“Go away,” I snapped again.
He jerked his head in my direction.
“You got ‘likable’ right,” he said.
I pulled Miss Delphine’s skirt over my knees. My breath came out like little puffs of smoke in the cold night air.
“I’m too dumb,” I said. “I can’t do this.”
“You got ‘palmetto’ and ‘salary’ and lots of them others you missed yesterday.” He kicked at the rotting magnolia leaves on the ground beside me. “I want to win that spelling bee,” he said.
“Yeah, well, that’s too bad.”
The muffled sound of music drifted out of Miss Delphine’s house. Twangy, hillbilly music.
Harlem sat on the ground beside me. He smelled like onions and greasy fried stuff. “Please don’t quit, Bird,” he said in a shaky voice.
I peered at him, trying to see his face in the dark.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Nothing.”
The silence between us felt big and solid, like a wall.
Then wasn’t it just like me to blurt something out of the blue and surprise us both.
“Why’d you come to Freedom, anyways?” I said.
“I had to.”
“How come?” I hoped he wasn’t going to say “family problems” again. I was tired of going slow with Harlem. After all, we were friends, weren’t we? It was high time I knew more about him.
“My mom got a new husband,” he said, laying back in the cold, damp grass. “Again,” he added.
I waited.
“He don’t like me much and they fight about it,” he said.
“Oh.” What else could I say?
“When he moved in with us, he said he didn’t want no kids. My brothers were old enough to leave but I didn’t have nowhere to go. But Lloyd—that’s her new husband, Lloyd—he just didn’t want nothing to do with me. So they kept fighting and the next thing you know, here I am in Freedom.”
“Why are you living with Mr. Moody?”
“’Cause he’s my dad.”
Talk about a shock! “That old man?” I said. I guess that wasn’t too nice, but he is old.
“Yeah,” Harlem said. “I ain’t never even seen him before. My mom says I have, but I don’t remember it.”
Well now, I sure needed a minute to let that news sink in. I’d known Mr. Moody was Harlem’s kin, but I sure never figured he was his daddy. My mind went back to all those times I’d watched Mr. Moody shuffling down the sidewalk with that big bag of smelly cans. Who would have ever thought he had a son down in Valdosta? Not me, that’s for sure.
“Do you like living with him?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“What if your mama wants you to go back home?”
“I ain’t going back there.”
We listened to that twangy music coming from Miss Delphine’s. Harlem tossed a leaf into the air.
“I need to win that spelling bee,” he said. “I want to show my dad I can do something good.”
I nodded like I understood just how he felt. Then I figured I ought to reveal some bad stuff of my own to make him feel better, so I said, “My sister Colleen is really mean and she goes out with a boy who doesn’t even go to school.”
We sat there in the dark and watched Miss Delphine and Ray through the living room window, dancing a jitterbug kind of dance in the candlelight.
And then you know what we did? We ran all the way over to Elite Tattoos and got my skates and we took off down the dark, empty sidewalks of Freedom. That red-checked skirt was falling down below my knees, but I kept going, faster and faster, my skates clunking over the sidewalk cracks in a steady rhythm. Harlem ran along beside me, hollering out words.
“‘Emperor’!” he hollered.
“‘E-M-P-E-R-O-R,’” I hollered back.
“‘Factual’!”
“‘F-A-C-T-U-A-L.’”
“‘Propel’!”
“‘P-R-O-P-E-L.’”
And on and on. Up and down the sidewalk we went, hollering and spelling and hollering and spelling until my feet were tingling and my legs were burning.
When we finally stopped, we leaned over with our hands on our knees, trying to catch our breath.
Then Harlem said, “I bet we can get all the way to ‘W’ tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I bet we can.”
12
Miss Delphine raised her eyebrows. “Well, what do you know?” she said. “I’d’ve never guessed that in a million years.”
I shook my head. “Me neither.” I watched her mashing up peas for Pop. “Mr. Moody is so old,” I said.
