The Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee

by Deborah Abela

  “Does that mean I can go?” Boo sparked up hopefully.

  “Nice try, buddy.” Dad tousled his hair. “But a chaperone has to be someone older, preferably with a driver’s license.”

  Boo shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

  An uneasy silence followed, until Nanna Flo spoke up. “I’ve got it. As much as I’d love to go to England—with all those fancy castles and yummy pork pies—I think you should take your mother or father. They’ve worked their backsides off to get you this far, and I think they deserve to see you shine.”

  “But I’ll miss you if you’re not there.”

  “You’ll be back before you know it.” Nanna Flo was trying to be brave, but the Wimples knew she’d miss India too.

  “I won’t hear of it,” Mom said. “It should be your father or Nanna Flo. I need to stay here to take care of Boo.”

  The thought of this made India’s stomach tighten. “But I’ve never been that far away from you before. Or Boo.”

  Mom tried to answer, but then she frowned, and her mouth clamped shut.

  “I have the answer,” Dad said. “You should take your mom or Nanna Flo. It’ll be a trip for the girls.” He hugged Boo. “Us boys will stay here, look after the fort, and do manly stuff.”

  Boo wasn’t sure what “manly stuff” meant, but considering how clumsy Dad was with tools, he was a little scared.

  India slumped in her chair as if she were about to be swallowed whole. The Wimples were only trying to help, but she was even more confused than ever.

  Mom kissed her on the forehead. “Whatever you decide will be fine by all of us.”

  This didn’t lift India’s mood. In fact, it made her feel a little worse, because she knew her mom meant it. India’s family was the most important thing to her, her anchor in rough seas, and here was her mom saying it was OK to go to the other side of the world without them.

  India felt sick. She used to feel this way a lot before the Stupendously Spectacular Spelling Bee. Even the smallest things would make her anxious—giving a speech in class, adults talking to her in the supermarket, the evening news on the television. Sometimes even answering the phone made her feel nauseous.

  “There’s always Skype,” Mom said, still trying to sound cheerful. “We can see each other and talk every day.”

  “Or when you need to practice,” Nanna Flo added.

  “Or when you’d like to hear Mom tell more stories of Brave Boo and Ingenious India,” Boo said.

  “Or I could sing you to sleep,” Dad said. There was an awkward pause. No one dared tell Dad his singing actually kept the neighborhood awake. “It’ll be just like we’re there.”

  This is called a white lie: a small, harmless untruth that is sometimes told to protect a person’s feelings or make someone feel better. The Wimples knew it wouldn’t be so simple, and Dad had only said it to cheer India up.

  • • •

  Long after the house had settled into sleep, India rolled over in bed. Boo’s night-light in the hall cast a glow over everything.

  One of the best days of her life had quickly became one of the most difficult. How was she supposed to choose? How could she pick Mom over Dad or leave Nanna Flo behind?

  And what about Boo?

  Every night since Mom and Dad had brought him home from the hospital when he was born, India had always been across the hall from him. She’d sometimes sneak into his room and watch his chest rise and fall or even wake on the floor beside his bed, not remembering how she’d gotten there.

  She’d never in her whole life been far from him, and now she faced with going to the opposite side of the world.

  There were so many words to describe how she felt.

  Disheartened.

  Despairing.

  Desolate.

  She looked at her bedside clock, which was something she did a lot when she felt anxious. Mom sometimes said if she watched the clock and counted the seconds as they passed, her eyes would slowly close, and she would fall into a deep sleep—that, or count sheep—but nothing was working.

  That’s when she heard Boo cough.

  As always, India threw back her blankets and flew to Boo’s room, ready to take out his inhaler and make sure he followed the right steps to avoid a full-blown asthma attack, but as she stood above him, Boo snuffled sleepily, rolled over, and settled back into a peaceful sleep.

  And that’s when it became clear: she couldn’t leave Boo behind. How was she supposed to protect him when she was so far away?

