Akeelah and the Bee (19 page)

“He reminds me of you,” Akeelah said.

It was her turn to step up to the mike. Each round took her closer to her goal, and each time felt more difficult than the time before.

Ted Saunders said, “Here is Akeelah Anderson up to attempt her eighth word.”

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

Akeelah stared at him, then sneaked a quick look at Dr. Larabee. It was clear to him that she had never heard of the word. “Excuse me?” Her hand remained frozen at her side.

“‘Argillaceous,’” the Pronouncer repeated.

“Can I get a definition, please?” she said.

“Like or containing clay,” he said.

Tanya strained forward in her seat, holding tightly to the hands of both Devon and Georgia. It was obvious that Akeelah was struggling for the first time.

“What’s the language of origin?” Akeelah asked, still not moving her hand.

A bad sign, Dr. Larabee thought, as he tried to keep his composure.

“Greek,” the Pronouncer answered.

“It’s the suffix that could trip her up,” Margaret Russell said. “Most people would spell it ‘tious’ or ‘cious.’ A very, very tricky word, indeed.”

“You can see the strain on her face,” Ted Saunders observed.

Dr. Larabee muttered loudly enough for Mr. Welch to hear, “Come on, Akeelah. See it.
See
it.”

Akeelah stared at him again and something was communicated between them. She turned to the Pronouncer.
“Is it derived from the Greek word ‘argos,’ meaning white?”

Dr. Larabee nodded. She was on the right track. If only she could keep her nerve and think logically and straight. This word was not too big for her. Others might be, but not “argillaceous.”

Akeelah scrunched up her face and thought hard. She remembered Dr. Larabee standing next to his huge pad full of words and pointing to one, and she strained to remember that word. In her mind’s eye she saw “argilla,” but she couldn’t see the ending. She sensed that the danger lay in the ending.

The Head Judge motioned to her. “You’ve exhausted your regular time, Ms. Anderson. You now have thirty seconds of finish time to spell the word.”

She nodded as her hand began to flutter and finally touched her thigh. She began moving back and forth rhythmically. Javier bit his lip, his eyes fixed on her. Dylan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, the faintest of smiles on his lips.

“‘Argillaceous,’” Akeelah said finally. Her fingers began counting on her thigh. “A…r…g…i…l… l…a….” Her fingers slowed, paused. She could see all the faces staring at her, the world closing in on her, the bright lights blazing in her eyes. She felt a wave of faintness.

“Can I start over?”

“You may,” said the Head Judge. “But you cannot change the letters you’ve already spelled.”

Dr. Larabee and Mr. Welch exchanged worried glances. Georgia covered her eyes, overwhelmed by the
tension. Tanya sat straight and still, as though she were meditating.

Akeelah put her feet together, forced herself to breathe deeply, and made her hand stop fluttering. She kept her eyes ahead, took a moment, and then started jumping up and down. There were looks and murmurs of confusion in the audience. What was this girl doing?

Dr. Larabee nodded and turned to Mr. Welch. “She sees the word now. She’s pretending to jump rope.”

“But why?”

“Because that’s how she visualizes.”

“A-r-g-i-l-l-a…,” she said slowly, in time with the jumps. She remembered now—Dr. Larabee standing at his desk slapping the pad of paper with his pointer. The pointer fell on…
yes!

“…c-e-o-u-s. ‘Argillaceous.’”

She stopped jumping. There was no bell.

The applause in the audience was deafening, and Mr. Welch actually jumped out of his chair and pumped his fist. Dr. Larabee gave a quiet nod of satisfaction. “Good girl,” he said softly. “You knew what to do. You didn’t panic.”

Akeelah sat down and let out an exhausted breath. She saw Dylan stare at her intently and then slowly look away.

Ted Saunders, looking more serious now, said, “It’s the twelfth round now, folks. And the five remaining spellers are Mary Calveretti, age thirteen, of Tulsa, Oklahoma…fourteen-year-old Rajeev Subramonian of New York City…thirteen-year-old Javier Mendez of
Woodland Hills, California…Dylan Watanabe, also from Woodland Hills. Wow, they really crank ’em out on the Left Coast, don’t they? And, of course, Akeelah Anderson of Los Angeles.”

