I Put a Spell on You

by Adam Selzer

“Obnoxious,” Harlan repeated. “As in…”

  He stepped back from the microphone for a second, paused, then stepped back up, opened his mouth, and belched.

  This was not just a casual belch, either. It was a big, loud, and long one. One of those burps that just keep going and going and going. For a few seconds, I even thought he might have been belching the National Anthem. With the microphone turned up as high as it was, it reverberated all through the auditorium so loudly that I wouldn’t be surprised if the walls rattled. A couple of kids up front actually had to cover their ears.

  It would have been one heck of a burp under any circumstances, and he’d done it into a mike at full volume, right at a critical moment in the spelling bee, when everyone was paying attention. Better yet, it had matched the definition of the word he was supposed to spell, in a way.

  When the burp finally finished, the whole auditorium was deadly silent for a second; then just about every kid in the place jumped up and started cheering. One guy from the Good Times Gang even came out onstage and bowed deeply to Harlan. Everyone knew that we’d just witnessed an event that would go down in history.

  Before the mooning thing, I hadn’t witnessed any events that kids would talk about for years. Now I had seen two in one day. My dad always said that he never saw or thought about people he went to school with anymore. Obviously he’d never been through a day like this.

  Harlan Sturr had just belched his way into becoming a hero. People wouldn’t just tell stories about this—they would sing songs about it. I just knew that if I was to move to a hippie commune in Zanzibar and run into, say, Tony there fifty years from now, the first thing he would say would be “Remember when Harlan belched at the spelling bee?” And when Harlan dies, someone will probably tell this story at his funeral.

  Onstage, Harlan was smiling and jumping up and down like he’d just won the entire bee, and pumping his fists into the air. Mrs. Rosemary had to come up onstage and start waving her hands to calm everybody down. When it was finally quiet enough, Harlan spelled the word correctly, and took his seat on the risers to thunderous applause.

  33

  MUTUAL

  soubise—noun. An onion sauce. The cafeteria lady said it was a soubise, but it was really just cheap canned gravy that had been watered down.

  I could not believe the immensity of the belch Harlan managed to emit into the microphone. It seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. The ovation the other students gave him seemed to go on for several minutes before Mrs. Rosemary could quiet everyone down. Harlan was jumping around as though he had won the entire bee.

  When he finally spelled the word correctly, people applauded for him again as he took his seat. Up close, I could see that he was positively beaming. I had never seen anyone look so happy.

  “Way to go!” Jake said.

  “That was amazing,” I said.

  In the audience, Jason was pointing at Harlan and smiling again. Harlan pointed back, though it looked more like he was pointing at Chrissie to me.

  I wished I could do something that brave. The thing with the old ladies had been the only time I had ever tried anything like it. When people clapped for me, it had felt wonderful. And that was nothing compared to the ovation that Harlan had just received. I could only imagine how he must have felt.

  These were not the sort of actions my parents had raised me for—as far as they were concerned, I was only there to win the bee. Obviously Jennifer, Jason, and Harlan had more noble purposes in mind than simply winning spelling bees. I was not sure why Jennifer had lost, but I was sure she had an excellent reason. Something moral. And my parents HAD raised me to be moral.

  I had been very nervous when Jennifer had come to speak with me, but, to my surprise, she had seemed interested in spending time with me. Perhaps I would not need to start a heavy-metal band to impress her after all! Instead, she could teach me about Shakespeare.

  I was suddenly in a very, very good mood. Not nervous at all. I had eaten pizza, witnessed several acts of bravery, joined the Good Times Gang, and qualified for districts. It was the greatest day of my life.

  I spelled my next word correctly, and so did Jake. Brittany then missed the word “vicissitude,” spelling it with only one S. Funnily enough, it meant “a change in luck,” which I suppose you could say was what had just happened to her, causing her to miss the word. But she did not seem to mind, either. She happily walked down to the front row, smiling all the way. She was already in the district bee, after all.

