“Number seventy-two, let’s go,” the Judge said sharply.
In an effort to buy time any way he could, Javier walked very slowly to the mike. He then bent over and retied one of his shoelaces. The Judges observed his slowdown with a mixture of confusion and annoyance.
Tanya was now wrestling with what to do. She was impressed by Dr. Larabee and at the same time still very angry at Akeelah. She felt betrayed and it hurt. It wouldn’t be easy to rebuild the trust she felt she had always had with her youngest child. She turned back to Dr. Larabee.
“Dr. Larabee. You are a doctor, aren’t you?”
“A professor of English, yes.”
“Do you think Akeelah actually has a chance at winning the National Spelling Bee?”
“Well, she has to get through the Regionals first. But yes, I think she has a good chance.”
Tanya nodded, not taking her eyes off him.
“Mama, I’m so sorry for what I did.”
Tanya slowly turned to her. “You never lied to me before in your life. I’m pretty sure of that. You must want this thing pretty bad.”
“‘Pretty bad’ doesn’t describe it.”
“Well, then, maybe you can tell me what you think a good punishment would be for what you did?”
Akeelah looked at Dr. Larabee.
“Your mother asked you a question,” he said.
Akeelah reluctantly turned to her mother, and said with difficulty, “I guess I gotta miss the bee.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Tanya said, “Well, that doesn’t just punish you. Mr. Welch and Dr. Larabee put a lot of time into this, too. So think of something else.”
A glint of hope glowed in Akeelah’s eyes, and Mr. Welch’s expression was trained on Tanya as though through the intensity of his gaze, he could will her into acquiescence.
“Uh…maybe double chores for the next month?”
Tanya shook her head. “Try three months.” She turned to Mr. Welch. “Does she still have time to get back onstage?”
“If we move quickly.”
Tanya squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. “Then you better get movin’.”
“C’mon, Akeelah,” Mr. Welch said, “we don’t have much time.”
Dr. Larabee nodded. “The Judges are not very forgiving about infractions.”
Akeelah looked at her mother, leaned forward, and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Mama,” she said, and rushed into the auditorium with Mr. Welch.
Onstage, Javier was doing his antic best to stall for time.
“Can I get the pronunciation again?” he said.
“He’s given it to you five times now,” the Judge said, clearly running out of patience.
Javier tapped his hearing aid. “Hello? Is this thing working? Mom,” he called out to the audience, “did you bring my spare battery?” There was a wave of nervous laughter in the audience.
When Javier saw Akeelah and Mr. Welch rushing down the aisle, he said, “Ah, never mind. ‘Ratatouille.’ R-a-t-a-t-o-u-i-l-l-e.”
He winked at Akeelah and strolled to his chair, leaving the Judges dazed and confused.
“Okay, where’s Number seventy-three?” the Judge said. “I’m afraid she’s going to have to be—”
“She’s right here,” Mr. Welch yelled out. He ushered Akeelah back onstage. Dylan, watching closely, shook his head and frowned. As Akeelah walked past Javier, he whispered, “Where were you? I was about to start tap dancing, and if that didn’t work I planned to faint.”
“Thanks, Javier,” she whispered, and stepped up to the mike.
“The word is ‘pluviosity,’” said the Pronouncer.
Tanya entered the auditorium and stood in the back, watching her daughter onstage, a whisper of a proud smile on her lips.
“Can I get a definition?” Akeelah said.
“‘A state characterized by much rain; a condition of being rainy.’”
Akeelah took a deep breath and looked out at her mother watching her closely. She smiled and then said, “‘Pluviosity.’ P-l-u-v-i-o-s-i-t-y.”
Tanya, her face suffused with amazement and pride, applauded heartily as her daughter took her seat.
Finally the contest was reduced to the three who would go to Washington, D.C., for the National Bee: Dylan took first place, Javier second, and Akeelah third. Photographers snapped pictures of the three finalists. Flashbulbs burst and the three were interviewed.
