Spelldown (20 page)

“For-ti-tud-e-nus.”
The moderator pronounces each syllable.

I close my eyes, roll the sounds around on my mind’s tongue. I see the Latin word
fortitudo
. “May I hear the word used in a sentence, please?”

“The soldier was fortitudinous in the face of immense danger.”

I breathe in and breathe out, then say,
“F-o-r-t-i-t-u-d-in-o-u-s.”

The bell does not ring.
Thank you, wounded Jesus
. I walk back to my chair, sit down, and wiggle my toes in my boots. The urge to pee comes back. I squeeze my thighs tighter together.

The cute shaggy-haired boy from Phoenix gets the word
selachoid
. He misspells it, then shuffles off the stage in his squeaky tan loafers. The girl from Biloxi misspells
microstomatous
, after learning that it means having an extremely small mouth. I’m not nearly as nervous as I was at the South Carolina bee. This breathing in and breathing out really relaxes my frilly nerves.

All of a sudden, I get that weird feeling that somebody is staring at me. I look around the room until I see a man sitting in an aisle seat in the fourth row. His hat is cocked
down on his head so low I can’t see his eyes, but he has pretty teeth like Daddy’s and he’s smiling at me. The skin on my scalp gets the prickles. Now is not the time to get sidetracked on whether my daddy miraculously transported himself all the way from Winding Springs, so I force myself to turn my attention back to the spelling bee.

Veronica from Iowa steps to the microphone with a calm face, her bladder obviously empty.

“Verisimilitude
,” the moderator says, his voice as smooth and fizzy as an ice cream float.

“May I have the definition, please?” Veronica asks.

“Having the appearance of truth,” the moderator says.

Veronica begins to spell.
“V-e-r-i—”
Then she stops.

Six-syllable words can be very tough, especially verisimilitude, with those four short i syllables right there together like that.

“V-e-r-i-s-i-m-i—,”
she says, and then genuflects before spelling the rest of the word correctly.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the moderator says, “we are entering the final round. Our three finalists are Tommy Ludinsky, from Trenton, New Jersey; Karlene Bridges, from Red Clover, South Carolina; and Veronica Baker, from Iowa City, Iowa.”

The audience claps enthusiastically. My bladder is nearly stretched beyond its limits. I imagine pee running down my legs into my boots.

“Now, Mr. Ludinsky, will you please step forward?” the moderator says.

Tommy walks to the microphone.

“Fabaitious,”
the moderator says.

Tommy lifts his head and stares at the ceiling as if the word might appear. After what seems like forever, the moderator says, “Mr. Ludinsky?”

“Uh, excuse me. May I have the definition, please?”

“Having the nature of a bean; like a bean.”

Tommy pushes his hands deep into his pockets, rises on his toes, and rocks back down. He pronounces the word, then says,
“F-a-b-a-i-t-o-u-s?”

The bell rings and the moderator spells the word correctly. Tommy walks down and sits beside his daddy, stretching his legs out like a cowboy. My eyes wander over to the mystery man’s chair. His hat is off now. He is not one bit handsome. It is definitely not Daddy.

Veronica walks to the microphone in her expensive white sandals. The moderator rolls his thick neck and pronounces,
“Lachrymosity.”

“May I have the definition, please?” Veronica’s big toe flicks up and down, then starts wrestling the toe beside it.

“Tearfulness,” the moderator says.

“L-a-c-h-r-y-m-o-s-i-t-y.”
Veronica steps aside, knowing she’s right.

I sit in my chair, breathing in, breathing out, transfixed by the grand chandelier hanging above the audience. My whole being is focused on that single crystal tear hanging at the bottom.

“Miss Bridges?”

“Uh, I’m sorry,” I say when I get to the microphone. “I really, really need to go to the bathroom. May I?”

The crowd teeters and giggles. The officials whisper among themselves, and then the moderator announces, “You have five minutes, Miss Bridges. If you have to take more than that, you will be disqualified.”

“Thank you.” I proceed off the stage with my head held high.

A few people snicker as I pass them. Dumb-asses. The bathroom is empty, so I rush into a stall and pee like a racehorse. Then I splash cold water on my face and wink at the girl in the fancy mirror while drying our face with a fluffy white hand towel.