  Then there were three of us.

  As she walked to her seat, I leaned over to Jake. “This is getting pretty intense,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I can’t believe I made it to districts! I never thought I could do that!”

  “You have done very well,” I said.

  “I guess so,” he said. “I just started thinking of spelling as, like, the recipe for a word, and I’ve gotten them all right! I might actually win that gift certificate! I could get that nonstick cookware set!”

  Harlan spelled “vicissitude” correctly, keeping himself in the contest.

  I then correctly spelled “Guernsey,” which is a type of cow. Then Jake correctly spelled “periwig,” which was a kind of antique wig.

  Harlan’s next word was “soubise.”

  “Ooh!” Jake said. “A food word! I know this one!”

  Harlan must have heard, because he looked back at us, smiled, and nodded to Jake.

  “Soubise,” he said into the microphone. “S-E-W—”

  The bell rang. Harlan shrugged and walked off the stage—the applause he got was nearly deafening. Clearly, no one had forgotten the belch, and I doubted that anyone would be forgetting it any time soon. But maybe only I knew that he had missed that word on purpose because he knew that Jake knew it. He had already had his moment of glory, and now, perhaps, he wanted Jake to have one, too.

  As I walked to the microphone for my turn to spell the word, I thought about how brave Harlan and Jason had been. And Jennifer, too, though I wasn’t sure why she had missed her word. Somehow, losing on purpose, for a good reason, seemed to be so much more respectable to me than simply trying to win. Judging by the applause that Harlan got, other people thought so, too.

  As I stepped to the microphone, I made a decision.

  It seemed that, since coming in first did not really put one in a better position to win the district bee, the only people who would really care if I came in first were my parents and the old ladies from backstage. Also, Jake seemed to want the gift certificate. Even if I won, my parents would probably not let me use it. He needed it more than I did.

  After his nearly getting in trouble for no reason earlier in the week, he deserved a moment of glory. Perhaps a set of nonstick cookware could be his ticket to a life that did not require him to eat gross things for dollars.

  This was my chance to do something brave. Something heroic. Like Jason or Harlan.

  “Soubise,” I said. “S-O-O—”

  The bell rang.

  Jake practically ran to the microphone, where he spelled the word correctly.

  The bee was over.

  Jake Wells had won.

  34

  CHRISSIE

  Excerpt from notebook #15: Principal Floren’s breath smells like ketchup.

  I couldn’t believe it. Jake “Chow” Wells had taken first place.

  He was onstage, jumping up and down, looking like he couldn’t believe it, either.

  As Principal Floren made his way down the aisle, kids in the auditorium began to shout “Chow! Chow! Chow! Chow!” over and over. Jake looked as though he was having the time of his life.

  The old ladies, at least, were going to be happy. No one had bet on Jake—his odds were a hundred to one—so they wouldn’t have to pay any winners off. It was just as good for them as if Mutual had won.

  “Wow!” Principal Floren said, taking the microphone. “I believe this was the most exciting spelling bee we’ve ever had!”<
br />
  Principal Floren did not look happy—he looked terrified. I had heard him shouting “No!” when Jennifer missed her word on purpose.

  “Who would have thought,” Floren continued, “that after all of the terrible rumors and allegations that plagued the bee this year, we would have such a great contest! It’s a shame people weren’t betting on it!”

  My time had come.

  “You were!” I shouted from behind the soundboard. “I have proof!”

  Everyone turned around and looked at me. I noticed that a lot of the guys with cameras were rushing up to me.

  “Chrissie?” asked Floren quietly, looking more frightened than ever. “What are you talking about?”

  “You were betting big money on Jennifer to win!” I shouted. “You left the door unlocked so her dad could break in and steal the list! You authorized the break-in, and tried to sabotage Mutual!”

  “Lies!” he shouted.

  “I have proof!” I shouted back.