Akeelah said, “I’ve got so many people to thank for this chance to win the National Bee, I don’t know where to start. But there’s my teacher, Ms. Cross, who got me to enter my school bee. Then there’s Mr. Welch, my principal, standing over there. And a whole lot of other folks, friends and fellow students. And then there’s Dr. Larabee, my spelling coach, and without him I wouldn’t be here talkin’ to you now. And there’s my mother, Tanya Anderson, who’s been so great. I love you, Ma….”
Ten
A huge blown-up newspaper photograph of the three finalists with the caption GOING TO THE NATIONAL BEE! was hanging over a pep rally in honor of Akeelah. The Crenshaw Middle School students cheered as the band played. Akeelah, overwhelmed by the fanfare, stood to the side while Mr. Welch addressed the crowd.
“We at Crenshaw have a lot to be proud of today,” he intoned. “Thank you all for coming to this pep rally to honor our very own Akeelah Anderson. When she goes on and wins the National Spelling Bee”—the cheers ratcheted up to roars—“Crenshaw Middle School will be on the map!” He turned to Akeelah and gave her a hug. “Now, why don’t I let the star of the moment say a few words. Akeelah…”
She simply stood there, staring out at the sea of faces, almost in a state of shock. Was this really happening to her or was it all a dream? How was it possible that little Akeelah Anderson, the one-time school weirdo, bookworm, and social outcast, could now suddenly be the flavor of the month? If it was a dream, she never wanted to awaken.
She slowly stepped up to the mike at Mr. Welch’s frantic urging while the applause rained down on her.
“Um…thanks,” she said. “Thanks a lot.”
She looked over at Mr. Welch, not sure what else to say. He rushed back to the mike.
“What do you think about your chances in D.C., Akeelah?”
“Well…it’s gonna be hard. ’Cause a lotta the other kids come from schools with Latin classes and stuff. One school I know of even teaches Greek.” She smiled out at the audience. “Y’know, I’ve been buggin’ Mr. Welch here for, like, a month to get a Latin class going at Crenshaw, but he said I need at least ten kids to sign up. So far I got only me and Georgia.” She held up a pad of paper rolled up in her hand and waved it back and forth. “But maybe if y’all wanted to put your name on this list, we could get one!”
Her plea met with a resounding silence. Then Myrna yelled out, “Girl, you’re trippin’. Ain’t nobody wanna take no Latin.”
Chuckie Johnson jumped up from his seat and said, “But we could use some new basketball courts. Ours really suck.”
This suggestion was greeted with much laughter and whistles and Mr. Welch quickly returned to the mike.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’m going to make a promise right now and you can hold me to it. If Akeelah wins the National Bee, we’ll find a way to get a Latin class and some new basketball courts.”
Everybody broke into cheers.
At the end of the rally, Georgia pushed her way through a crowd of students gathered around Akeelah waiting to get her autograph.
“Girl, you’re like a movie star now. How does it feel? It must be kinda wild.”
“It’s pretty freaky.”
“Hey, my mama said she wants to take us out to celebrate tonight. You can pick the restaurant.”
“Well, Javier’s parents are taking me out. But maybe we can meet up later.”
An excited Mr. Welch suddenly rushed up to Akeelah and grabbed her by the arm. “Listen, there’s a reporter outside who wants to talk to you. She’s from Channel 2. That’s big time, Akeelah
.”
Sensing Georgia’s discomfort, she shook her head decisively. “I don’t wanna talk to no reporter.”
“Are you kidding? This is the type of good publicity Crenshaw needs. This is your chance to really make a difference. Come on!”
He took Akeelah by the hand and led her away, leaving Georgia looking hurt and left out. She shook her head grimly and stalked out of the gymnasium.
A female reporter shook Akeelah’s hand vigorously and began to interview her on-camera on the sidewalk outside Crenshaw.
“This is Jan Rafferty,” she said to the camera, “reporting from South Los Angeles. I’m here with eleven-year-old Akeelah Anderson, a seventh-grader from Crenshaw Middle School who’s heading to the Scripps National Spelling Bee. Akeelah, how does it feel to be going to Washington, D.C.?”