Give me victory or give me death
, I chant to myself as I march back into the room and take my place in front of the microphone. “Thank you so much for your patience.”

“You’re welcome. Will you please spell________?” The moderator says a word that sounds like clave-us-in-ist.

“May I have the definition, please?”

“Harpsichordist,” he replies.

Holy damn moly
. “Will you please repeat the word?” I ask, looking over at Mama and Mrs. Harrison.

He pronounces it again and I spell it like it sounds:
“C-l-a-v-u-s-i-n-i-s-t.”

The bell rings. Mama falls on her knees in the aisle. Mrs. Harrison wraps her arms around herself and hugs hard.

“Veronica, will you please come to the microphone?” the moderator says.

Ever so slowly, Veronica walks to the microphone.

“Will you please spell clave-us-in-ist?”

Veronica pronounces it, and then spells
“C-l-a-v-u-c-i-n-i-s-t.”

The bell rings. Thanks be to God.

The moderator spells the word correctly and says, “Miss Bridges, will you please spell rectilineal?”

Neon letters flash in my mind and I say them: “R-
e-c-t-i-l-i-n-e-a-l.”

No bell, so I step aside.

Veronica steps up and the moderator pronounces a word.
“E-clee-zee-ul.”

“May I have the definition, please?” Veronica sounds like she’s been alive for two hundred years.

“Of or pertaining to the church.”

She spells
e-c-c-l-e-i-s-h-a-l
in a dull, monotone voice.

The bell rings. Veronica steps aside, humming to herself.

I crack the knuckle of my right middle finger, and then spell the word
e-c-c-l-e-s-i-a-l
.

“That is correct. Now, will you please spell
surreptitiousness?”

I close my eyes and pronounce it silently, sounding out all five syllables. “May I have the definition, please?” My eyes are still closed.

The moderator says, “An act done in stealth or secrecy.”

I open my eyes and breathe deeply, mesmerized by the
huge shimmering chandelier hanging above the audience. But then my eyes focus on that one brilliant low-hanging crystal tear until I melt into it. I look out through its magic glass at the glittering facets of the girl standing on the stage, whose smile grows broader and whose voice grows louder with each letter she says:
“S-u-r-r-e-p-t-i-t-i-o-u-s-n-e-s-s.”

The ballroom explodes with applause. Flashbulbs burst, their light bounces off the crystal being I have become. The moderator pronounces Karlene Bridges, the girl on the stage, as the National Spelling Champion. Mama and Mrs. Harrison hug each other like long-lost sisters. A hundred cherry bombs burst me out of the crystal tear. My hands reach high above, and then they touch the floor. My body twirls through the air as if I am weightless. One cartwheel, then another—and another, and then I set my lucky red boots down on the stage. And with a happy flourish of my hand, I bow completely, and then lift my head, grinning like a fool who just swallowed a rainbow.

1: native

2: innate; inborn

3: having originated in, or occurring naturally in a particular place

Saturday afternoon, I’m sitting beside Mama in the backseat of Mr. Harrison’s Cadillac, pretending to be asleep. Thank God, we’re almost home. All this yakkety-yak about the experience makes me feel like a chewed-up bone. Mama is pontificating about the White House. Something about curtains. Yesterday, after we got our private tour, she beamed for hours. We didn’t get to meet President Nixon and the First Lady because they’re in Southeast Asia, but the White House was spectacular. It didn’t have a family atmosphere at all, though, which surprised me; but the Nixons just moved in a few months ago, and they probably haven’t gotten around to making it into a home. The Oval Office was huge and magnificent, but it felt empty to me, as if all the history had been sucked out of it. Plus, I kept having visions of John-John and Caroline and Jackie horsing around with President Kennedy, which gave me goose bumps.

“Here, let me show you,” Mama says.

I sneak a sideways peek as she pulls out her tattered
White House Tour Guide
and opens it to a photo of President Kennedy sitting in the Oval Office. She hands the booklet to Mrs. Harrison in the front seat. “Look at those gorgeous curtains Jackie put up for the President. They’re made out of some kind of thick velvet material and fit the windows perfectly. Those flimsy things Mrs. Nixon put up look like they’re made out of fiberglass and came straight from the Sears catalogue.”

Mrs. Harrison shows Mr. Harrison the picture and he glances back at Mama. “You have quite an eye for detail, Mrs. Bridges.”