  That was it. She wasn’t going to London.

  Not without him.

  As soon as she decided this, she felt lighter and heavier at the same time—lighter because she couldn’t disappoint anyone from her family or travel to London without them, but a sadness also sank into her, weighing her down.

  A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she tiptoed back to her room.

  From her small bed in Yungabilla, she stared through the window at the night sky sprinkled with stars. She wondered what it would have been like to fly to England—to see Big Ben, the Tower of London, and maybe Buckingham Palace—or even the Queen herself. She knew about the city’s famous landmarks because she’d studied them in school, and she had a feeling they would be even more spectacular in real life.

  And there was something else.

  Something she hadn’t mentioned to anyone.

  The most marvelous part of going to London would be seeing Rajish again.

  They had met during the national spelling bee. India remembered his infectious grin that lifted into the corners of his cheeks, making everyone around him smile (and at first had made India want to run). She’d never been good at making friends, but with him, it felt easy. They’d been writing letters since they last saw each other. Paper letters, not email, which somehow felt more special. She’d kept each one in her bedside table.

  She let herself think about him a moment longer before brushing the thought away.

  She pulled the blankets to her chin and closed her eyes against another threatening tear, knowing that this was the most difficult decision she’d ever faced and that she wouldn’t be going to London after all.

  3

  Avaricious

  (adjective):

  Greedy, covetous, money-grabbing.

  Their avaricious nature meant they loved money above everything else.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, in a small suburb of Toronto, Canada, a young girl named Holly Trifle was having her own troubles.

  She was lying on her narrow, lumpy bed with the door closed, reading a book. Her bedroom wasn’t so much a room as it was a big closet where families put stuff they weren't sure they wanted but keep around just in case. It had no windows, so even on a sunny day, Holly had to have the light on, which highlighted just how tiny the room actually was.

  But to Holly, it was the most glorious place in the world. Not even Wonderland Funpark or the city library were more glorious. She loved being there, because there was never any danger her family would come in. If she stayed quiet enough, they often seemed to forget she was even there.

  Which was just the way she liked it.

  It wasn’t that Holly didn’t like her family, but she often wondered if they were her real family or if she’d been given to them by mistake when she was born.

  Her mother felt the same way, because when the nurse had tried to hand the newborn Holly to Mrs. Trifle, she’d shouted, “No! She can’t be my baby! There must be some mistake.”

  Mrs. Trifle had howled about how a pregnancy that had felt so blissful could have produced such a hideously plain child. She’d followed all the advice on YouTube: She’d eaten her greens and meditated to the sound of groaning whales. She’d drunk water from the Himalayas and taken long walks in the woods.

  But it hadn’t worked!


  When the nurse had placed Holly in the crib beside her mother’s bed, she’d reached out, gurgling, ready to be cuddled.

  But Mrs. Trifle was having none of it.

  “Take her away!” she’d shouted. “And do not let anyone see her. I don’t want them traumatized by such a terrifying sight.”

  Mr. Trifle had thought his daughter looked perfect with her button nose and chubby legs. He couldn’t quite see what all the fuss was about.

  “I think she looks just fine.”

  “Fine!” Mrs. Trifle had screeched. “Fine isn’t good enough! Benedict and Gertrude were born with long lashes and angelic curls.” Mrs. Trifle had scowled at the bald-headed baby staring at her. “This one looks like a shriveled prune!”

  Benedict and Gertrude were children from Mrs. Trifle’s first marriage. Now adults, Benedict was a personal trainer, and Gertrude was a Pilates instructor and a soon-to-be-famous actress—if only someone would give her a role. To Mrs. Trifle, they were perfect.

  Unlike Holly.

  “All babies go through this squishy phase,” Mr. Trifle had said. “When she’s a little older, she’ll be as beautiful as the others.”

  “What if she isn’t?” Mrs. Trifle had lamented. “What if she looks like that forever?”

