Akeelah and the Bee

by James W. Ellison

  “Yeah,” she said after a pause. “Whatever.”

  “Whatever,” he said, mimicking her, not looking pleased. He waved a hand toward the sidewalk. “You can leave now.”

  Akeelah stared at him and began tapping her foot nervously. “’Scuse me?”

  “I said you can leave.”

  “How come? I just got here.”

  “I don’t have the time or the patience for sullen, insolent children. Life is too short.”

  He turned away and resumed working on his garden.

  “Sullen?” Akeelah said, her voice throbbing with indignation. “Insolent? I ain’t—I mean, I’m not—sullen or insolent. It’s just the first thing you do is start doggin’ on my—criticizing the way I speak. I thought this was about spelling words. Sounds more like a personality makeover.”

  He kept working, not bothering to look up or acknowledge her.

  “Hello? Dr. Larabee?” When he did not respond, she said, “Well, okay. That’s fine. I’m outta here.” She turned to leave but then stopped before going out the gate. “You know what? When I put my mind to it I can memorize anything. And you know something else? I don’t need help from a dictatorial, truculent, supercilious …gardener. Sorry to be so insolent.”

  She marched down the path and out the gate, slamming it behind her.

  Dr. Larabee looked up and slowly nodded his head. “Not bad, Akeelah,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m impressed.”

  That night, bursting with a new determination fueled by Dr. Larabee’s indifference, Akeelah pored over the Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary. Tanya, wearing a nurse’s uniform with white shoes and stockings, knocked lightly on her door.

  “That you, Mama?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on in.”

  Tanya stood framed in the door, concern etched on her face.

  “Baby, why you still up?”

  “Gotta learn more words,” Akeelah said, her voice cracking with exhaustion. She let out a deep sigh. “You gonna come see me in the District Bee this Saturday?”

  “It’s at your school?”

  Akeelah shook her head and grinned. “Nah. We’re movin’ up in the world. It’s in Beverly Hills.”

  Tanya frowned and began tapping her foot, a habit Akeelah had unconsciously picked up from her.

  “Beverly Hills?” Her daughter had vexed her, puzzled her, and occasionally delighted her and made her very proud from the time she was no more than a tot. Of her four children, Akeelah was the one she understood the least.

  Tanya seemed to struggle with what to say next. “Look, you got other homework. You know you’re way behind on things. I don’t want you spendin’ all your time on this game.”

  Akeelah reluctantly looked up from her computer. “It ain’t a game,” she said. “It’s serious. So you gonna come see me in it?”

  “Baby, you know I work at the hospital Saturdays. Maybe Kiana can go with you.”

  Akeelah let out an exasperated breath. “I guess that’s okay if she don’t bring that whiny baby with her.”

  “That baby happens to be your niece.”

  “I know what she is. I just know she’ll start bawling when I’m in the middle of a word. That’s the last thing I need. I’m already scared out of my mind.”

  Five

  Early Saturday morning, Kiana brought her screaming baby out of the house and past Akeelah, who rolled her eyes to the heavens. Mr. Welch’s car, washed and waxed for the occasion, was idling by the curb.

  “Come on, girls,” he called out. “We’re going to be late.”

  They piled in the car. As he roared away from the curb, around the corner, tires squealing, Akeelah said quietly, “I don’t think we’re gonna be late, Mr. Welch. Either on time or dead.”

  “I’m an excellent driver. Don’t worry.”

  “Well, we’re all prayin’ you are.”

  When they arrived at Beverly Hills High (ten minutes early, Mr. Welch announced proudly), more than a hundred middle school students and their parents were crammed into the auditorium—a spacious and spotlessly clean auditorium, Akeelah noted with envy. Many of the parents were giving their children last-minute spelling drills. Akeelah was dumbfounded, and more than a little overwhelmed, at the number of kids entered in the competition.

  “Dang,” she said to Mr. Welch, “I didn’t know there would be this many.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, squeezing her arm. “Go get your number. We’ll sit as close to the front as we can get.” He smiled. “Break a leg, Akeelah.”

  She looked puzzled. “Break a leg?”

  “That’s an old saying in the theatrical world, wishing an actor good luck.”

