Just then, a masculine-looking woman started laughing. She raised her arm, which had a cast on it, and pointed a gun…at me!
I heard Mom scream, “I’m here, baby!”
Then, in my dream, I looked down and saw that I was totally and completely naked, except for a pair of blue bedroom slippers that looked like Carter.
OHMYGOD! I even embarrass myself in my dreams!
Just to be sure now, I look down. I’m wearing pajamas—the ones I changed into before bed. I can’t wiggle the fingers protruding (Protruding. P-R-O-T-R—Ah, it hurts!) from my cast because of the swelling. My wrist is throbbing. And I’m hungry and sick to my stomach at the same time.
I ease out of bed and walk down the hall to Mom’s room, nodding at the security guard posted by her door.
I knock quietly. No answer. I ease the door open and see Mom at her desk wearing her silky, sleeveless nightgown. “Hi,” I say.
Mom whips around. “Oh, Nessa. You startled me.”
I can’t tell if she’s still mad about how I acted before. “I can’t sleep,” I peep from the doorway.
“Come over here,” Mom says, opening her arms.
Not mad. I go in and shut the door behind me. “Mom, I’m really sorry about—”
“Don’t.” Mom holds up a hand. She gets up and takes me over to sit on the edge of the bed, and she sits next to me. “You were right, Nessa. In a way. I’ve got to be more attentive to your needs. I must focus more on parenting.” Mom sighs. “Campaigning is so demanding. And with so many important primaries in just a few days…The truth is, I haven’t figured out how to do both things well.”
Don’t do both things.
“At least you’re okay now.” She pats my knee.
I hold up my cast. “Actually, this is killing me.”
She tips her forehead against mine. “I’m sorry.” When she pulls back, I notice dark, puffy bags under her eyes.
“Have you slept?” I ask.
She nods toward the piles of paper on her desk. “Can’t.”
“Me either.”
Mom ruffles my already wild hair. “I have an idea.”
As Mom walks toward her closet, I notice a huge purple-black bruise blossoming around her shoulder. I gasp, remembering when she fell off the stage earlier today.
Mom turns with a box in her hands. “Scrabble?”
Mom, please be okay. “Now?”
She shrugs, and I wonder if it hurts her shoulder.
“Can you think of a better time for me to beat you?”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, taking the box from her.
These are the things I learn about playing Scrabble with Mom at one in the morning:
1. No one calls and interrupts us, which is really nice.
2. We giggle about silly things, like the word “qwerty” in the Scrabble dictionary.
3. My wrist doesn’t hurt so much when I’m focusing on a way to combine an “x” and a “j” in one word. As if!
4. It’s impossible to avoid bumping the board when you’re wearing a bulky purple cast.
5. Even though Mom is so tired she’s slurring her spoken words, she manages to beat me by eighty-one points.
“You’re slipping,” I tell her as I put away the tiles.
“I’m just tired,” she says, and winks. “I’ll beat you by more next time.”
“Promises, promises,” I say as I leave her room.
While lying in bed, I turn her words over in my mind: next time.
I wake to throbbing pain in my wrist and a faint smell of chicken soup in my bed. My fingers are so swollen I still can’t bend them. The thought of taking a shower while keeping my cast dry is too daunting (Daunting. D-A-U-N-TI-N-G. Daunting.) for a Saturday morning, so I head downstairs instead.
I stop before the landing. Was she even going to tell me?
Mom is standing at the door with her driver, who is holding Mom’s suitcase and garment bag. Grandma stands nearby with two of her own suitcases and a bag from Publix at her feet. Two suitcases! How long is she staying? Mom must have called her last night. Couldn’t she have told me?
“Nessa!” Mom says, opening her arms.
I don’t move.
“I was just going to send someone to wake you. Come on down, now. Give me a hug.” She looks at her watch. “I must get going.”
I feel my body deflate like a tire gone flat. I trudge down the stairs and allow Mom to kiss my forehead.
“How’s your wrist?” she asks.
“Still sore,” I say, but Mom’s already turned to give instructions to her driver.
“Hello, dear,” Grandma says, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Wait till you see what I’ve got in the bag.”