Javier strolled to the mike, grinning to cover his nervousness.

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

Javier scratched his head, drawing a titter from the audience. “Could you use the word in a sentence, please?”

“The Merovingian kings were known for having long red hair.”

Akeelah bit her lip, feeling Javier’s tension.

“Okay…uh…M-a-r-a-v-i-n-g-i-a-n? ‘Merovingian.’”

The bell sounded and Akeelah gasped. Mrs. Mendez put her hands to her mouth.

“The correct spelling,” said the Pronouncer, “is M-
e-
r
-o-
v-i-n-g-i-a-n.”

Javier gave the audience a showman’s bow, deep and with a sweep of the hand. The audience laughed and applauded one of their favorite contestants. As Javier left the stage, he turned to Akeelah.

“I forgot to spell how it sounds. The very thing I told you never to do, and then I go and do it. But hey—thirteenth last year, no worse than fifth this year—next time I take it all! Now it’s
your
turn. I’m depending on you.”

Akeelah smiled and her eyes followed Javier as he shuffled off the stage.

Now Mary Calveretti, a brunette with a thick
Southern accent, minced up to the mike and offered a subtle curtsy as she smiled out at the audience.

“‘Mithridatism,’” said the Pronouncer.

You could see her face fall as her mind grappled with the word’s various possibilities.

“Could you give me the meanin’?”

“Tolerance for a poison by taking ever larger doses.”

“M-i-t-h-r-o-d-a-t-i-s-m. ‘Mithridatism.’”

The bell went
ding!
and the girl slouched offstage, her eyes glued to the floor.

Dylan was up next and made short work of “resipiscence.” He shot a quick glance at Akeelah as he returned to his seat. She saw something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before—something speculative and thoughtful. She wondered if it was respect.

Rajeev Subramonian approached the mike, rubbing his hands nervously. With a slight Indian accent, he slowly spelled “vitrophyre,” spelling the last four letters as “f-i-e-r.”

Dylan glanced at Akeelah, one eyebrow raised, as if to say, “Rajeev blew an easy one.”

The Indian boy obviously didn’t agree. “That sucks out loud,” he grumbled as he left the stage.

Finally it was Akeelah’s turn, and the importance of this round did not escape her. If she spelled the word correctly, it would be between her and Dylan.

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

“I would like a definition, please.”

“A spreading skin eruption or disease,” said the Pronouncer.

Akeelah nodded and said calmly, “S-e-r-p-i-g-i-n-o-us. ‘Serpiginous.’”

The bell did not ring, and Akeelah returned to her seat. Devon stood up and gave a shrill whistle through his teeth, and the audience clapped much more boisterously than for Dylan. She was clearly the audience favorite. She sat down and closed her eyes.
I’m here,
she thought.
I’m knockin’ on the door. Don’t lose your cool, girl. Just don’t you dare lose your cool.

The Head Judge stood at the mike and said, “As we’re down to our final two spellers, we’re going to take a small break before Ms. Anderson and Mr. Watanabe commence with the championship-level words. We will resume in fifteen minutes.”

Akeelah raced to the bathroom and dashed cold water on her face. She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled proudly at her image. “Daddy, how’m I doin’?” She pursed her lips in a kiss and then turned and left.

Outside the door she heard voices raised and she recognized the loud angry ranting of Mr. Watanabe coming from the men’s room.

“This is your last spelling bee, Dylan. Just remember one thing. You let that girl win and you’re second place your whole life. But there’s no way we are going to allow that to happen, is there? You hear me?
Look
at me when I’m speaking to you. We didn’t work this hard for this long for second place.
No way,
do you understand me?”

The harshness in his tone made Akeelah flinch.

“You listening in on conversations?”

Akeelah turned with a start and saw Dr. Larabee standing there.

Trying to grin she said, “I’m wishing Dylan good luck. I mean mentally. His dad gives him a real rough time.”

“He’s a typical stage parent. They invest their lives in their children and it becomes a disease.” He paused and then reached for her hand. “You’ve done a superb job. I’m very proud of you, Akeelah.”

“Thank you.” She felt a blush on her cheeks but fought to keep her cool. They started walking back to the ballroom together.