  Two passersby had peeked into the room, wondering what all the screaming was about and if they should call a nurse.

  Mrs. Trifle had known they’d stopped to stare at the frightful child. “We have to leave.” She had begun to gather her things. “Before someone mistakes her for a hairless dog.”

  Mr. Trifle had carefully scooped Holly into his arms. In that instant, he was struck by her wide, curious eyes and rosy cheeks. She’d tapped his nose with her tiny fingers and gurgled some more. He’d taken her hand in his and smiled in wonder at his first child.

  “Are you coming, or do I leave you both behind?”

  Mr. Trifle had been snapped back to reality by Mrs. Trifle’s temper. “Yes, dear,” he’d sighed.

  His wife hadn’t always been like this. When they’d first met, he’d been dazzled by her easy laugh and exuberance, but over time, she’d laughed less and had a tendency to overreact. Even though he would never tell her that for fear she would…overreact.

  They had snuck out of the hospital down the fire stairs. Mrs. Trifle had worn sunglasses and a scarf and kept her head low all the way to the car as she despaired about what she had done to deserve such a child.

  “We’ve been good people,” she’d wailed. “We’ve never thrown garbage into our neighbor’s yard or been cruel to homeless people—we step over them like you’re supposed to—and yet…” She had sniffed. “This happened.”

  “There, there,” Mr. Trifle had tried to comfort his wife while also trying to avoid her arms, which were wheeling around in distress. He’d strapped Holly into her baby seat. She’d murmured and blown raspberries.

  Mrs. Trifle had caught a glimpse of Holly in the rearview mirror. She’d shuddered and looked away. “And now we’re stuck with this…reject.”

  Yes, she actually said that.

  Mrs. Trifle called Holly a reject.

  “Oh why? Why?” She’d sobbed.

  Mr. Trifle knew that when his wife worked herself into this state, there was no way to calm her down, so he’d sped home as fast as he could.

  No matter how much Mrs. Trifle hoped that her daughter would grow to become beautiful, it didn’t work. Her face remained plain, and no matter the effort her mother went to to style Holly’s lifeless, mousy-colored hair and dress her in expensive clothes, it came out all wrong. Holly was doomed to be ordinary.

  As she grew older, Holly realized she had almost nothing in common with her family. She must belong to different parents—parents who were kind and clever, who read books, daydreamed, and memorized interesting facts, just like her. Parents who volunteered at soup kitchens for the homeless and never, ever ignored them or stepped over them.

  Holly was thinking these thoughts as she lay in her room that was almost a room, only yards away from where Mr. and Mrs. Trifle and Gertrude and Benedict were watching the latest commercial for the family fitness business: Beaut Butts and Guts.

  The music blared on the television, with all four Trifles dressed in workout clothes, running, squatting, and stretching. Mr. Trifle stood in the center, lifting a dumbbell with one hand.

  “We here at Beaut Butts and Guts believe everyone can be beautiful. In the expert hands of the Trifle family, you will soon be the very best YOU that you can be. So call 1-800-BUTTS, and say goodbye to that baggy butt forever.”

  The doorbell rang. The real Trifles ignored it while the Trifles in the commercial pointed at the screen and said in unison, “Because Beaut Butts and Guts are waiting for you.”

  The Trifles cheered at how magnificent they were until Gertrude shouted, “Let’s watch it again!”

  The doorbell rang a second time.

  Holly poked her head out of her room. “Would you like me to get the door?”

  Like most times when Holly spoke, none of her family paid any attention to her.

  “I guess that means yes.” Holly pushed her reading glasses up and climbed out of her room. She opened the door to the mailman. He held a letter in a cream-colored envelope with swirling gold lettering, and it was sealed with a red wax crest.

  “Oh my goodness!” Holly’s long braids jiggled as she looked at the letter.

  “This is for you,” he said. “It seems important. I can feel it.” The mailman smiled at her in a way that rarely happened in her family—the kind of smile that gives you a warm, toasty feeling inside.