I look at Mom. Don’t go. I don’t want Grandma, I want you. My wrist throbs.
Mom bends and whispers in my ear. “Grandma’s just moving in for a while to keep an eye on you.” She nods toward my cast.
Moving in? I step closer to Mom, remembering something. “When are you coming home?”
She touches the side of my face. “Oh, Nessa. You’ll be okay.”
“Mom, I need to know. When?”
She looks out the door at the waiting car.
“Will you be able to watch me at the County Bee?” I ask.
Mom takes my chin in her fingers. “Nessa, I’ll be there, unless—”
“Unless what?” I practically shriek.
Grandma examines her nails as if nothing is going on right next to her. I love Grandma, but I wish she weren’t here right now.
Mom shakes her head. “Unless nothing, Vanessa. Forget it. I’ll be there.”
Before Mom is even at the car, she’s got the cell phone out and pressed against her ear. She turns back and waves at me and Grandma.
We stand there long after Mom’s car has left the driveway.
Grandma pushes the heavy door closed and picks up her Publix bag. When she grabs my hand, her skin feels soft and loose. “Come on, dear.”
“Where are we going?” I don’t have the energy to move and my wrist is killing me.
“You’ll see.”
I allow her to drag me into the kitchen while I hold my cast above my head. Elevate, dear. Elevate.
“Look.” Grandma opens the bag to reveal two pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, a jar of rainbow-colored sprinkles, a squeeze bottle of fudge sauce, and a canister of whipped cream.
“Grandma,” I say, “it’s not even ten in the morning. I haven’t had breakfast yet. Isn’t it a little early for ice cream sundaes?”
Grandma looks at me and snorts. That’s where I get that from! “Vanessa! First rule of life, dear: It’s never too early for ice cream sundaes. Second rule of life: When confused about whether or not it’s too early for ice cream sundaes, refer to rule number one. For goodness’ sake, it’s not like I pulled out a bottle of vodka.”
I don’t want to laugh, but I do.
Grandma hands me a bowl piled with everything, then creates her own ice cream masterpiece.
Mrs. Perez is off today or I’m sure she’d suggest I eat oatmeal instead.
Grandma and I clink spoons and dig in.
“What do you want to do this weekend?” Grandma asks, slurping up a dollop of whipped cream. “Movie? Museum? Concert? The world is your oyster, my dear.” She looks at my cast and says, “Although I guess bowling is out of the question.”
“Bowling is definitely out,” I say, wiping my mouth. “But so is everything else, Grandma. I’ve got to study.”
“Study? It’s Saturday. Don’t you think you deserve a little fun? Maybe invite that friend of yours over. What’s her name?”
“Emma.”
“Yes, would you like to call her and see if she can sleep over tonight? I’m sure your mother would approve of that.”
“That would be fun, but—”
“We can watch movies and order pizza.”
“I’d love to do that some other weekend, but—”
“And maybe w
e could polish each other’s nails and fix each other’s hair and—”
“Grandma, listen to me. The County Bee is Monday. OHMYGOD! This Monday! I need to study every spare minute. Besides, Emma has an equestrian event all day Saturday and is spending Sunday with her cousins who are visiting. So she couldn’t sleep over.”
“Oh. Then maybe you and I can…” Her voice trails off.
“You can help me study.”
Grandma tilts her head and taps her finger to her chin.
“Why not?”
We clink spoons again, and I realize my wrist is throbbing less. “Grandma, I think ice cream is good for my wrist.”
“Of course it is,” says Grandma. “All that calcium and everything. Let me get you some more.”
I open my jewelry box and touch the bumblebee pin I got at last year’s Regional Bee, the one after the County Bee. I lost that competition during round eight on the word “sagacious”—shrewd and wise. I certainly wasn’t!
“This year,” I proclaim, holding my bumblebee pin high, “I’m going all the way.” OHMYGOD! Did I just say that?