“Honey, you don’t know the half of it.” Mrs. Harrison bursts out laughing.

Mama laughs along for a few seconds, and then says, “I know it might sound silly, but curtains make all the difference in the world.”

Mrs. Harrison hands the guide back to Mama. “Lila Bridges, you are one unusual lady.” She winks at me. “And you’ve raised one wonderfully peculiar daughter. I can’t recall a time I’ve enjoyed more.”

“I appreciate everything you did to make it happen, Amanda,” Mama says. “It was the best trip of my life.” She gives me a nudge to speak up.

“Ditto,” I say, closing my happy eyes. “Ditto, ditto, ditto.”

As we drive into Red Clover, there’s some kind of ruckus going on at the Shirley County Courthouse. Sounds like a pep rally. Mr. Harrison stops the car at the front of
the courthouse, where a large banner is strung above the second-floor landing:
HOME OF THE
1969
NATIONAL SPELLING CHAMPION.
Mr. Harrison walks around, opens my door, and bows as if I’m Karlene the Majestic.

“Thank you, my dear, kind sir.” I grin at him and step onto the sidewalk.

The Red Clover high school band members are standing in formation on the lawn. The band is playing one of those romping John Philip Sousa marches. A big crowd has gathered.

Mr. Barrineau, my principal, and Mayor Melton walk toward me looking like they’re about to greet the Queen of Sheba. The principal congratulates me and Mayor Melton comes over in his John Wayne hat, puts his arm around my shoulder, and escorts me over to the circular courtyard. A reporter from Channel 9 holds the microphone in front of the mayor.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we come here today to welcome and congratulate Karlene Bridges, one of our outstanding young citizens, on becoming the National Spelling Champion.” The audience claps and whistles. When the applause ends, the mayor says, “Karlene, on behalf of Red Clover, I proclaim today to be Karlene Bridges Day, and ask you to join us in a celebration of your victory.” Then he places a bouquet of red roses in my arms, and a microphone is thrust within an inch of my lips.

I swallow the lump in my throat, take a deep breath, and say, “I deeply appreciate the kindness and support I have
received from all of you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!” I bow deeply. The blood pounds against my temples. I rise quickly and the whole world spins. I see the twins and Gloria Jean and Wendell and feel their arms around me. Miss Sophia comes up next and squeezes the breath out of me like she’s my long-lost fairy godmother. Preacher Smoot rushes over and about shakes my hand off.

A sparking clean Royal taxi pulls up to the curb and Kelly honks the horn three times. He steps out of the car, waves both arms above his head, and starts making his way through the crowd. He stops when he gets to Mama and the Harrisons over by the statue of a Confederate soldier, and the four of them stand there, talking like the best of friends.

“Hey, genius,” familiar lips whisper, barely touching my earlobe.

Standing there in front of me is Billy Ray Jenkins, who smells like a fresh-picked apple I’d like to bite into this very minute. The thought of it makes me swoon.

“Hey, yourself,” I say in a girly-girl voice.

He sees my lucky boots and grins at me as if he were looking at the cutest, most hilarious girl on Earth.

1: the making of myths and legends

Rich Hill looks like a homier kind of town than Red Clover. Maybe it’s the giant pink geraniums in window boxes along Main Street. Or maybe it’s all the interesting-looking antique shops, or the ornate traffic lights on the street corners. Gloria Jean turns onto Myrtle Avenue, spots a small white Winding Springs sign, and parks her new baby blue Mustang in the nearly empty parking lot. She opens the trunk and Mama grabs the handle of the manly-looking goody basket we put together last night for Daddy.

The center is a one-story building that looks like it was painted white a long time ago but most of the paint has worn off, exposing the red bricks underneath. A tall aluminum building that looks like a gymnasium stands in a nice green field out back. As we walk to the front door, Mama oohs and aahs over the red, white, and blue petunias growing along the walkway. I did not expect such a perky place. We open the door, a bell tingles, and a voice calls out hello from behind the counter.

Mama says hello to the unknown voice. A handsome-looking woman pops up from behind the counter. She has curly black hair with a touch of gray in places. Huge silver
hoops hang from her ears. “Good afternoon, ladies, welcome to Winding Springs.”

“Good afternoon. We’re glad to be here,” Mama says.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Mrs. Bridges, would you?”