Miss Delphine poured some milk over the mashed-up peas. She wiped her hands on her sweatshirt that said Foxy Lady on the front. “I suspect he’s not as old as he looks,” she said, putting the bowl of peas on a tray. “I suspect he’s crammed a lot of living into a short time.” She lined up a row of pills on a napkin beside the peas. “That’ll put lines on your face, for sure,” she added.
“Mama said he used to live in a tent,” I said.
“Really?”
I nodded. “Over there in that field behind the high school. And she said one time when he was looking for cans, somebody threw a beer bottle at him from a car and hit him right in the face.”
Miss Delphine’s eyes filled up with tears. “That’s terrible.”
I nodded. “Mama said she thinks Ray must’ve give him some kind of deal on that room over the tattoo parlor,” I said, “or else how could he pay for it, since all he’s got is can money?”
Miss Delphine’s face got soft and mushy-looking. She shook her head and chuckled to herself. “That Ray,” she said. “He’s just the sweetest thing.” She picked up the tray. “Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”
When she left the room, I looked around the kitchen. Pop’s wheelchair sat in one corner, a tattered quilt folded neatly on the seat. A laundry basket piled high with smelly sheets was on the floor by the back door. The counter was cluttered with pill bottles, cans of soup, and tissue boxes. It sure seemed like a lot of work taking care of Pop. But I’d never, not once, heard Miss Delphine complain.
“There,” she said, coming back into the kitchen with the tray. “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, Mr. Moody and Harlem. That surely is something.”
“I think it’d be awful to have a mean old man like that for a dad,” I said. “Don’t you think he’s mean?”
Miss Delphine wiped mushy peas off the tray with a napkin. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe he’s just a loner.”
“I guess that chicken bone story was a big, fat lie,” I said.
Miss Delphine nodded. “I guess so.”
The next day at school, Mrs. Moore told us we were going to have a practice spelling bee. “Uh-oh,” was my first thought. What if I mess up bad? But I looked at Harlem and he seemed so calm and sure, slouched down in his seat with his fingers drumming quietly on his desk. So I closed my eyes and tried to picture some of the words I’d been missing. “Ferocious. Insufficient. Provincial.” I had letters swirling around in my head like bees around honey.
Mrs. Moore told us to get with our partners, and then she divided us into two teams. I stood next to Harlem and wished like anything I could hold his hand. Then Mrs. Moore told us to hush up and listen to the rules so we’d know what the real spelling bee was going to be like the next day.
“Team One partners”—she motioned towards our side of the room—“will compete against Team Two partners.” She motioned towards the other side of the room. “When it’s your turn, you may discuss the spelling of the word with your partner. You will then write the word on the easel you see in front of you. The partners on the other team must then take turns deciding whether or not the word on the easel has been spelled correctly. Partners will receive a point for each correct answer.” She looked from one side of the room to the other. “At the end of the first round, the five partners with the highest scores will go on to the second round. Any ques
tions?”
Everybody started talking and poking, and that goody-goody so-called genius Amanda Bockman started jumping up and down, clapping her hands and beaming around at everybody like she was already picking out her prizes.
Mrs. Moore told us to quiet down so we could get started. And then I looked at Harlem and something bad was happening right before my very eyes. His face was white and his eyes were glassy and his lips were quivery.
“Pssst.” I tried to get his attention.
He was still as a statue.
I poked him with my elbow.
“What’s the matter?” I whispered.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
I leaned over closer to him. “What?”
“I can’t do this.”
Now, didn’t that beat all? I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or slap him silly.
“What’re you talking about?” I said, trying to keep my voice low and calm.
He shook his head, stiff, like a robot. “I don’t think I can do this, Bird.”
“Listen to me, Harlem,” I snapped. “You’re the best speller here. You know you are. I’m the one who oughta be worrying, not you.”
But I could tell my words weren’t getting through to him ’cause he just stared out at that easel with his face getting whiter by the minute. Then he raised his hand and waved at Mrs. Moore and said, “I don’t feel good.”