I study words from my vocabulary notebooks until Grandma comes in. Then she quizzes me for hours. As I say each word, spell it, and say it again, I imagine myself on stage at the Scripps National Spelling Bee in Washington, D.C. I march up to the microphone and—here’s the best part—I don’t trip. In my imagination, I’m all grace and good spelling. Mom’s in the front row, watching me spell the winning word, something long and difficult that 99.9 percent of the population never heard of. When I get it right and win the bee, Mom jumps from her seat and cheers.
I have to make it to the National Bee!
During our practice session, when I start to slur words, Grandma declares, “We need a break, Vanessa.”
“Can’t,” I say, my right leg pumping. “It’s only five o’clock. Give me another word.”
“Only five o’clock? You’ve been at this all day, dear. Your mind seems a little addled.”
“Addled. A-d-d-l-e-d. Addled.”
“You’re making me nervous, Vanessa.”
“Nervous. N-e-r-v-o-u-s. Nervous.” My leg moves up and down so fast that even when I lay my palm on it, it keeps bobbing like it’s motorized. (Motorized. M-O-T-O-R-I-Z-E-D. Motorized.) “Next word, Grandma. Give me the next word.”
“Restaurant,” Grandma says firmly.
“Restau—”
“Come on.” Grandma stands. “I’m taking you out to eat. Now. What’s your favorite restaurant?”
It takes great restraint to keep from spelling “Hurricane Jeanne’s.” I say, “They have awesome salads and four kinds of soup every day.”
“Hurricane Jeanne’s it is,” says Grandma. “Ice cream sundaes go only so far. I’m famished.”
“Famished. F-a-m-i-s—”
“Stop!” Grandma holds her hands over her ears as if her head is about to explode.
I have that effect on people sometimes.
In the restaurant, I close my eyes and spell words from the menu. I eavesdrop on conversations and silently spell those words, too. And I keep one of my spelling notebooks on my lap during dinner and glance at it when Grandma isn’t looking.
“Vanessa Rothrock?”
I turn and see a woman holding on to a squirming toddler. “Yes?”
“I hate to bother you”—the woman nods at Grandma—
“but I read about you winning your school spelling bee in the newspaper.”
She wants an autograph.
“And, well—” The little boy yanks on her arm. “One minute, Jacob. It’s just that I competed in bees when I was your age. Got all the way to Regionals one year.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say, squirreling bread in my cheek.
“Yes.” She looks away for a moment, like she’s seeing a memory. “I studied hundreds of words, thousands, but in round five, they gave me one word I never studied—
‘tintinnabular.’”
“Tintinnabular?” I repeat, dropping my fork.
“Tintinnabular,” she says. “Of or relating to bells or the ringing of bells.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say to the woman. How do you spell it? One “n” or two? OHMYGOD! I’m having a dictionary emergency here.
“Don’t be. That was a long time ago. I just hope you go all the way.”
What is it with people and that phrase? I smile as the woman is dragged off by her toddler.
“Grandma, we have to go.”
“Vanessa,” she says, waving her spoon at me, “you haven’t eaten your soup yet.”
“Grandma, unless the cook has a dictionary in the back, we need to get home—or at least to a bookstore. I need to study!”
“I thought we’d been over that, dear. You studied all day. Now eat your soup.” Grandma taps her spoon on the edge of her bowl. “And don’t worry.”
I think of the woman who still regrets losing the Regional Bee. I think of getting on the stage in front of hundreds of people on Monday. I think of the thousands of words I haven’t studied yet, like “tintinnabular.”
I’m worried.
Monday comes too quickly. Even though I barely slept all weekend and studied constantly, I feel utterly unprepared. There are so many words I didn’t get to.
Grandma sits next to me in the car on the way to the County Bee. Her hand is on top of mine, which is on top of my leg. The leg that is pumping up and down faster than a piston. (Piston. P-I-S-T-O-N. Piston.)
Grandma takes a deep breath and presses my hand. “Worried, dear?”
My leg doesn’t stop pumping. “Whatever gave you that idea?” I chew at the skin beside my thumbnail. “When’s Mom coming?”
Grandma sighs. “I already told you. Your mother said she’s having trouble getting a flight—”
“What kind of trouble?” I ask, my leg about to drill a hole through the floor of the car.
