by Adam Selzer
“What happened?” I asked. “Who won the fight?”
“We did,” he said proudly. “They ran out after just a couple of minutes.”
“They didn’t really get hurt, did they?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “No one was hurt. But when someone breaks into your house, you have a right to defend your family. And your daughter’s right to be in the spelling bee. Get your coat. We’re going to get the last word!”
“Please,” I said. “I don’t want to get involved in this stuff.”
“Jennifer,” he said, “when you get into the corporate world, you’ll find out that a lot of times you have to do things that you don’t want to do. Now get your coat!”
I grabbed my coat and followed him out into the car, trying to sulk as visibly as possible. I wanted to make it clear that I was going under protest. I scowled so hard it hurt.
“Where are we going?” I asked, not sure that I wanted to know.
“You’ll see,” he said.
We drove through the streets of Preston, and I noticed that a handful of houses—the ones where my friends lived—had yard signs sticking out of the snow. Things that said stuff like “Go Get ’Em, Tony,” and “Gunther is a W-IN-N-E-R!” The light-up message-board sign outside the appliance store said “Good luck, spellers.” So did the one outside the church. Everywhere I looked, there was something about the spelling bee. Another reminder.
We drove past the school and over into Marianne’s neighborhood.
“I want you to see how we Van Den Bergs stand up for ourselves,” Dad said.
“Please tell me we’re not going to break into her house,” I said.
“No,” he said. “But we’re going to make sure she has an awfully hard time studying that word list of hers!”
We pulled up right in front of her house, and Dad told me to roll down the windows. As I did, he turned on the radio, tuned it in to a rock station, and turned the volume up as high as it would go.
“Let’s see how well she can concentrate now!” he shouted gleefully. “This is what the army does to get terrorists to come out of bunkers!”
I buried my face in my hands. Obviously I wouldn’t be able to concentrate, either. Sitting right by the speakers hurt my ears a lot more than it would hurt Marianne’s, and at least she had her windows shut.
I was pretty sure they didn’t live nearby, but what if Mutual and his family had driven by right then? Mutual wouldn’t want anything to do with me. And I wouldn’t blame him. That evening, I didn’t feel like I was weird. I felt like I was nuts.
After a few seconds, Marianne appeared at the window, scowling down and shouting something at me, though I couldn’t make out what it was. Her parents came outside and tried to run my dad off, but he’d just drive a few feet out of the way when they approached the car. This, I gathered, could take a while. My dad laughed like a maniac and shouted that I was the Queen of Spelling. I’d never been so embarrassed in all my life.
We were out there for about ten minutes before my dad saw the Cleavers making a phone call. He worried that they were calling the police, and took off, since getting caught waging war on another speller wouldn’t help him much when he went to court.
“See that?” he said to me as he drove away. “That’s how we Van Den Bergs stand up for ourselves. We don’t let anybody push us around!”
It was starting to snow again—for the first time in a few weeks. The cold wind and snowflakes blew into the open window and stung my cheeks. But this time I didn’t enjoy it.
I didn’t hate Marianne, exactly. Heck, I even wished she would join the synchronized swimming team, the one club that she had never joined. I can’t tell you how stupid I feel doing routines by myself at the meets.
When we got home, I tried to call her.
“What do you want?” she asked. I didn’t blame her for sounding mad.
“I want to apologize,” I said. “I think this whole fight is stupid, and I’m SO sorry that my dad tried to bug you tonight.”
“Ha!” she said. “You’re going down, Van Den Berg. I don’t care about the fight, either, because I WANT you in the bee. I want the satisfaction of beating you into the ground! You’re going to get stuck going to some no-name junior college, majoring in liberal arts!”
And she hung up the phone.
I didn’t tell her that I really DID plan to major in liberal arts. I know that doesn’t usually lead to a job as a CEO, but I don’t WANT a job as a CEO! If that was the future Marianne wanted, she could have it, as far as I was concerned.
A second later, it rang again, and I picked it up, hoping it would be Marianne, so I could try to apologize again. But it wasn’t. It was Chrissie.
“Hey,” she said. “You got a minute?”
“I guess,” I said.
“Do you have any clue who it might have been that called your dad the night before the break-in?”
“No,” I said. “No idea. Mom and Dad won’t tell me. They told me he didn’t bribe anyone, though. Whoever it was just wants me to win, too, for some reason.”
“Do you think, by any chance, that it might have been Mrs. Boffin?” she asked. “I think there’s a chance she might really want you to win the bee.”
“What?” I asked. “You think Boffin is cheating?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Boffin and Floren never liked each other very much, you know. You should see some of the interoffice memos Boffin sends to Mrs. Rosemary. She thinks Floren is off his rocker.”
“Wow,” I said. “But what does that have to do with the spelling bee?”
“Everything!” said Chrissie. “Ever since Mutual showed up. If you beat him, Mrs. Boffin can say ‘My students beat out the spelling wizard.’ And Floren wants Mutual to win so she’ll look bad!”
“Wait…Floren wants Mutual to win?” I asked. “How do you know?”
“I can’t tell. Not yet. But if you think of ANYTHING to do with that phone call, let me know.”