  “Break a leg,” she said, nodding. “That’s funny.” Akeelah eyed the baby apprehensively and said to her sister, “Maybe you shouldn’t sit too close.”

  “Good luck, Keelie,” Kiana said with a grin and a wink.

  Looking numb and scared, Akeelah walked slowly up to a long table at the front of the auditorium, where volunteers handed out large-size numbers for the contestants to pin to their shirts.

  “Name?” a volunteer said, smiling up at Akeelah.

  “Akeelah Anderson.”

  The volunteer scanned the list and said, “Here you are, right here at the top. Hmm, I think you’re the first speller we’ve ever had from Crenshaw Middle School.”

  Akeelah responded with a forced smile. “How many kids are entered in this thing?”

  “One hundred thirty-nine.”

  “That many?” Akeelah shook her head, feeling way out of her league. One hundred thirty-eight against her. Well, no. She had a one in ten chance to make it to the next round, but still, the odds were overwhelming. She took her number, thanked the volunteer, and struggled to pin it to her shirt.

  “Need some help?”

  Akeelah turned to face a young Hispanic boy, about her height, who had a cherubic face and a cheerful expression. He wore a hearing aid and his speech was slightly slurred.

  “Javier Mendez,” he said with a wide grin. “Twelve years old. Brilliant speller. Suave dancer. May I pin you?”

  “Akeelah Anderson,” she said with a giggle.

  “Akeelah—that’s a pretty name. Well, Akeelah, l’ll try not to impale you. This your first time?”

  “Yeah. Except for a bee at my school this week. You?”

  “Second year. I made it to the Nationals last year. I finished thirteenth. Lucky thirteenth.”

  He struck a heroic pose and flexed his muscles. Akeelah began to realize that he was a bit of a clown. She also sensed that he was kind and she instantly warmed to him.

  “You went all the way to D.C.?” she said.

  “Yup. Three of us made it from my school, Woodland Hills. See that kid over there? His name is Dylan Watanabe.” Javier pointed to a Japanese boy Akeelah recognized from the telecast of last year’s National Spelling Bee. He was sitting next to his stern-faced father, listening attentively.

  “Dylan’s come in second place at the Nationals two years in a row. This is his last year of eligibility and everybody thinks he’s gonna win. Frankly, I’d like to shove him off a steep precipice.”

  “That’s good thinking,” Akeelah said. “That way you get rid of the competition.”

  Javier gave a high-pitched giggle. “I like girls with a sense of humor. I hope you make the top ten.”

  “I hope I’m not the first one eliminated.”

  The Judge’s voice boomed out over the PA system. “Will all the spellers take their assigned seats on the stage, please?”

  “Ten-hut,” Javier said, giving a mock salute. “Now remember”—he peered hard at her name pinned to her shirt—“Akeelah Anderson, if you don’t know a word, spell it the way it sounds. Kids mess up all the time thinking they’re being thrown a curveball when they’re not. They outsmart themselves.” He reached for her hand and they shook. “Good luck,” he said.

  “Good luck to you, too, Javier.”

&nb
sp; He started goose-stepping up to the stage and Akeelah could not help giggling. She nervously looked back at Kiana and Mr. Welch, who gave her the thumbs-up sign.

  Moments later, all the contestants were seated except a twelve-year-old girl in pigtails at the microphone and the three spellers on deck standing behind her, including Javier and a very nervous Akeelah, who fiddled with her number.

  “Your word is ‘cacophony,’” the Pronouncer said.

  The girl in pigtails smiled and said immediately, “C-a-c-a-p-h-o-n-y. ‘Cacophony.’”

  A bell dinged and the girl, dejected, dismounted the stage, her head bowed.

  It was Javier’s turn. He gave Akeelah a goofy grin before he did a half walk, half run up to the mike and faced the Judge, the Pronouncer, and several Assistant Judges. There was a faint tittering from the audience. Javier was clearly a crowd pleaser.

  “Your word is ‘rhesus,’” the Pronouncer said.

  “‘Rhesus’?”

  Because of his speech impediment, Javier had to struggle to pronounce his words to the satisfaction of the judges. Javier simply accepted this as a challenge—life playing tricks on him—and he had learned at a very early age to compensate mightily. More often than not, he was the funniest boy in any group as well as the brightest.