Everybody looked at him (and some kids laughed). The next thing I knew, he was gone and I was left standing there wishing I really was a bird so I could fly right on out the window.
I shoved the door of the tattoo parlor open and stormed inside.
“Where’s Harlem?” I said.
Ray came out of the back room. “What’s the matter?”
“Is Harlem up there?” I jerked my head towards the stairs.
“I think so.”
I started for the stairs and Ray said, “Whoa, now. I think you better count to ten first.”
But I ignored him and stomped on up the stairs. Before I got to the top, Harlem came out of Mr. Moody’s place and sat on the top step.
“What’d you do that for?” I hollered up at him.
He rested his elbows on his knees and put his chin in his hands. He wouldn’t look at me.
“I didn’t feel good,” he said.
“That’s a lie.”
He still wouldn’t look at me and I felt my face getting hotter by the minute. “I had to stay there and spell by myself and I messed up after only two words.”
He finally looked at me. “What word did you miss?”
I shoved him with both hands, making his feet fly up and his hands flail out and his mouth drop open in surprise.
“You said you wanted to win that spelling bee,” I yelled. “Well, I do, too. Okay?”
He hung his head like a little kid. “I can’t do it,” he said.
“Why not?”
He shook his head. “I just can’t.”
I closed my eyes and took a breath. Then I sat on the step next to him. I made my voice come out as calm as I could. “Yes, you can,” I said. “You know every one of those words. You can beat everybody.”
“I mess up everything I do,” he said.
I sighed. I wished Miss Delphine was there to help me know what to say.
“We can win this spelling bee,” I said. “I know we can. And then we can get those prizes.”
He shrugged.
“What prizes are you going to pick?” I said, trying to make my voice sound like someone who can win a spelling bee.
“I don’t really care about them prizes.”
When I heard that, my insides started to boil up and I wanted to holler at him. But when I saw his face, I changed my mind. He looked like somebody had thrown a blanket of sad over him. I hadn’t had a lot of practice being a friend, but I knew enough to know he didn’t need to be hollered at.
“It seems like I can’t do nothing right anymore,” he said.
“Come on, Harlem,” I said. “You can do this. You’re a real good speller.” I watched his face but I couldn’t tell if anything was changing inside his head. “Besides,” I added, “I need you. I can’t do it without you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think I can.”
“Come on. I’ll help you. We’re partners, remember?” I nudged him on the shoulder. “And just think, when you win, you’ll be like a hero or something. Everybody’ll say how smart you are.” I nudged him again. “Especially your daddy,” I added.
I waited. I could hear Ray rustling the newspaper down in the tattoo parlor. The smell of bacon seeped from under Mr. Moody’s door, making my stomach growl.
“Okay,” Harlem said. “I’ll try.”
I let my breath out with a whoosh and slapped Harlem’s knee. “Okay?” I said.
“Okay.”
“That’s good.” I stood up. “I’m starving. I’m going home for supper. See you tomorrow.”
I started down the stairs, but before I got to the bottom, Harlem called out, “Bird?”
I turned. “What?” I was hoping like anything he wasn’t going to change his mind.
“What word did you miss today?” he said.
“‘Compatible.’”
Then I headed on down the stairs and out the door, with Harlem calling after me, “‘C-O-M-P-A-T-I-B-L-E.’”
13
The next day we all lined up while Mrs. Moore matched up partners. Then we marched down the hall and into the auditorium and right up onto the stage. I guess my legs were moving, ‘cause there I was up there with everybody else, but I sure couldn’t feel anything but those butterflies fluttering around inside my stomach.
My mama and daddy and Miss Delphine and Ray were out there somewhere, but I kept my eyes on the floor in front of me. We separated into two groups, one on each side of the stage, and sat in the folding metal chairs lined up there. I was wearing one of Miss Delphine’s T-shirts that she had given me ‘cause it shrank in the dryer. It was bright pink, with Girl Power in sparkly silver letters across the front. I loved wearing that T-shirt ’cause all day it made me think about Miss Delphine and feel good about myself. And I sure did need to feel good about myself that day.
