Spelldown (19 page)

On Tuesday afternoon I get off the tour bus at the Lincoln Memorial with Tommy Ludinsky, my new friend from New Jersey, whose acne looks like he’s been fertilizing it.

“I’m not lying,” Tommy says, fiddling around with his dumb tape recorder. “Someone told me that
freedom
is misspelled on the memorial. Let’s see if we can find it.”

“Let’s wait for Janine.” We move away from the rush of other spellers.

Last night, at the Great American Get-Acquainted Barbecue, we were divided into categories according to who our favorite Beatle was. Tommy, Janine, and I were the only Ringo fans. The other seventy spellers were divided like you’d expect. Paul had twenty-nine fans, John had twenty-six, George had fifteen. The three of us hit it off and made a pact to stick together during the week. Janine is from Kansas City. She’s fourteen like me and Tommy. She and Tommy were in the bee last year, which they said wasn’t much fun, since Senator Kennedy was assassinated the night before the championship.

Janine bounces off the bus in her purple culottes and
walks over to us. “Oh, no, not that dumb tape recorder again.” She groans. “Aren’t you bored walking around interviewing us?”

“Ringo people are the opposite of boring.” Tommy thrusts a miniature microphone in front of her lips.

Janine pushes it away. “How do you figure that?”

“Of all the people I have interviewed, you are the only person who chose Alaska over Hawaii as a vacation spot. And your friend here from South Carolina is the only person who refuses to be interviewed.” Tommy holds the microphone in my face. I jerk it from his hand and stick it in his shirt pocket.

“I did not refuse! I told you I’d answer your silly questions—just, off the record.”

“You’re hilarious.” Tommy laughs like a madman.

“I had a very good reason why I didn’t want to be taped.”

“Yeah, you’re stubborn,” Janine says.

“No, that’s not it,” I say.

“Well, why wouldn’t you let me tape you?” Tommy asks.

“I figured you were taping my Dixie Darling accent to give to Eric from Nebraska, since he’s so damn tickled about how funny I talk.”

“Forget about him. He’s an asshole,” Tommy says.

“I believe Eric’s got a crush on you,” Janine says.

“Forget that! Come on, let’s race to the top.” I take off.

We race up all eighty-seven steps and then wander off in
different directions to look for the misspelling of
freedom
. The statue of President Lincoln is carved out of white Georgia marble and stands nineteen feet tall and weighs a hundred tons. Looking rock solid for all eternity, Honest Abe sits in his big chair, staring out at the National Monument.

Being in Washington, D.C., is amazing. It’s the first time I’ve seen history with a capital
H—
all the statues of presidents and soldiers, the U. S. Constitution, and the tattered old flags in glass cases. Being here makes me appreciate history with a little
h—
makes me realize how important it is—whether it’s short and sweet like my friendship with Tommy and Janine, or long and complicated like with my family.

Standing here, looking out from the Lincoln Memorial, I can feel the presence of all the people who’ve been here before me. I close my eyes and imagine Kelly standing out on that grassy lawn a few years back, with thousands of people, listening to Dr. King telling them about his Big Dream.

1: the purest and most concentrated essence of a thing

2: the fifth and highest element that permeates all nature

“
Exacerbate,”
Mrs. Harrison says, sitting across from me at the little dining table in our room. It’s Thursday. High noon. Only twelve spellers remain out of seventy-three.

“Exacerbate.
E-x-a-c-e-r-b-a-t-e
. Exacerbate.” I tear off a piece of the croissant and dip it in my coffee, feeling relieved that I sailed through yesterday’s rounds like a breeze. I was extremely fortunate not to get
ametropia
or
coffinite
. This morning I was thrilled I didn’t get
ingravescence
like the boy from North Carolina, who sobbed like his dog had died when the bell rang.

“
Genuflect,”
Mrs. Harrison says, genuflecting.

“Genuflect.
G-e-n-u-f-l-e-c-t
. Genuflect.”

“
Rectitudinous,”
she says.

“May I have the definition, please?”

“It’s the adjective form of
rectitude
, meaning honest, virtuous, righteous.”

“
R-e-c-t-i-t-u-d-i-n-o-u-s,”
I say.

She calls out, “
Obnubilate.”

“Will you use it in a sentence, please?”

“Karlene’s mind was obnubilated after so much studying,” she says.

