Akeelah and the Bee

by James W. Ellison

  “I’m sorry, sir… whoever you are,” Ms. Cross said. “This girl is only eleven years old…and she’s already won—”

  “‘Prestidigitation,’” Dr. Larabee repeated, cutting the teacher off. “Can you spell it?”

  Akeelah’s eyes stayed fixed on Dr. Larabee’s; he looked steadily back at her. It was almost as though this middle-aged man and eleven-year-old girl were involved in a contest of wills.

  Akeelah’s hand continued to beat against her thigh. Sharply and suddenly she said, “P-r-e-s-t-i-d-i-g-i-t-a-t-i-o-n. ‘Prestidigitation.’”

  A stunned hush fell over the room. Even Chuckie Johnson and his rowdy friends were silent. Did she get it right? Even Ms. Cross, staring hard at Dr. Larabee, wasn’t certain.

  “That’s correct,” Dr. Larabee said, his voice neutral and quiet.

  Georgia stood on her chair and let out a war whoop.

  “‘Ambidextrous,’” Dr. Larabee said, his eyes continuing to bore into Akeelah.

  “Sir, these words are not appropriate for—” Ms. Cross began.

  Akeelah cut in, saying, “A-m-b-i-d-e-x-t-r-o-u-s. ‘Ambidextrous.’”

  Her nervous hand tapped in rhythm as she spoke each letter. A hush had fallen over the room. The students had a hard time accepting that mousy little Akeelah Anderson could handle the words that Dr. Larabee machine-gunned at her. They were reduced nearly to silence, heads turning first to Dr. Larabee, then to Akeelah, as though they were watching a tennis match.

  “‘Pterodactyl,’” Dr. Larabee said next.

  “P-t-e-r-o-d-a-c-t-y-l,” Akeelah responded promptly.

  Dr. Larabee nodded just perceptibly. “‘Pulchritude,’” he said.

  “P-u-l-c…”

  Akeelah hesitated and looked down at her hand, which had stopped tapping on her thigh and had begun to shake.

  “Uh…r-i-t-u-d-e. ‘Pulchritude’?”

  A moment passed before Dr. Larabee said, “That’s incorrect. It’s from the latin root ‘pulcher,’ meaning beautiful. There’s an ‘h’ after the ‘c.’”

  A painful pause filled the audience, followed by a faint collective sigh, as though the air had been sucked out of the room.

  “See? She ain’t so damn smart,” Myrna said. That caused some of the students to laugh, partly as a relief from tension, partly to cover their embarrassment for Akeelah, who stood at the microphone looking mortified. She then bolted from the stage and out the side door of the auditorium, close to tears. Mr. Welch took the same exit and caught up with her halfway down the block.

  “Akeelah,” he shouted. “Wait! Where are you going? You did absolutely great. You were spelling words I can’t even spell.”

  She pushed forward, half running. “Mr. Welch, I told you I didn’t want to do this. They’re all laughing at me now.”

  “They laugh because you intimidate them….They don’t know what else to do.”

  “They laugh because they take me for a freak.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Mr. Welch and Akeelah turned to see Dr. Larabee taking long strides to catch up with them. He fell in step beside them. He stared hard at Akeelah, then turned to Mr. Welch. “I’ll give some consideration to what you’ve asked.” With that, he spun on his heel and walked away.

  Mr. Welch brought his hands together and grinned. “Akeelah, do you know who that was? Dr. Joshua Larabee. He used to chair the English Department at UCLA. He and I went to college together. And get this—when he was a kid he went all the way to the National Spelling Bee. And now he’s considering personally training you for the District Bee.”

  Looking straight ahead, Akeelah said, “Well, he better find somebody else ’cause I ain’t doin’ no more spelling bees. I’m sick of people lookin’ at me like I’m some kind of bug. I just wanna be left alone.”

  “Akeelah…,” Mr. Welch protested, but she stormed off, running down the street and around the corner.

  Georgia joined her on the stoop of her house a few minutes later, dropped her book bag at her feet, and sat down with a sigh.

  “Girl, you kicked some major booty on that stage today. I knew you was good, but that good?” She shook her head and whistled.

