Akeelah and the Bee (3 page)

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming here today, Josh,” Mr. Welch was saying. “The district’s been breathing down my neck. Test scores dropped again last semester.”

Dr. Joshua Larabee nodded, his lips pressed together. “Well, I appreciate your dilemma, but I don’t think there’s much I can offer.”

“I just think if you see the kids in action you’ll change your mind. I honestly think you will. Some of them are very special.”

As they turned the corner, they came upon Akeelah fending off Myrna and trying to butt Elaine in the stomach with her head.

“Girls!” Mr. Welch shouted, “Why aren’t you in class?” Dr. Larabee looked at the melee in dismay.

“She holdin’ us up,” Myrna said, nodding her head at Akeelah.

The two girls scampered off and when Akeelah started to follow them, the principal called out to her. “Akeelah—wait!”

She stopped and slowly turned around. Mr. Welch scrutinized her carefully. “What was that all about?”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t nothin’. Just a little misunderstanding.”

“I don’t associate you with rowdy behavior,” he said.

She shrugged again and stared at her shoes. She was very aware of the tall stranger but hadn’t once glanced at him.

“Are you signed up for the school spelling bee today?” Mr. Welch went on.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s hardly an answer.”

“Well, it’s the only one I’ve got.” She raised her eyes to his and managed not to flinch.

Mr. Welch said gravely, “Please come to my office. There are a few things we need to discuss.”

The two men and Akeelah, who was fighting hard to maintain her composure, walked down the hall in silence. As Akeelah stood in front of the principal’s desk, leaning first on one leg, then the other, Dr. Larabee studied some class pictures on the wall. Mr. Welch was poring over Akeelah’s file.

“Well,” he said, looking up finally, “Ms. Cross has an interesting record on you. According to her, you’ve never missed a word on your spelling tests.”

Akeelah was aware that the tall man had turned to look at her. She could feel his gaze.

Mr. Welch cleared his throat and tried to catch her eye. “Your attendance record, however, leaves a little to be desired.” He cleared his throat again. “More than a little,
as a matter of fact.” He studied her, waiting for a response, but she said nothing. “You’re only eleven, according to your records. Did you skip a grade?”

Speaking to the edge of the desk, Akeelah said reluctantly, “The second.”

“Why was that?”

“The work was too easy. That’s what they told my mother.” After a moment she added: “I wanted to stay with my class.”

She glanced at Dr. Larabee for the first time as he took a seat beside the principal’s desk. There was something in his eyes—an intensity, a depth, an intelligence—that reminded her of her father. He looked at her and then quickly away. He seemed bored with the whole affair, and jiggled his left leg, crossed over his right, impatiently.

“Akeelah,” Mr. Welch said, “have you ever heard of the Scripps National Spelling Bee?”

Akeelah gave him a sudden intent look. “Uh…yeah.…I saw some of it on TV last night.”

“ESPN shows it every year,” Mr. Welch said, leaning forward in his chair, a note of excitement in his voice. “Middle-schoolers from all over the country compete in school, district, and regional spelling bees, trying to make it to the National Bee. That’s the goal, and the competition is keen.” He paused until Akeelah felt compelled to look at him. He then continued, saying, “I have a dream for this school. That one of our students will be there. Whoever wins our school bee today will represent Crenshaw at the District Bee next month.”

Akeelah stared at him but said nothing.

“Well? What do you have to say?” He smiled tentatively. “Have I made a convincing case?”

“Why would anyone wanna represent a school that can’t even put doors on the toilet stalls?”

Dr. Larabee looked at her sharply, revealing the ghost of a grin for just an instant.

“You have to learn to take pride in what you have,” Mr. Welch said, trying to cover his embarrassment. “Look, Akeelah… if we can’t show that our students know how to perform and perform well, there might not be money for books, let alone bathroom doors. Do you understand me?”

Akeelah slowly nodded.

“Now I want you to do that spelling bee today. I can’t order you to, but I really
want
you to. Will you do that for the school?”

Akeelah drew in a deep breath, sneaked a look at Dr. Larabee, and said, “Why should I? So everybody can call me ‘freak’ and ‘brainiac’ and attack me in the hall or on the way home?” She shook her head. “Naw, Mr. Welch. I ain’t down for no spelling bee.”

The principal glowered at her.

“Well, then, maybe you’d be ‘down’ for spending the rest of the semester in detention for all your absences.” Akeelah and Mr. Welch locked stares. Dr. Larabee studied them both, his eyes suddenly alive with interest.

“Let me think about it,” she said finally. “I’ll come back here at lunchtime.” She turned and marched stiffly out of the office.

The Crenshaw Middle School Spelling Bee took place that afternoon. The auditorium was sparsely filled, but nonetheless resounded with noisy, rowdy students. Akeelah, one of twenty contestants onstage, stared at the floor, her hand tapping nervously on her leg. Georgia waved to her from the first row and Akeelah grinned before looking away. Ms. Cross sat at a table on the side of the stage, and two other teachers served as assistant judges.