“I don’t know.” Grandma pats my hand. “She said she’ll get here as soon as she can.”
“Before the bee starts?”
“I don’t know.” Grandma smoothes her gray hair, which won’t be tamed because it’s kinky and wild like mine.
“Would you like me to quiz you, Vanessa? Would that help you…relax?”
Relax! In the time it takes me to answer, I think that “quiz” is worth twenty-two points in Scrabble, forty-four if it’s on a double word space and sixty-six if it’s on a triple. “No,” I say, “I don’t think it will help me relax.” I don’t think anything will help me relax. “Thanks, though. I’m just a little nervous.”
Grandma folds her hands in her lap and looks forward. “I couldn’t tell.”
My cell phone rings, and I fumble in my purse to find it. I hope it’s Mom. “Hello?”
“Hi, Vanessa,” Emma whispers. “Did I catch you before the bee?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“Student services. I told Mrs. Durlofsky I had to call my mom because I forgot my lunch.” Emma’s voice gets even quieter. “But I really have money in my pocket.” She chuckles softly. “Anyway, how are you? Nervous?”
I hunch toward the window to give myself a modicum of privacy. “Um, very.”
“I’m sure. I’d be a wreck.” Emma pauses, and I wonder if she wishes she were going to the County Bee instead of me.
“But I know you’ll do great.”
“You think so?” I ask, biting the skin beside my thumbnail.
“Of course you will. You’re a spelling whiz.”
“Whiz.” Nineteen points in Scrabble. “Thanks. By the way, how did your horse thingy go on Saturday?”
“My horse thingy? You mean my competition?”
We both giggle. Emma always makes me laugh when I need it most.
“I’ll have you know,” Emma says in a snooty tone, “I placed second overall for my age category.”
“That’s great, Em—”
“I’d better go. The secretary is giving me the evil eye. Good luck, Vanessa. I’ll talk to
you when you get back. After you win!”
“As if! Thanks, Emma.”
Our car stops in front of a building and Grandma leaps out. “You’re not supposed to—” I begin. But Grandma is already at the steps.
While I wait for Mr. Martinez, I pull a piece of paper from my purse. It’s the fax Mom sent last night. It contains three words—four, if you stretch out the contraction. “I’ll bee there.” I kiss the paper and squeeze it to my heart.
After Mr. Martinez opens my door, I join Grandma and the three of us walk inside the building.
“Do you know where we go?” Grandma asks, gripping my right hand.
A girl points at us and whispers to her mother behind her hand. I turn away. I know she’s not saying I’m a good speller. Or that I’ve got a cast on my wrist. She’s saying I’m the daughter of the governor, of the woman running for president. My shoulders slump. Can’t I go anywhere and just be me, Vanessa big-feet, no-boobs, incurably clumsy Rothrock?
“Vanessa!”
“Yes, Grandma. Sorry. I think we go in here.”
It turns out Grandma has to leave me in a room with the other spellers. Mr. Martinez stands at the back of the room. I find a seat next to a girl who’s talking quietly to herself.
“Hi,” I say, hoping she’s not put off by my having a security guard.
“Epidural,” she says. “E-p-i-d-u-r-a-l. Epidural.” Then she looks up. “Hi.”
“What school are you—”
Without waiting for me to finish my sentence, the girl bends her head and talks to herself again. “Where was I? Epidural. E-p-i…”
A woman stands in front of the room and explains the rules. “There are a hundred of you now, and when this is over in a couple of hours, there will be only four remaining.”
Four?
“Those children will go to the regional spelling bee, which will be held in exactly eight days.”
Sweat erupts from my pits. Four left. Eight days. I can’t breathe.
Onstage, behind the closed curtain, I’m seated near the back, fidgeting with the number card hanging from my neck. I notice it’s the same number upside down—88. But I can’t decide if this is a good omen or not. I panic about being seated so far back. I’ll have farther to walk to the microphone, which means more opportunities to trip. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe I’ll break my other wrist and then Mom will stay home for good. Or will she?
As If Being 12 3/4 Isn't Bad Enough, My Mother Is Running for President! Page 6