“Well, it’s pretty cool,” Akeelah said nervously. “I never thought it would happen to me.”
“What do you think of your chances?”
Akeelah shrugged. “I try not to think about that. Hopin’ won’t win you any awards. I just got to keep workin’, learnin’ new words. That’s the best way. Then if you fail, well, at least you gave it your best shot.”
“Your parents must be proud of you.”
Akeelah thought of her father and smiled for the first time.
“They are,” she said.
While the interview was in progress, Dr. Larabee sat in his office with the lights off watching the broadcast. His expression was glum. He sipped a whiskey and muttered under his breath, “This is all nonsense. Just plain nonsense. The vultures are gathering around her.”
He turned away from the screen and looked down at a photograph in his lap. In it, he was several years younger, much thinner, and was holding a young girl who looked to be about eight. They were both smiling. Dr. Larabee’s eyes filled with sadness. He looked back at Akeelah’s image on TV. She was saying, “While I’m in Washington I want to see the White House and the Senate and House of Representatives. And maybe the Supreme Court, too. All three branches of government. That would be cool….” Shaking his head, he turned off the television and put the photograph in a drawer, which he slammed shut.
He took a long sip of his drink and sat in the dark trying to stifle his emotions.
Two days later, a perplexed Akeelah stood before an unusually testy Dr. Larabee. She couldn’t understand what was wrong. He had become so much warmer and approachable over the course of the summer, but today he seemed like a stranger.
“Did you see my TV interview?” she said.
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Oh. Okay. I just thought you might have seen it.”
He gave her a grim look. “Spell ‘affenpinscher,’” he said.
“‘Affen’—what?”
“‘Grallatorial,’” he said. “Spell it, please.”
“G-r-a-l-a—”
“Wrong,” he cut in. “‘ Jacquard. ’”
“Dr. Larabee,” Akeelah said. “What’s going on?”
“Spell the word. ‘Jacquard.’”
Visibly upset, Akeelah said, “J-a-q-u—”
“What about the ‘c’? These are all words missed in last year’s National Bee, and you can’t spell any of them.”
“’Cause we haven’t studied ’em yet. You’re not being fair.”
He continued to glare at her. “Why did you cancel yesterday? Were you doing another interview? Flaunting yourself on TV? Over what? Let’s face some facts here. Third place in a regional competition is no cause for celebration. I thought you wanted to win the Nationals.”
“I do,” she said. “More than anything. And I wasn’t doing another interview. I was at the mall.”
Dr. Larabee pounded a fist on his desk. “The mall? Doing what?”
“Well, sometimes I just wanna have a life, you know? A little time to myself.” She paused. “Look, I wasn’t dissing you, Dr. Larabee. I was Christmas shopping.”
Dr. Larabee’s expression grew even more stormy. “‘Dissing’? I thought we only used words from the dictionary in here.”
Akeelah returned his glare, then opened the dictionary on his desk and found an entry.
“‘Dis,’” she said. “‘Dissed.’ ‘Dissing.’ To treat with disrespect or contempt. To find fault with.” She slammed the dictionary shut. “New words get added to the dictionary every year.”
Dr. Larabee’s expression slowly turned from angry to thoughtful. “Point accepted. You’ve clearly done your homework—and that’s what you need to continue to do.”
“I know.”
“You can have a life after the spelling bee. You know, I didn’t make it to the National Bee until I was fourteen. I had no help, no training—and I was out by the third round. Now you have an opportunity to win this thing.”
“But all we’ve done for all this time is study words, Dr. Larabee. Why can’t we take a break? Go see a movie or a game? Why can’t we have fun for a change?”
“I told you, Denise, you can have fun after the bee.”
Akeelah stared at him, looking confused. “Who’s Denise?”
“What?”
“You called me Denise.”
Now Dr. Larabee looked rattled. He started to speak but then shook his head and remained silent.
“Dr. Larabee… ?”