  I stepped over to the camera that was pointed at the microphone—the one that was being used for the video backdrop showing close-ups of the spellers’ faces. I slipped the surveillance recording into the camera, and hit play.

  Right away, the image on the screen of Principal Floren standing at the microphone was replaced by an image of him sitting at his desk. I fiddled with the controls on the soundboard to turn up the sound that was coming through the camera.

  The image on the screen showed Floren telling Mutual that he thought he deserved a little extra help.

  “This is footage of Floren in his office, giving Mutual a copy of the master word list,” I shouted. “But the list he gave him wasn’t the real list—it was full of misspelled words! I have it right here!”

  I held the list up in the air. People gasped. Reporters started moving toward me.

  “Wait!” I shouted. “There’s more!”

  And I took that disc out, and replaced it with the one from the previous Thursday night, now more than a week before. The screen onstage changed to a picture of Floren speaking on the phone.

  “This is from the night before the break-in!” I shouted

  “Hi, Mitch,” the image of Floren on the screen was saying. “Are we still set for…” And then the screen turned to fuzz.

  “Following this is an eighteen-minute, twenty-second period of blank space,” I said. “Principal Floren tried to erase the conversation. But he didn’t get the first few seconds! He arranged for Mitchell Van Den Berg to break in and steal the list, so he couldn’t be in trouble himself if Jennifer’s dad was caught!”

  “Lies!” Floren shouted. “I was calling him to set up a golf match! That’s all!”

  “Why would you erase a conversation about a golf match?” someone shouted.

  All the news cameras were now pointing up at Floren.

  He stared into the cameras, looking pale and frightened, and didn’t say a word.

  Mrs. Rosemary immediately jumped up onstage and grabbed the microphone.

  “Class dismissed!” she shouted.

  Everyone began getting up and running out of the room. Various playground monitors hustled everyone out of the building—including me—while the news reporters charged the stage, trying to get to Floren.

  Outside, the scene was general pandemonium. Lots of kids were trying to break back into the school to see what was going on. Others crowded around Jake, congratulating him on winning the bee.

  I fought my way through the crowd around Harlan to talk to him—he was surrounded by people wanting to pat him on the back for his belch—which truly had been a belch to remember. I was proud to have helped.

  Before I could get to him, though, I heard Mrs. Boffin behind me.

  “Chrissie!” she said. “Congratulations! I KNEW you could do it!”

  I was just about to ask what she meant when the reporters caught up with me. They all wanted me to retell the entire story of what had happened and how I knew. And even when I got rid of the reporters, I wanted to start taking depositions from Jennifer, Harlan, Mutual, and everyone else right away. Clearly, my work that day was far from over.

  But I was ready.

  35

  PRINCIPAL FLOREN

  expectorate—verb. To cough up and spit out gunk in order to clear one’s throat. It is not considered polite to expectorate at most funerals.

  Well, I screwed it up real good, didn’t I?

  But, ladies and gentlemen of the school board, what I did, I did for the good of the school. Sometimes you have to bend the rules to keep the school safe. When you’re older, Chrissie, you’ll understand.

  My direct involvement began just after the written test that the students took to qualify for the bee. I had requested that each teacher give me a list of students taking the test, and I myself observed them taking the test after school to gather information. As soon as it ended, I drove to the Burger Baron.

  “Welcome to Burger Baron, Principal Floren!” shouted the young man behind the counter. At Burger Baron, they believe that the louder you are, the friendlier you seem, and all employees are taught that the office of principal commands respect.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “I’d like the seafood platter.”

  The young man nodded and pointed toward a door to the side of the counter, and I opened it up and walked in.

  As I’m sure you all know, there is no seafood available at the Burger Baron. The little room behind the door was, at the time, home to the main gambling den in Preston, and “seafood platter” was the password to enter.

  The gambling den, in fact, is the only reason the Burger Baron is still open at all. The restaurant itself has not turned a profit in years. Few people eat there, and those who do only go once. No one returns for more. Those of you who have tasted the food know why.