  “Thank you,” she said, for the letter but more so for the smile.

  Holly wiggled a finger under the seal and opened it. Her palms began to sweat, and her hands began to shake. She read the words over and over, hardly able to believe it was true.

  She hurried into the living room, clutching the letter in front of her, and waited for the Trifles to finish watching their commercial. Again.

  “I have exciting news,” Holly said.

  The Trifles looked up, annoyed that she was interrupting their plans for another viewing, until they saw the ornate letter.

  Mrs. Trifle brightened. “Is it the prime minister asking me to be the national ambassador for fitness? Heaven knows we need one, with all those flabby bottoms out there.”

  “No,” Holly said. “It’s not that.”

  “Is it the television station?” Mr. Trifle asked. “Replying to my emails about a Beaut Butts and Guts reality show?”

  Holly shook her head. “No, I’m afraid it’s not—”

  “I know!” Gertrude Trifle sprang forward. “It’s a Hollywood studio begging me to appear in their action film.”

  “I’m sorry,” Holly said. “But it’s—”

  “The World’s Hunkiest Bachelor competition.” Benedict smiled smugly. “I knew they’d want me.”

  “No, it’s not that, either.”

  Mrs. Trifle was confused. “Well, what else could it be?”

  Holly took a steadying breath. “I’ve been invited to compete in the Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee in London.”

  The Trifles said nothing, unable to see how this was exciting news.

  “What?” Mrs. Trifle asked. “You mean that spelling competition you lost last time?”

  “I didn’t lose.” Holly felt her excitement fade, which is something that happened a lot when she was with her family. “I came second.”

  “Exactly!” Her mother said in a huff. “Which means you lost.”

  “Second place is the first-place loser,” Benedict chimed in.

  “It was a very close second,” Mr. Trifle said, trying to defend his daughter.

  Benedict sniffed. “All those years spent in your room reading books, and you couldn’t even win.”


  “Books!” Gertrude said. “They’re a waste of money, if you ask me.” Not that anyone had asked her, and since Gertrude had never read a book in her life, she really wasn’t an expert on the subject.

  Even though Holly had lived with her family for eleven years, four months, and three days, this wasn’t quite the reaction she was hoping for, but what Mrs. Trifle said next was something she was absolutely not expecting.

  “You’re not going.”

  “What?” Holly momentarily lost her breath. “I have to go. The top spellers from around the world have been invited.”

  “Well, they’ll be there without you.” Mrs. Trifle stood up and put her manicured hands on her shiny, Spandex-clad hips. “You’re not going to some spelling contest halfway across the world when it’s time you helped in the family business. Your brother and sister do their share, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t too.”

  Holly started to panic. “But—”

  “That’s right! Butts! Every waking second you’re not at school, you’re going to be focused on butts—not on some silly competition where last time, you were too lazy to win and blew our chances at a great big bag of prize money.”

  “Prize money.” Benedict’s ears pricked up at the mention of money. “Since this is the international spelling bee, there’ll be even more.”

  “More?” Mrs. Trifle’s avaricious eyes widened. “How much more?” She snatched the invitation from her daughter’s hands. “Dear Ms. Trifle, we hereby invite you…blah, blah, blah…congratulations, spelling, blah… Here it is!” She paused for a second. “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “I think she should enter,” Benedict said.

  Holly smiled. This was the nicest thing her brother had ever done for her, even though it was only because of the motorcycle and leather jacket he was thinking about buying with all that cash.

  “It could be another waste of time if she bombs again,” Mrs. Trifle sneered.

  Holly’s mother’s words felt like an anchor dragging her down into some murky gloom.

  Mr. Trifle caught a glimpse of his daughter’s miserable face and knew it was time to step in. “Or all that free publicity could make Beaut Butts and Guts the number one fitness center in the country. And it would fulfill our dream of expanding the business overseas. What do you say? Should we let her try again?”