“
O-b-n-u-b-i-l-a-t-e.”

Mrs. Harrison stands up. “I’m going to call Jack. The next round starts in an hour.” She goes into her suite and closes the door.

I pick up what’s left of my croissant and bite tenderly into the soft, moist layers of pastry filled with what tastes like almonds, butter, and brown sugar ground together into a yummy paste. Mama’s still splashing around in the bathtub. I walk over, open the door, and put my head inside the steamy room. “How’s your headache?” I say.

“Still pounding,” she says. “Mind getting me a couple more Bayer?”

I grab a couple aspirin from her cosmetic bag and give them to her with a glass of water. She’s up to her neck in bubbles, leaning against the back of the tub, wearing a shower cap to keep her French twist in tip-top shape.

“I’m going to go stand on my head for a little while,” I say.

“Sit down for a minute,” she says, then takes the aspirin.

I plop down on the toilet seat.

“Karlene, I want to tell you how proud I am of you for studying so hard and how much I appreciate all your help around the house. It’s been a long, hard year. You and your spelling are about the only things that have kept me going.”

“Thank you, Mama. I appreciate everything you’ve ever done for me.”

“Now you can go stand on your head.” She smiles.

The carpet is so thick, I don’t even need a pillow.
Squatting, I put my hands flat on the floor, place my head between them, and then thrust my body into the air. My eyes focus on the brass knob on the bottom dresser drawer. The fresh blood circulating in my brain feels nourishing. I feel a couple centuries younger. I don’t know if it’s because of that miraculous blessing Mama gave me, or if it’s the ordinary miracle of standing on my head.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been doing headstands, mostly out of boredom and when there’s not enough room to do cartwheels. I didn’t even know it was an ancient art until a few months ago, when Mrs. Harrison showed me an illustrated yoga book written by Swami Somebody. She said it might help with my shaky nerves, so I started reading the book, and discovered that the headstand is the King of Asanas. When practiced regularly, it improves intelligence, memory, and self-confidence and reduces nervousness, tension, fatigue, and fear. The headstand also stimulates the pituitary, pineal, thyroid, and parathyroid glands.

The nerve impulses to my cerebral cortex have slowed way down. I can tell because I have that dreamy, alert feeling. An image pops into my mind of me standing on the stage with a gracious smile, holding a trophy, doing that little silly wave like a prom queen. I clear my mind and, after a while, gently lower myself back to the floor. Mama’s still splashing around in the tub, adding more hot water, trying to marinate her nerves.

I take the tarot cards out from under my mattress and kiss the top of the deck, close my eyes, and shuffle them gently,
asking for insight. I pull one card and turn it over.
The Fool
. I used to hate this card. It reminded me of how everyone in the family was always telling me I didn’t have a lick of common sense and that I had a foolish heart. But I’ve learned from
Tanya Marie’s Enlightened Guide to Astrology and the Tarot
that the Fool doesn’t mean dumb-ass like I first thought. A koan from the book pops into my head:
A fool is not brave, but has no fear
. Koans really give me brain cramps, but I love how they’re paradoxical and can’t be grasped by the intellect. I adore the Fool’s wild yellow hair and fancy clothes, and how the figure looks as much like a girl as a boy. I believe it’s a girl. She carries a white rose of faith in one hand; in the other she holds a small black box that has every answer in it. A gray, wolfy-looking animal is her guide, and leads her from one opening door to another as they streak across the universe.

A fool is not brave, but has no fear
. Maybe it means that a fool needs to be neutral in the courage department. Maybe it means I shouldn’t be afraid to lose—
or to win—
the spelling bee. I’m not afraid either way. Victory runs deep in my arteries.

I decide on a winning outfit. I put on my purple vest and stick the Fool card in my pocket. I pull out my new white cotton slacks and put them on. For good luck I put on my red cowgirl boots and tuck my pants inside them. I cram Daddy’s purple rabbit’s foot into my pocket and grab my
SPELLER NO.
17 sign and place it around my neck. Someone knocks on the door and I open it.

“Hi, you ready to go to the torture chamber?” Janine asks. She’s wearing the cutest pair of green overalls.

“Just a minute.” I tell Mama I’m going on down with Janine, and she wishes me good luck. I rush over to Mrs. Harrison’s room and let her know what I’m doing. She says for me to spell my heart out.