  “Try again,” the Judge said. “Take your time.”

  “‘Rhesus,’” Javier said with slightly more clarity. The Judge nodded. Javier rolled his eyes up, muttered something under his breath, and said, “Could I have a definition, please?”

  The Pronouncer said, “A brownish-yellow monkey of India.”

  “Oh, that little fellow. ‘Rhesus,’ yes. R-h-e-s-u-s. ‘Rhesus.’”

  There was no bell. Javier started imitating a monkey as he returned to his seat, and drew a big laugh from the audience.

  Now it was Akeelah’s turn and she was petrified—too petrified to move, to think, even to breathe. She stared out at the sea of faces in the audience and they were a blur. Then an image of her father filled her mind. She could see his gentle eyes and feel his warm smile and hear his carefully chosen words as he told her that he was there for her, that he was watching. He spoke to her, saying, You can do it, baby. I know you can do it. And I’m right here with you….

  “Number one-oh-eight,” the Judge said.

  Akeelah slowly rose to her feet, fought for a lungful of air, and stepped up to the mike.

  “The word is ‘eminent,’” said the Pronouncer. When she didn’t respond immediately, the Judge said, “Did you hear the word?”

  “Uh…I’m not sure if he’s saying ‘imminent’ or ‘eminent.’”

  “Would you like a definition?” the Judge asked.

  “That’d be cool,” Akeelah said.

  That brought a small ripple of laughter from the crowd, and Akeelah started tapping her foot nervously.

  The Pronouncer said, “‘Eminent.’ Rising above other things or places; high; lofty….‘Eminent.’”

  “E-m-i-n-e-n-t,” she said quickly. “‘Eminent.’”

  When there was no bell, she exhaled sharply and scampered back to her chair, relieved. Javier gave her an enthusiastic nod and a big grin.

  Moments later, Dylan Watanabe sauntered up to the mike, all businesslike confidence, bordering on the arrogant. His word was “hypertrophic,” which he spelled instantly, and then he returned to his seat without a smile or acknowledgment of the audience applause. Akeelah noticed that Dylan’s father—arms crossed over his chest, expression grim—did not applaud.

  Akeelah stepped up to the microphone for the next round.

  “The word is ‘concierge,’” the Pronouncer said.

  She started tapping lightly on her thigh. “Uh…is that, like, a guy who stands around in a hotel? Wears a uniform ?”

  “Speak into the mike, please,” the Judge said.

  “A concierge,” said the Pronouncer, “is a head porter or doorkeeper. The origin is French.”

  Akeelah nodded as she continued to tap her leg. “Co-n-c-i-e-r-g-e. ‘Concierge.’”

  As she returned to her seat. Javier leaned toward her and whispered, “You’re doing great.” He raised both of his thumbs.

  “I’m gettin’ mad lucky. I could be gettin’ words like ‘vinculum.’ Really tricky words.”

  The speller at the mike put one too many “n’s” in “vinculum,” the bell went ding! and the speller left the stage, fighting back tears. Akeelah and Javier exchanged knowing glances.

  Half an hour later, only a handful of spellers remained onstage. Many of the disappointed parents in the audience had left. For those remaining in the auditorium, the tension had grown more palpable.

  The Judge approached the podium and spoke loudly into the mike. “As you can see, we’re down to eleven spellers. The top ten qualify for the Southern California Regional Finals. So in the next round if you miss a word, please do not leave the stage….”

  Suddenly the loud crying of a baby erupted from the sparse audience. Akeelah felt her stomach tighten. She shot a look at Kiana that could kill (she and Mr. Welch had moved closer to the stage) as Kiana tried to calm her child. But the crying soon turned to wailing.

  Akeelah half rose from her chair and said in a kind of strangled shout, “Kiana, get that baby outta here.”

  Kiana huffed with indignation and threw up her free hand in protest before marching out of the auditorium with her screaming baby. Akeelah smiled sheepishly at the Judge, who looked unmoved.

  “So let’s begin,” he said.

  Fifteen minutes later, the eleven remaining spellers were still in contention. Javier was up and his word was “syllogize.” He cocked his head to one side and stared at the ceiling, peered out at the audience, and milked the moment for all it was worth.