  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t spell ‘pulchritude.’”

  “Who can? Nobody I know.”

  “The really good spellers can. Believe me.”

  “But you knocked the other words right back at that dude.”

  “They were just trick words, Georgia. Everybody knows ‘pterodactyl’ starts with a ‘p.’ Don’t be givin’ me too much credit.”

  “Girl, if I could spell like you, I know I could be a flight attendant.”

  Akeelah gave her friend an odd look. “You can be whatever you set your mind to.”

  Georgia punched Akeelah softly on the shoulder. “That’s advice maybe you should take your own self,” she said.

  Akeelah was nearly asleep when she heard “Keelie?” whispered in her ear. Through her drowsiness she recognized Devon’s voice. She opened her eyes and stared up at him, blinking the tiredness from her eyes. Devon had a knapsack slung over one shoulder and wore USAF regalia. He knelt down beside her. She rubbed her eyes.

  “Devon…you leavin’? You just got here.”

  “Gotta get back to the base. I think we’re bein’ transferred, and all leaves got cut short.” He ruffled her hair. “Hey, your principal called Mama. He said you did real good in a spelling bee. Knocked the ball out of the park.”

  “I messed a word up.”

  “Everybody messes up once in a while.”

  “You only got one chance in a spelling bee.”

  “He also said you got an opportunity to go to a bigger contest next week.”

  “I don’t wanna do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I dunno. It’s just dumb, you know? Everybody’s gonna be lookin’ at me, the weirdo who spells words. This black girl from Crenshaw thinkin’ she can spell with those rich white brainiacs. And the worst thing is, there’s gonna be tons of words I don’t know.”

  Devon squeezed her cheek and looked into her eyes. “So you’re scared, huh, baby sister? Well, how do you think I felt the first time I jumped from an airplane? My whole body said, Don’t do it—you can’t do it, Devon. No way, man. But sometimes your brain’s gotta be smarter than your body.”

  “But I don’t like my school, Devon. The truth is, I hate it. I don’t see why I gotta do anything for them. All they’ve given me is a crummy education.”

  “Then do it for Dad,” Devon said. “You know how he was about words. He’d have loved to see you do something like this.”

  Akeelah looked over at the picture of her father, her expression thoughtful.

  “What’d Mama say about it?”

  “Ah, you know how Mama is. She’s got a million things to worry about and she worries about every one of them.” He reached for Akeelah’s face with two hands and tilted it up so that she was looking directly into his eyes. “Tell you what. Just do this contest—and if you make it all the way to D.C., I’ll parachute down to see you.”

  She smiled as Devon kissed her good night. When he softly closed the door, Akeelah crept out of bed and sat down at her computer. She turned it on and brought up the Web site for the Scripps National Spelling Bee, with a picture of the victorious red-haired girl. Akeelah looked up from the screen and studied the photograph of her father, whose warm, intelligent eyes seemed to be staring back at her, encouraging her.

  “You want me to do this, Daddy? You think I can do it? Part of me wants to, another part of me is afraid to, and I just don’t know what to do. I know you’re in heaven, so pray for me. Pray that I make the right decision….”

  Akeelah looked back at the red-haired girl, inhaled deeply, and slowly shook her head up and down, her lips pressed together in determination.

  Four

  Well before classes started the following morning, Akeelah was waiting outside the principal’s office. When Mr. Welch arrived, he wav
ed her into his office and asked her to sit down, which surprised her. Students usually stood through interviews with the principal.

  “I’ve decided to keep on with the bee,” she said before he’d had time to close the door.

  Mr. Welch broke into a wide grin and vigorously pumped her hand.

  “I think you’ve made an excellent decision,” he said. “An excellent decision.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “I don’t think I have to tell you that you’re Crenshaw’s best hope to advance.”

  Akeelah nodded. “You think maybe the school could buy me a new outfit for the District Bee? I sure could use it.” With a shy smile she added, “You don’t want me to be a poster child for poverty, do you? We have to dress up Crenshaw a little.”