He kept looking at her, seemingly sorting out something in his mind. Then he turned away and sat behind his desk with a heavy sigh.
“Are you okay?” Akeelah said.
He kept looking down and said finally, “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just fine.” But to Akeelah he looked anything but fine.
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out several long, narrow boxes. He set them down on the desk in front of her.
“Here,” he said. “I spent all last week making these for you.”
“What are they?”
“Flashcards,” he said. “For five thousand new words. The type of words you can expect at the Finals.”
“Five thousand?” she said, and whistled. “But we’re running out of time. What’re you going to do, coach me twenty-four/seven?”
“No,” he said, looking down at his desk. He paused before adding, “You can learn them on your own. I’ve taught you everything I can.”
She approached the desk as his words slowly sank in. “What are you saying? You’re not gonna work with me anymore?”
“You’ve got it all, Akeelah. Word construction. Etymology. Memorization techniques. There’s nothing left to go over. You just need to focus on the words now. I’m putting it in your capable hands.”
“But I can’t learn five thousand new words by myself. No way!”
“Of course you can. You’ve got a brain like a sponge. Just sit down and study them.”
“But I swear I won’t miss any more sessions. And I’ll do whatever you say. Please, Dr. Larabee, you can’t stop coaching me now.”
Dr. Larabee looked very distraught and couldn’t make eye contact with her.
“You don’t know your own power, Akeelah,” he said. “You should read that quote again. You’re afraid of your own strength. You have to accept your strength and go with it.”
“I need you,” she said. “I really do.”
“Look—I told Mr. Welch I’d help you get through the Regionals. I did that. There’s nothing left for me to offer you, Akeelah. Just learn these words and you’ll do fine. All right?” He paused and then added, “You’ve already surpassed me.”
Akeelah just stared at him, stupefied.
“I don’t understand you,” she said.
“That’s not important.”
“Okay,” she said, “then that’s it.” Her eyes were moist and hot. She quickly gathered up the boxes of flashcards and stormed out, slamming the door shut behind her.
Dr. Larabee just sat there, staring at the closed door. He put his head in his hands and took a series of long, sighing breaths.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered into his hands, “but it’s gott
en too tough. You’re too close to me now and I can’t have that. I called you Denise, and that’s the trouble right there. You aren’t Denise, you aren’t my daughter, and you can never be. You can never be, Akeelah. You can never be….”
Akeelah sat in her bedroom that night, angry and upset. She stared at the boxes of flashcards on her desk. She didn’t want to open them, had no urge to study for the first time in months. What’s the point? she thought. Without him I don’t have a chance. Why doesn’t he realize that? Why has he left me when we’ve worked so well together and we’re so close to the final goal? Although I guess it’s not “we,” not anymore, and maybe it never was. He doesn’t want it that way. He’s left me on my own to fend for myself and I don’t know why. I just don’t have a clue. All I know is, I feel sick—sick inside….
She took out a flashcard, read it, and then shoved it back in the box. She started to take out another, then shut the box, picked up the phone, and dialed. “Hey, girl. What up?” There was no response at the other end. “Georgia, you lost your tongue? It’s Akeelah.”
“Yeah,” she said flatly. “I know who it is. I ain’t forgot your voice.”
“So whatcha doin’?”
“Watchin’ TV. What I always do.”
“You wanna go skating this weekend? I haven’t used my blades in months.”
Georgia paused before saying, “Why don’t you go with your friends from Woodland Hills?”
“What? Girl, what’s wrong with you? Why you sound all bent outta shape?”
“I’m fine.” After a long, uncomfortable silence, she added, “You know somethin’ I noticed about you?”
“What’s that?”
“When you’re with me and my friends, you talk one way—all down-home and stuff. But with your new friends you sound white, like them. Why is that? I can’t help wonderin’.”
Akeelah stared at the telephone receiver, unable to think of an answer.
“I got stuff to do,” Georgia said. “I’ll talk to you later.” She abruptly hung up.
Akeelah and the Bee Page 9