sure hope you’re right. I’ve got a lot to learn.”

“We all do,” Javier said, showing a new seriousness. “The thing about spelling is, there’s no end to the learning. Sometimes I feel like I’m one yawning pit of ignorance.”

“Me, too. I feel exactly that way.”

“Hey, there’s my folks,” he said. “I’ll catch you later.”

Javier scurried off with his parents, leaving Akeelah waiting for Mr. Welch to finish chatting with the Judge. Suddenly Dr. Larabee was looming over her. It was impossible to read his expression.

“Why didn’t you ask if ‘syn’ was the Greek root meaning ‘with or together’?”

“Excuse me?”

“Or ‘ekdoche,’” he continued, “meaning ‘interpretation.’ Syn-ecdoche. The only difficult word you were given all day and you missed it.”

“Well, maybe if I had a coach I woulda done better. I’m really surprised you’re here. I thought you didn’t have time to waste on this kinda thing.”

“You’re wrong. I have all the time in the world for someone with talent who wants to learn. What I don’t have time for are rude little girls.” He paused and then said, “Spelling bees are terrific entertainment, don’t you think?”

“Yes. But more for the audience than the speller.”

He nodded. “Anyway, good luck to you. You’ll need it.”

He put on his hat and walked out of the auditorium. Akeelah stood there, tapping her foot and looking perturbed.

Mr. Welch drove back to South Los Angeles, much more slowly than earlier, in an ebullient mood. He had bought double-dip ice cream cones for Kiana and Akeelah (chocolate for Kiana, vanilla for Akeelah), and they were busy licking them in the backseat and replaying the bee.

“That little Hispanic kid,” Kiana said. “You like him?”

“Javier Mendez,” Akeelah said. “He’s nice. Really a cool kid.”

“Seems like a funny little dude. He kind of makes you smile.”

“He invited me to join his spelling group in Woodland Hills.”

“Whoa. Look at li’l sister, movin’ up in the world.”

“I need to do anything I can to improve my spelling skills.”

“You’re right,” said Mr. Welch enthusiastically. “You’ve got the right attitude, Akeelah.”

She sighed. “What bothers me is, I’m only movin’ on because that woman cheated.” She reached for Kiana’s hand and squeezed it. “You made it happen.”

“A little luck never hurt nobody.”

“I second that,” Mr. Welch said. He drove in silence
as they entered their neighborhood—back to a big dose of reality, Akeelah said to herself—then he said, “Just think, Akeelah, if you can place in the top three at the State Regionals, you’ll go all the way to D.C. How great would that be!”