  “Uh, well, maybe if you make it to the State Regional Bee, something could be arranged. But you need to finish in the top ten at the district level first. And, Akeelah, you’re going to be up against kids from Santa Monica, Woodland Hills, Beverly Hills. Some of them have been doing this for years and never even made it to D.C.”

  “You’re not very encouraging, Mr. Welch.” With an elaborate sigh, she added, “I’ve heard better motivational speeches.”

  “I’m just trying to stress the realities. I—we—we all have great belief in you.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should just give up now.”

  “I’m not expressing myself very well, Akeelah. I’m just saying you’re going to need to train hard—with Dr. Larabee.”

  Akeelah shook her head emphatically. “Uh-uh. I don’t need no help from him. I can do this by myself.”

  “But, Akeelah, he knows all sorts of tricks and shortcuts. Besides, it would be good for both of you. He’s been on a sort of…uh, sabbatical for a while. Anyway, he doesn’t live too far from here. It could be convenient for you. Why don’t you just go talk to him? You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Mr. Welch handed her a sheet of notebook paper with Dr. Larabee’s address. Akeelah studied it and then looked up. “He lives in this neighborhood? I thought you said he was important.”

  “And take this,” Mr. Welch said, handing her a package. “It’s a videotape of last year’s National Bee.”

  Akeelah looked at the package and Dr. Larabee’s address. Then up at the principal.

  “Professor Larabee’s kinda scary, Mr. Welch. I don’t think he likes me.”

  “It’s just his manner. He’s really a very kind man. And an exceptionally intelligent one.”

  Akeelah struggled with the words for what she wanted to say next. She said finally, “The thing is, I’m just generally scared.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “The one thing I hate more than anything is standing out. Kids hate you for that. And—and the other thing is, am I good enough for this? Is this just a foolish, stupid pipe dream?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I wish I was as sure as you, Mr. Welch.”

  “It’s normal to be scared, Akeelah. Just do your best. That’s all anybody can ask of you—including you.”

  Akeelah nodded and looked up at him with a weak smile. “And don’t forget about that new outfit if I get through the District Bee. I don’t wanna be up onstage lookin’ like the Patchwork Girl of Oz.”

  That night Akeelah sat in front of the living room TV watching last year’s National Bee. A small, blond-haired boy wearing thick glasses was at the mike.

  “‘Solivagant,’” he said, repeating the word the Pronouncer had given him. “Can I have the language of origin, please?”

  “The derivation is Latin,” the Pronouncer said.

  The blond boy nodded, his lips pressed together in thought.

  “Is it derived from the Latin root ‘vagus,’ meaning to wander around?”

  “Man,” Akeelah said aloud, “these kids sure ask a lotta weird questions. Sound like a bunch of show-offs.” Frustrated, she fast-forwarded through the tape, the words jumping out at her: “strophulus,” “murenger,” “xanthoma,” “bhalu,” “tichorrhine.”

  Her brother Terrence came up behind her and grabbed the back of her neck.

  “Wass ’at?” he said, nodding his head at the TV.

  She turned with a start. Her fourteen-year-old brother was dressed all in black and was wearing a thick gold chain around his neck—his adopted gang look.

  “Where you been?” Akeelah said. “Mama’s worried out of her mind.”

  “Mama always worried,” Terrence said, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “She need to chill. Whatchu lookin’ at?”

  “Spellin’ bee.”

  “I heard ’bout dat. You goin’ up against a buncha rich white kids. You know what’s gonna happen, don’t ya? They gonna tear yo black butt up is what’s gonna happen.”

  Akeelah shrugged and continued to stare at the screen.

  “You hear me, girl?”

  “I hear you, Terrence. You love to give advice. Now I’m gonna give you a little. Stay away from Derrick-T. He’s bad news. You’ll end up in real trouble if you stick with him.”

  “Derrick-T is the man,” Terrence said. “Don’t be rankin’ on him.”

  “I’m just warning you.”

  “Okay, okay, whatever. I’ve had enougha you for one night.” Terrence turned away and head-bobbed and shoulder-swung his way to his bedroom.