“Actually,” I said, “there’s one thing I forgot. The only thing I actually overheard Dad say that night.”
“What was it?” asked Chrissie.
“He said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ right before he hung up,” I said. “There’s no way it was Mrs. Boffin. She’s not a sir.”
“I don’t know,” said Chrissie. “Maybe he just called her sir to throw you off the trail.”
“Come on, Chrissie,” I said. “The guy broke into an unlocked building dressed as a burglar! There’s no way he’d think to do anything that sneaky.”
“True,” said Chrissie. “I guess I’m back to the drawing board.”
I hung up the phone and got into bed. Four more days to go till it was all over.
I would have really liked to just resign from the bee. I’d have to accept the fact that I wouldn’t be getting out of any activities, but at least the whole thing would be behind me.
And anyway, I remember what happened to Val. Mom and Dad worked her to the BONE for districts—and for nationals her sixth-grade year, when she won districts, too. She gave up her whole life for spelling—and even Marianne wasn’t going as nuts as Val was going by the end of it. And I didn’t want that to happen to me. Ever.
But I did want to win. For one thing, I thought I could get Mutual’s attention. He hadn’t said a word to me since his first day. More than that, though, I really wanted to beat Marianne. I didn’t want to wage war on her, but I knew that if I lost, she’d never let me hear the end of it.
Plus I could just hear my dad’s voice if I lost. “I broke into a building and blasted rock music at someone’s house for you, and you don’t win!” he’d say. And next thing I knew, I’d be wearing a uniform and marching all the time.
Why do I have to have a nut for a parent? He’s my dad, and I still love him, but sometimes it doesn’t seem fair that you get stuck having to love complete maniacs.
I have no problem admitting that I cried myself to sleep that night.
22
MUTUA
L
cerebral atrophy—noun. A condition in which the brain becomes weak from too much intense focus and/or concentration. When told that the best word for the condition of her brain was “cerebral atrophy,” Marianne said, “That’s T-W-O words!”
Every day in class that week, almost every student was immersed in a dictionary, working on spelling. Some students quizzed each other on the spelling of various words. And others, I was sure, were still working on sabotage and cheating. Most of them seemed to have been pushed to the very edge of sanity.
The rest of the week was the most exciting time of my life. Finally, the school was starting to seem like I had always imagined public schools to be! The students were rough and rowdy, and corruption was everywhere.
Jason had been hailed as a hero since his return from the office on Monday. I was proud to be his friend. Amber began to hug him regularly, and even kissed him on the cheek occasionally. Almost every time I looked at them, they were holding hands. I continued to study heavy metal, and even came upon the concept of learning an instrument and forming a heavy-metal musical group of my own. After all, Jason had told me that girls loved guys who played in bands, so it would be a sure way to get Jennifer’s attention.
Things were not so good between Jennifer and Marianne, though. Both of them had arrived at school on Tuesday looking as though they’d been in a fight, and Jennifer seemed to have a bad cold. By the end of the week, they were being followed around by recess monitors, but I did not understand why at the time.
By Wednesday, Marianne was twitching a lot, and had moved from spelling a word or two in every sentence to spelling almost everything she said. She spelled a lot of words at Jennifer that I certainly hadn’t heard before—Jason and Amber assured me that they would not be in the dictionaries my parents bought for me, but they promised to teach them to me.
Every day, Chrissie asked me to bring her the list that Principal Floren had given me, but I kept forgetting it. She was taking more notes than ever, and seemed to be on the verge of a major breakthrough. I was glad to know there was a person like her fighting corruption. After all, she had freed Jason from trouble on Monday. She was a hero, too.
I had, of course, looked at the list Floren had given me by then, but I felt that it was not of much use to me. The words were handwritten and almost impossible to read, and they all appeared to be words I knew, anyway. Despite the policy of helping new students Floren had told me about, I did not require study aids.
Meanwhile, I continued to study the works of Paranormal Execution. Jason gave me more of their recordings, and he taught me how to headbang. Headbanging is a process in which one rapidly moves one’s head back and forth in time to rock music. If you are not careful, you can really give yourself a headache. But if you do it right, it is said to be an excellent means by which to relieve stress. I thought that perhaps, if I became an expert, I could teach Jennifer to do it. She seemed very stressed.
After school on Thursday, Mrs. Rosemary met me in the hallway again, and said that Principal Floren would like to see me. I followed her into the office and walked up to Principal Floren’s desk—Principal Floren looked almost as stressed as Jennifer had looked at the beginning of the week. His eyes kept darting about the room, as though he thought he was being watched.
“Mutual,” he said. “Did you destroy the list?”
“Not yet,” I said.
He shuddered, then looked as though he was getting control of himself.
“Now, Mutual,” he said. “Tomorrow there is going to be a lot of media present. The bee is going to be on the radio and on public access television and everything. We always broadcast the bee for the parents on the radio, but after the unpleasant events of last week, there will be a lot of extra interest this year. I want you to destroy that list tonight, and be very, very careful not to let any member of the press know that you had ever had that list, all right?”
“All right,” I said. “But I do not understand.”