I hook my arm through Janine’s and we walk down the hall and wait for the elevator. “I love your overalls.”

“Thank you. Made them myself.”

“I made this. It’s reversible.” I open my vest and show her it’s red on the inside.

We get inside the elevator and it whooshes down to the fifth floor and picks up Speller No. 51, a halfway cute boy with beaver teeth. His daddy’s eyelids look like they’ve been propped up with toothpicks for weeks. Janine and I say good morning. The daddy stands behind his son and starts giving him a neck massage. The boy shrugs his shoulders, but the man keeps massaging them as if he’s a dumb robot. Through gritted teeth the boy says, “Please—stop—now.” The father removes his hands and holds them behind his back.

On the next floor the six-foot-tall redheaded girl from Georgia gets on and smiles at us, while trying to hide her shiny braces. The elevator opens onto the lobby floor, which is crowded with spellers and their families. Reporters and photographers mill around, asking questions and taking pictures. The crowd starts disappearing into the large ballroom down the hall. My heart is racing. My hands are sweating. My feet feel itchy. If I had time, I’d go turn some cartwheels.

“Let’s go find our places on the stage,” Janine says, and grabs my hand.

I tell her to go ahead, I need to do a nerve-check first. She pulls her grandmother’s heirloom brooch out of her pocket and asks me if I brought my rabbit’s foot. I pull out my rabbit’s foot and say, “May the luckiest person win!”

She wishes me good luck and walks away. I look at the watch Mrs. Harrison gave me to keep myself synchronized with the schedule. It’s a Timex with a groovy white leather band. Twelve minutes to go.

Outside, I walk on a pretty pebbled path on the hotel grounds. The sun is shining and the air feels light and perfect to breathe. I breathe in slowly and deeply, then empty my lungs completely. When it’s done right, breathing is an amazing thing. I read about a group of people called Breatharians, who get all the nutrition they need from the air. Somehow, they convert breath into energy that provides the necessary nutrition. They drink water and all, but aren’t bothered with having to chew food and digest it. Maybe one day I’ll try that approach. I breathe in slowly, deeply, and hold it for fifteen seconds, then exhale slowly and deeply until my lungs are empty. This air is delicious in Washington, D.C. My head is totally clear.

As I walk into the room, I see Mama and Mrs. Harrison standing over on the other side, looking anxious. When they see me, they wave. I wave back and clomp to the stage, taking my seat in the second row of chairs. I am the last speller to be seated. I breathe in and breathe out. My blood feels
bubbly and oxygenated. My ears are perked up to hear silent consonants and tricky vowels. The announcer talks about the agenda and the rules, and then introduces the moderator again, who’s as handsome as Mr. Harrison. His hair is thick and black and wavy. Plus, he has real sparkly eyes.

Reggie Somebody-eski, a fourteen-year-old boy from Minnesota, goes to the microphone. The moderator pronounces the first word:
spatiotemporal
. Reggie asks for a definition.
Belonging to both space and time
. He spells it
s-p-a-t-e-o-t-e-m-p-o-r-a-l
. The bell sounds and the moderator spells it correctly. Reggie hangs his head and walks from the stage.

I breathe deeply, feeling lucky as hell not to be Reggie. Another speller stands, spells
tylosis
. The next speller, Missy from Oregon, misspells
usucaption
and walks off the stage. Janine stands erect and proud, clutching her dead grandma’s cameo. The moderator says, “Pococurante.” Janine crunches her shoulders up to her ears. “Will you repeat the word, please?”

“Pococurante
.”

“P-o-c—”
She stops, then starts over.
“P-o-c-o-c-c-u-r-a-n-t-y,”
she says, with a question mark at the end.

“Oh, no,” Janine’s mother blurts out from the front row, looking all pop-eyed. The bell sounds and the moderator spells the word correctly. Janine smiles bravely and tiptoes off the stage in her pink baby-doll shoes.

Next,
commentatorial
is misspelled. Suddenly, my bladder grabs my attention, but I practice conscious breathing and it seems better. Tommy Ludinsky spells
gummiferous
correctly, flexes his right bicep before returning to his seat. The next two contestants misspell
cauterant
and
uterectomy
.

Holy moly
. It’s my turn. I walk to the microphone. I breathe in and out. My legs feel strong, my boots rooted to the floor.