  “My brother don’t believe in me,” Akeelah whispered under her breath. “Mama’s too busy to care. And I’m all cramped up inside from big old doubts. But there’s Devon—Devon and Daddy—they believe in me….” She snapped the video off, removed her glasses, and rubbed her eyes. “Now how ’bout tryin’ to believe in yourself?”

  The next afternoon, about thirty minutes after school let out, after frittering away fifteen minutes in the cafeteria drinking a soda with Georgia, Akeelah approached a large two-story house. It was unlike many of the grandiose houses in the neighborhood, which the owners had let slide into disrepair. In this place of declining hope and chronic despair, Dr. Larabee’s house stood out. It symbolized pride. The lawn was immaculately cut, the garden blooming with flowers, the windows sparkling clean, and the wraparound porch freshly painted.

  Akeelah checked the address, then slowly proceeded up the path to the porch, and after a moment’s hesitation, rang the buzzer. She waited before ringing it again. There was still no answer. She then heard a clicking noise. Curious, she walked to the edge of the porch and peeked down the side of the house. She saw Dr. Larabee in the backyard on his knees, hammering something. She watched him for a moment and then climbed off the porch and walked down the path to the gate. She stood close by while Dr. Larabee, unaware of her presence, meticulously hammered a brick into the border of a well-maintained flowerbed.

  He stopped, suddenly sensing that someone was watching him. He looked up at Akeelah, his expression blank.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “You didn’t answer the door.”

  “That’s because you’re late.”

  “But I came right from school.”

  He checked his watch. “You must have dawdled.”

  “‘Dawdled.’ D-a-w-d-l-e-d.”

  “That’s not funny,” he said. “In fact, it’s a little smartalecky.”

  “Okay, I was talking to a friend and got held up a little.”

  Dr. Larabee nodded and then motioned for her to come into the garden area. She hesitated before opening the gate and stepping into the backyard. He returned to working on his garden.

  “So you want to learn how to spell,” he said, without looking up.

  “I know how to spell.”

  That caused him to look up and study her closely. “No, you don’t.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You don’t know how to spell with technique, language skills, memorization, and a mastery of strategies to correctly spell words you don’t know how to spell.”

  She started to respond, but then simply nodded.

  “Spell ‘staphylococci.’”

  Akeelah
began tapping on her thigh until she seemed to lose the rhythm and paused. “Uh…s-t-a-f—”

  “There’s no ‘f,’” he said. “S-t-a-p-h-y-l-o-c-o-c-c-i. It’s derived from the Greek, so there can’t be an ‘f.’ That was the winning word, National Spelling Bee, 1987. The first thing most serious spellers do is learn all the winning words. It’s a crucial piece of strategy.”

  He walked over to a large plastic bag of soil.

  “Well, maybe I ain’t that serious,” she said, her eyes burning into his back.

  He paused, bent over the bag. “Then maybe I’m not serious, either.”

  He plunged a small spade into the bag and started sprinkling soil into the garden.

  Akeelah watched him in silence for a moment. He was graceful and lithe for a large, muscular man, and she could sense his sensitivity underneath his grave exterior. Her father was the most sensitive man she’d ever known (he broke down crying when she swelled up from a bee sting when she was five years old and had to be rushed to the emergency room), but she felt that Dr. Larabee might run him a close second.

  She continued to watch him until the silence grew uncomfortable. She said, “So why you home during the day? Ain’t you got a job?”

  He turned and looked at her sharply. “Do me a favor and leave the ghetto talk on the street. It bores me.”

  “Ghetto talk? What you mean by that? I don’t talk ghetto.”

  “‘Ain’t’? I’m on to you, Akeelah. You use that word to fit in with your peers. As a matter of fact, you’re way too concerned about fitting in and not nearly concerned enough about being who you are and taking pride in it. You have to learn that settling for the lowest common denominator is a zero-sum game. Do you know the expression ‘zero-sum game’?”

  Akeelah shrugged. “There’s no way to win.”

  “That’s right. You win on one side but lose on the other, canceling out the win. When you’re here with me, you speak correctly or don’t speak at all. I insist on it.” He regarded her closely. “That’s the condition of working with me. Is that understood?”