  “Mr. Mendez,” the Pronouncer said, with a hint of impatience.

  Javier nodded and gave the Pronouncer a brilliant smile. “‘Syllogize.’ S-y-l-l-o-g-i-z-e.”

  His parents cheered as he gave a high sign and moonwalked over to the right side of the stage where the other finalists were congregated.

  It was Akeelah’s turn to step up to the mike. Kiana peeked through the small window in a door near the stage, watching her sister intently.

  “‘Synecdoche,’” said the Pronouncer.

  Akeelah’s hand froze on her thigh. “‘Si-neck-do-key?’ You wanna tell me what that means?”

  “It is a figure of speech in which a part is used for a whole, an individual for a class, a material for a thing, or the reverse of any of these.”

  Akeelah stared at the Pronouncer for a moment, then let out a breath and leaned her head against the microphone, which made a popping sound. Her hand nervously tapped away, she blinked her eyes rapidly and cleared her throat. She saw Mr. Welch leaning forward in his chair, hopeful, seemingly willing her on. Then she caught sight of Dr. Larabee standing in the back, completely immobile, watching her intensely. She was surprised to see him and had to force herself to breathe. Dissect it, girl, she said to herself. The problem is in the ending.

  “We need you to spell the word,” the Judge said.

  Akeelah nodded. She made a fist with her nervous hand, took a deep breath, and said, “S-y-n-e-c-d-o-k-e-y. ‘Synecdoche.’”

  The bell dinged, which to Akeelah’s ears was the sound of doom. She glanced at Dr. Larabee, who was looking down, closed her eyes, and rocked back and forth as though she might fall to the floor. Utterly dejected, she walked with her head down to the left side of the stage and sat in one of the chairs, conspicuously alone—a loser on this side of the stage, with all the winners on the other side. When she dared look in Mr. Welch’s direction, his expression was grim. I screwed up, Daddy. I ruined everything. Why couldn’t I spell that stupid word? She fought back tears. The last thing she would allow herself was to reveal her wretchedness to the audience and the other contestants.

  The final speller, a girl with spiky hair, nervously approached the mike.

  “Your word is ‘carmagnole,
’” the Pronouncer said.

  “If you spell this correctly,” said the Judge, “you’ll be our tenth and last finalist.”

  The girl nodded, looking frightened. Akeelah had shrunk into her seat as though she wanted to curl up and disappear—leave the earth and reappear as someone else. Kiana, with her face still pressed to the window of the door, concentrated on the spiky-haired kid, wanting to edge into her mind and will her to misspell the word.

  “Could I get a definition?” she said.

  “A lively song and street dance,” said the Pronouncer.

  The spiky-haired girl nodded but looked confused. She coughed and cleared her throat. “Uh…c-a-r…”

  Kiana noticed that in the audience, the spiky-haired girl’s mother was nodding to her in an encouraging manner. Kiana drilled her with her eyes.

  “…m-a…,” the spiky-haired girl continued.

  She stopped and stared hard at her mother. She watched her mother nodding. But the girl was stuck, with no idea how to proceed. Then Kiana saw the woman mouth the letter “g.”

  The girl quickly spelled the rest of the word: “g-n-o-l-e.”

  “Congratulations!” said the Judge, joining the girl at the mike. “You are the tenth finalist in the LAUSD Spelling Bee.”

  Kiana shook her head and cursed under her breath. “No way. No way.” She barreled through the door, holding the baby, and rushed onstage.

  “They cheated,” Kiana yelled, scaring the baby into a fresh bout of crying. “I saw them! Her mama gave her the letter ‘g.’ She was sayin’ ‘Geeee’!”

  All eyes in the audience were now turned to the mother.

  “I didn’t help her,” the woman said, glaring at Kiana. “That girl is making it up.”

  “She’s lying!” Kiana shouted. “I’m telling you she gave her daughter that letter. I saw her with my own two eyes.”

  “But she knew the word,” the woman said, gesticulating wildly. “I mean—it’s one we studied. She knew it!”

  “Ma’am,” the Judge said, his tone severe, “did you help your child spell the word? You have to understand this is a serious business.”