I focused on a wad of gum hardened on the chair in front of me. “Don’t throw up, Bird,” I told myself a million times. My stomach was flopping around like a trout on a riverbank. And as if my flopping stomach wasn’t enough to worry about, I had to worry about Harlem. He hadn’t hardly said a single word since we’d got to school that morning. He had just slumped down in his chair and drooped his shoulders over like he was trying to disappear.
Mrs. Moore blew into the microphone and said, “Testing.” A shrill screech came through the speakers and we all slapped our hands over our ears. Finally all the giggling and carrying-on stopped and the spelling bee started.
I concentrated on the words that Mrs. Moore called out, spelling them in my head, studying them on the easel, trying like anything to get them right.
When it was our turn, me and Harlem stood up. I couldn’t hardly believe it when I saw who was on the other team against us. Mitsy Rayburn and Jenna Little, those girls who had made about a billion flash cards. Just my luck.
Mrs. Moore called out, “‘Appendix,’” and Mitsy and Jenna put their heads together and whispered. Then Jenna wrote “A-P-P-E-N-D-I-X” on their easel.
Mrs. Moore turned to me. “Bird, is the word ‘appendix’ spelled correctly?”
I pressed my lips together and looked hard at that word. Then I looked up at the ceiling. “One ‘P’ or two?” I asked myself. I took a breath and said, “Yes, it’s spelled correctly.”
Mrs. Moore nodded and made a mark on her clipboard. “Correct,” she said and I think people out in the auditorium were clapping, but I was too nervous to know for sure.
I grinned at Harlem, but he didn’t even look at me. He stood there with his arms dangling down by his sides and glared over there at Mitsy and Jenna.
Then
Mrs. Moore called out the next word, and me and Harlem got to whisper together about how to spell “visually.” I just went along with whatever Harlem said and wrote it on the easel the way he told me to. Mitsy didn’t even wait one second before saying, “That’s correct.”
Mrs. Moore nodded and made another mark on her clipboard. Then she called out, “‘Larynx.’” Jenna whispered in Mitsy’s ear and Mitsy whispered in Jenna’s ear. Then Jenna wrote “L-A-R-I-N-X” on their easel and my heart leaped with joy.
Me and Harlem had studied that word more times than I could count. “‘Y-N-X,’” Harlem had said in that patient way of his. “‘L-A-R-Y-N-X.’” He had circled it with a red pen in his notebook. Then, it seemed like nearly every day, he was calling that one out to make sure I got it right.
So I couldn’t help but breathe easy and smile when I saw that word over there on their easel.
Mrs. Moore said, “Harlem, is the word ‘larynx’ spelled correctly?”
I waited for Harlem to say, “No, it is not correct,” but instead, there was silence.
When I looked at him, my joyful heart sank with a thud. His chin was poked out and his eyes were squeezed up and he was leaning forward like he was going to fall right over the chair in front of him.
“Uh,” he said, narrowing his eyes even more. “Um.” He tried to take a step forward, running into the chair in front of him with a clang.
It seemed like forever that everything was quiet and then everybody was giggling and Mrs. Moore was saying, “Shhhh.” Then she repeated, “Harlem? Is the word ‘larynx’ spelled correctly?”
And then Harlem said, “Yes, it’s spelled correctly.”
My mouth flew open and I jerked around to look at him. His cheeks were red and splotchy, and sweat was running down the side of his face.
“I’m sorry, Harlem,” Mrs. Moore said, “but ‘larynx’ is not spelled correctly.”
I watched Mitsy and Jenna hug each other.
Then Harlem walked across the stage and down the steps and up the aisle and right on out the auditorium door.
Just like that.
14
It took me a minute or two to figure out that the buzzing in my ears was people talking to each other. Folks were wagging their heads and turning around to look at the door in case Harlem changed his mind and came back. But he didn’t.
Fame and Glory in Freedom, Georgia Page 5