Ms. Cross approached the front of the stage as the audience began to settle down. She said, “Hello, and welcome to Crenshaw’s first schoolwide spelling bee. We have some very special students competing today, so let’s give them a big round of applause.”

The clapping was scattered, and there were some sarcastic hoots and raspberries mixed in. Elaine and Myrna made faces at Akeelah, and Myrna shook her fist at her, mouthing some threatening words. A few rows back from the stage Mr. Welch sat with Dr. Larabee, talking earnestly into his ear. Dr. Larabee didn’t look thrilled to be there.

“We drew numbers to see who’d go first,” Ms. Cross went on, “and that would be Chuckie Johnson from the eighth grade. Chuckie—will you come up here to the mike?”

A plump boy strolled slowly up to the microphone. His buddies shouted out to him from the audience, and he waved to them and grinned. He then turned to Ms.
Cross and said, in a voice verging wildly between soprano and baritone, “Hey, what up?” His buddies broke into raucous laughter and Chuckie did a low comic bow.

“Now, Chuckie, you’re going to start things off with ‘grovel.’ Okay? ‘Grovel.’”

“‘Grovel’?” Chuckie said. “Like, ya know—little rocks?”

“No,” Ms. Cross said. “‘
Grovel
.’ Like get down on your knees and beg for mercy.”

“Get down on my
knees?”
Chuckie said, completely confused. “Say what?”

“Just spell the word,” the teacher said, trying to hide her growing impatience.

“O
kay
,” Chuckie said. “Uh…g-r-a-v-e-l?”

Akeelah rolled her eyes and then looked out at Dr. Larabee, whose gaze was fastened on her.

“Actually,” Ms. Cross said, “it’s g-r-
o
-v-e-l. Sorry, Chuckie. Better luck next time.”

“Who cares? I didn’t want to do this in the first place.”

He rushed off the stage and joined his buddies.

“Okay, moving right along,” Ms. Cross said, trying for a smooth and cheerful approach to a difficult job, “next up is Akeelah Anderson. Akeelah—would you step forward?”

She slinked up to the mike, her eyes fastened on the floor. She tried to ignore Georgia’s whistles of encouragement and a few scattered catcalls.

Ms. Cross said, “Okay, Akeelah. Your word is ‘doubt.’ ‘Doubt.’”

In a barely audible voice, Akeelah said, “‘Doubt.’ Do-u-b-t.”

“I’m sorry? You have to speak up. Talk directly into the mike.”

Akeelah nodded, cleared her throat, and said, “D-o-u-b-t,” her voice trembling but louder.

“Uh…very good.”

Akeelah returned to her seat, her eyes cast down.

Mr. Welch nervously turned to glance at Dr. Larabee, who was watching the proceedings without expression.

“The words are pretty basic,” the principal said.

Dr. Larabee nodded but said nothing.

“Next up, Regina Baker,” Ms. Cross said.

Twenty minutes later, the competition had been reduced to two girls—Akeelah and Cheryl Banks, an eighth-grader. Cheryl was a rotund 200 pounds of intelligence and good cheer, picked on unmercifully by the girls in her class.

“Cheryl,” Ms. Cross said, “your word is ‘placid.’”

“‘Placid.’ That mean like remainin’ calm? Take things as they come?”

“Exactly,” she said. “An excellent definition.”

“‘Placid,’” she said. “Ah…p-l-a-s-i-d. ‘Placid’?”

Akeelah shook her head as though to say, These words are just too easy.

“I’m sorry,” Ms. Cross said. “It’s p-l-a-c-i-d. Okay, Akeelah, if you get this next word you’ll be the winner of the Crenshaw School Bee.”

Moving to the microphone, she muttered under her breath, “Let’s get this farce over with.”

“The word is ‘fanciful,’” she said. “‘Fan—”

Akeelah interrupted her and said quickly, “F-a-n-c-if-u-l. ‘Fanciful.’”

“Outstanding, Akeelah! You have won Crenshaw’s inaugural spelling bee. Good job!”

Georgia cheered, as did Mr. Welch. Dr. Larabee, however, sat stony-faced, clearly not impressed.

Akeelah grabbed her blue ribbon and started to exit the stage when a high-pitched whistle suddenly cut through the room. All eyes in the auditorium swung toward Dr. Larabee, who stopped whistling and, to Mr. Welch’s amazement, stood up.

“She’s not done yet,” Dr. Larabee said, staring at Akeelah intently. He leaned on the chair in front of him, took a deep breath, and speaking very slowly, said, “‘Prestidigitation.’”

Laughter erupted at the size and complexity of the word. Akeelah stayed rooted in one spot, her hand beginning to beat against her thigh, her lips moving, as she stared suspiciously at the tall stranger.

“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.”