“This is the ninth inning now,” Dr. Larabee said. “Or maybe extra innings is more apt. You think it’s been hard so far—just wait. They’re going to hit you with every trick word they’ve got now. No mercy. But you’ve studied them all, or words akin to the words they’ll give you. You’ll do fine.”

Akeelah turned back and saw Mr. Watanabe lead a sullen Dylan out of the men’s room.

“But, Dr. Larabee, if I don’t beat Dylan—I still have next year, right?”

“Of course you do. But I don’t know how much time we’ll have to train together. I just accepted an offer to go back and teach at UCLA.”

“Really? That’s fabulous!” She squeezed his hand and smiled up at him. “Maybe I’ll sit in on one of your classes. Could I?”

“Of course you could. But knowing you, you’d want to take over and start teaching the course.”

Her grin grew wider. “Maybe….”

As Mr. Watanabe and Dylan marched by them, without a glance in their direction, Watanabe sternly lectured his son. Akeelah looked down and sighed.

“Akeelah, what is it?” Dr. Larabee said, sensing her stiffen.

She hesitated before saying, “Nothing, Dr. Larabee. I should get back. No matter what happens—win or lose—I just want you to know I couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

Before he could respond, she scampered off to the staging area. Dr. Larabee looked perplexed; he sensed that something was wrong but he had no idea what.

Ted Saunders was saying to the TV audience, “Now keep in mind, if either speller misses a word, the other has to spell the missed one plus another to win.”

Margaret Russell nodded. “And, of course, they could exhaust all twenty-five championship words.”

“Has that ever happened?”

“No, not all twenty-five.”

“But for argument’s sake, let’s say they managed to spell all the championship words correctly. What would be the next step, Margaret?”

“Well, they would be co-champions,” she replied, “but that’s never happened before, as I said. The championship words are just too difficult.”

As Akeelah and Dylan took the stage, the crowd burst into applause. The seats were packed with spectators; the atmosphere was electric with anticipation. Everyone was expecting an exciting battle to the end. Akeelah smiled at the ovation, bowing her head slightly. But Dylan stood
there stiffly, unsmiling, watching his father staring at him with his arms folded. Akeelah saw Watanabe’s icy demeanor and glanced worriedly at Dylan. Akeelah’s feelings toward Dylan had changed since they arrived in Washington. She was no longer bothered by his arrogance, which she considered a front, a protection against his father’s cold perfectionism. More and more she had come to realize how hard it must be to live Dylan’s life, how little joy he was allowed to feel, and her heart had begun to go out to him. Did she like him? Yes. In a strange way she had come to appreciate his intelligence and to take on his problems as her own—a sure sign of friendship.

The Head Judge said, “Ms. Anderson, you’re up first.”

She looked from Dylan to Dr. Larabee, whose eyes were on her intently, and then to the Head Judge. She moved slowly to the mike.

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

Akeelah looked at him, startled, and then glanced back at Dylan, who was peering at her sharply. Her mind suddenly flashed back to the chemistry room in Woodland Hills.
“Spell ‘xanthosis,’” Dylan had demanded, and Akeelah had said, “z-a-n—” and Dylan had said, “It starts with an ‘x.’”

It was as clear to her as though it had happened yesterday. Akeelah never forgot a misspelled word—and especially that word under those circumstances.

She continued to stare at Dylan and she could tell from his expression that he knew she knew the word.

“Would you like me to repeat the word?” said the Pronouncer.

She cleared her throat nervously. “‘Xanthosis’?”

“That’s correct.”

Akeelah saw Mr. Watanabe, arms crossed over his jacket, burning holes into his son with his dark eyes. She struggled with what to do. Her body was uncharacteristically still.

“Ms. Anderson,” the Head Judge said. “Akeelah?”

“‘Xanthosis,’” she said. And then slowly started to spell: “Z-a-n…”

Dylan looked up with a start, his mouth open. This wasn’t possible. Something was wrong.

In the audience, Dr. Larabee rose from his chair, shocked.

“…-t-h-o-s-i-s. ‘Xanthosis.’” Her eyes were glued to the mike.

The bell sounded. A groan of disappointment rose from the audience, with the exception of Mr. Watanabe, who pumped his fist in elation.

“I’m sorry, Akeelah,” the Head Judge said, and he did look sincerely sorry. “That is incorrect.”