“It’s very complicated,” he said. “I can’t tell you too much—it’s best, for your own safety, that you be able to deny everything. Let me just tell you this: The school is in danger.”
“Danger?” I asked.
“Yes. Danger.” he said. “There may be investigations. Inquiries. A lot of people are going to be watching the spelling bee very, very closely. And I need to make sure I can trust you not to tell anyone about that list.”
“I will not,” I said. I did not mention that I had already told Chrissie.
“Good boy,” said Principal Floren. “You may go. And good luck tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I left the building and went to my parents’ car, which was parked on the edge of the parking lot.
“Are you all right, Mutual?” asked my mother. “Were there any shootings today?”
“No,” I said. “Not today.”
“Any rumbles?”
“Not today. There has not been a real rumble since Monday. Since then, there have only been scuffles. And mostly just Marianne trying to scuffle with Jennifer.”
“Ha!” said Mother. “Cheaters, the both of them. What did I tell you? The corruption goes all the way to the top in places like this. But you will show them all. Tomorrow, Mutual, is the most important day of your life.”
“I know,” I said. “I am going to be on television.”
23
CHRISSIE
Excerpt from notebook #19: The broom closet in the front hall is for cleaning supplies. The closet near the gym is mostly cords and cables from gadgets Floren can’t figure out how to use.
Those were spelling days, and most kids spelled hard. Spelling practice was taking up most of the afternoon, and even during recess, kids were studying.
By Thursday, the day before Bee Day, tension in the classroom was, by far, the highest I’d ever seen it. Even Tony Ostanek, who normally didn’t study for anything, was reading a dictionary all morning. Jason was reading a dictionary, too, when he wasn’t being kissed. Amber was doing an awful lot of chants and rituals that seemed to involve kissing Jason’s hand or cheek.
Marianne looked like she was doing chants, too, but I knew that she was actually reciting the alphabet, forward and backward, over and over. In between this, she would scowl at Jennifer, or occasionally shout threats at her, demanding that she “surrender.” Jennifer had just taken up the strategy of ignoring her altogether. No matter how loudly Marianne shouted her name, Jennifer absolutely would not look up from her copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare.
Harlan was studying hard, too. And I was working harder than ever.
It’s weird how things can change in two weeks. Barely a week before, I’d been committed to upholding law and order at the spelling bee. Now I was just as busy, but with a very different plan.
But I was still trying to figure out exactly what was going on. If Boffin wasn’t the one who arranged the break-in, why hadn’t she given Floren the memo about the break-in that I gave her to give to him? Surely he never saw it, or he would have done something. He wanted Mutual to win, right? Why wouldn’t he stop Jennifer’s dad from breaking in? Everything was a mystery again.
And, to top it all off, I still didn’t know what kind of underwear Mutual wore. It wasn’t really important, I know, but it’s the little things like that that can really bug you.
In addition to my permanent hall pass, I used to have free access to any closet, shed, or office in the school. I was even allowed into the teachers’ lounge on occasion—I was one of only a few kids who had ever been able to see the inside of it. Going back to school on Tuesday, having given all of that up, and becoming just a regular student was a little difficult for me.
I used to have this great belief that the system worked. I was really proud of the work I did. Now I just felt angry. Like I wanted to tear the whole system down, piece by piece, and throw the rubble at the people in charge. And I couldn’t think of a better way to start than helping to disrupt the all-
school spelling bee.
At lunch, I passed Harlan Sturr a note reading “Recess. Trees. Be alone. XOXO.”
Twenty minutes later, at recess, I waited in the wooded area, hiding behind a tree where no one could see me, until he showed up.
“Chrissie?” he called out.
“Here I am,” I said, stepping out from my hiding place and, from the looks of things, scaring the crap out of him. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But I assume you know why I asked you here.”
“Um,” he said nervously, “I guess so. But I like you as a friend. That’s all.”
“I know,” I said. “Those ‘X’s and ‘O’s were just a cover—that way, if anyone found the note, they’d think I was just here to ask you out. It’s safer that way.” Rule number one of being a detective: Cover your tracks.
Harlan looked greatly relieved, and I must admit that I was a bit annoyed. Would it have been so terrible if I had wanted to kiss him? I mean, I’m no Brittany Tatomir, but I’m hardly repulsive. And I happen to know that I wear much nicer underwear than she does.
“Anyway,” I said, “there’s something wrong going on with this bee. I don’t know exactly who’s involved, but it goes pretty high up.”
“Floren?” asked Harlan, his eyes getting wide.
“No comment,” I said. “What I’m about to do goes against everything I thought I believed in. But given all the stuff that’s going on, there’s nothing at the school worth believing in anymore. Belching into the mike makes as much sense as anything else. So I’m going to help you out. Part of my terms with Floren give me the right to sit by the mixing board. When you’re about to burp, signal to me by scratching your nose. I’ll turn up the sound, and you’ll go down in history.”
“I…I don’t know what to say,” said Harlan. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Just one thing, since you ask,” I said. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything.” He leaned in, like he really did expect me to ask him to kiss me or something.
“I need you to see if you can find out what sort of underwear Mutual Scrivener wears.”