  A patron seeing the door beside the counter would have assumed that it just led to a storage closet, or possibly an office. Inside, though, was a dim room full of scruffy-looking old men who always appeared to be drunk—which many of them certainly were.

  I recognized most of them—at one table sat Wallace Agnew, who had been the janitor at Gordon Liddy until he was fired over that unfortunate incident involving all of that cheese and the poor, poor hamster. After losing his job, he almost never left the Burger Baron.

  Ladies and gentlemen of the school board, it’s now no secret that I have a problem. Everyone has their vices, and I now admit that mine is gambling. However, I can assure you that I always went to great lengths to make sure no student knew anything about this, lest I become a bad example, and that this was the only time in all my years as principal that I let my problem affect my work as principal in any way. Even then, what I did, I did for the good of the school, as you will soon see.

  I will not say that the gambling den at the Burger Baron was a happy place—most of the men at the tables looked as though they had just been in a fistfight, their clothes were largely unwashed, and nobody was smiling or talking. There were no decorations on the bare cement walls, unless you counted the occasional stain. Some of the men would stare blankly at the radio as it broadcast the horse races and football games; others would stare at the wall for hours at a time.

  At the end of the room sat Helen Bernowski and Agnes Milhous, the old women who owned the Burger Baron. They were there every day, barely moving from their stools. A few feet away from them sat a large spittoon—when things were slow, as they usually were, they would kill time by making bets as to which of them was a more accurate spitter. It was usually a tie.

  When I walked into the room, Helen was hawking a large loogey that landed squarely in the tin spit bucket, making a loud “ping” sound as it hit the metal.

  “Ha!” Helen croaked. “Bull’s-eye!”

  Agnes handed her a wrinkled dollar bill. They usually passed the same dollar back and forth all day.

  “Nice shot, Helen,” I said.

  “Well, well, well,” said Helen. “If it isn’t the principal!”


  “Of course it’s the principal, you ninny!” Agnes shouted. “Who else would it be?”

  “It’s just an expression, you old hag!” shouted Helen.

  Besides spitting contests, shouting at each other is Helen and Agnes’s favorite activity.

  “You got ’em, Principal?” asked Agnes.

  “Of course,” I said. I walked through the room, carefully avoiding all the globs of spit that had missed the spittoon and ended up on the floor, and handed her a list of every speller, with brief descriptions of them and the odds that they would win the bee.

  Most of the time, Helen and Agnes took bets on sporting events that were broadcast over the radio. But the most popular event of the year was the all-school spelling bee at Gordon Liddy Community School—everyone there made bets on it. And, as the students’ safety has always been one of my top priorities, I felt that it was my duty to provide all of this information to the local gambling community. If I hadn’t, some of the gamblers might have tried to get the information for themselves, putting the students at risk. I did it every year. It was all for the good of the school.

  Helen and Agnes looked over the list intently.

  “Marianne Cleaver,” said Agnes. “It says here she speaks in multiple-choice questions?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She’s one of our best students, but we wonder about her mental health.”

  “And she has five-to-one odds?”

  “Yes.”

  Five-to-one odds made her the favorite to win—no one else had better odds. Five to one meant that if you bet a dollar on her, Helen and Agnes would pay you five dollars if she won the bee. But no one made bets that small.

  “And this Van Den Berg kid is at six to one?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She doesn’t have her sister’s level of dedication. Or Marianne’s. But I think she’s naturally smarter than Marianne.”

  Agnes nodded.

  “What about this kid, Mutual Scrivener? Says here you people think he’s some sort of spelling genius, but you gave him ten-to-one odds?”

  “He’s a bit of a wild card, that Mutual. Today was his first day at Gordon Liddy. We think he’s probably a very good speller, but we don’t know what sort of study methods he’s been using over the years, and we don’t have any Iowa Test of Basic Skills scores for him. We wonder if he hasn’t had access to the same sort of dictionaries as the other students.”