Spelldown (3 page)

“Desi and Deidre—sounds like a circus act!” Mrs. Harrison says, then tosses him a red jelly bean that hits him in the chest and bounces on the floor. “Here’s another one.” She flings an orange one, which he catches.

“I’m Becky Miller and I plan to be a lawyer one day.”

“Well, bless your
habeas corpus
, Becky.” A yellow jelly bean flies through the air and Becky catches it.

“Hi, my name is Andrea Williams and I play the French horn in the Red Clover Marching Band.”

“Watch out for those drummers! Trust me, I married one.” Mrs. Harrison walks over to Andrea’s desk and shakes a few jelly beans into her upturned palm.

Tommy Baker says he plans to be a United States Marine.
Mrs. Harrison stands at attention and salutes. “
Semper fidelis
, son.
Semper fidelis.”
Then she pours him a handful.

I’m usually the first one to speak up, but I’m nervous as a tick. Mrs. Harrison has a large personality like Preacher Smoot—loud and boisterous and certain about things. It’s thrilling just to be around her, but I don’t know what to say. Definitely nothing corny about my family or church.

All of a sudden, my mouth opens. “Hi, my name is Karlene Kaye Bridges. I’m an Aquarius and I plan to win the Shirley County Spelldown this year.”

“Well, Karlene, bless your lucky stars. Let me know if you need a coach. Spelling is one of my predilections.” She stops beside my desk. “What flavor do you like?”

“I prefer licorice.”

“Me, too. You must be a freak!” She holds the bag open.

I pick out three black ones. “Thank you very much.”

“How about the rest of you? Anyone else interested in winning the Shirley County Spelldown?”

Desi and Andrea raise their hands.

“Terrific! We can form a spelling squadron. If you’re interested, I’ll be your coach. Who’s next?”

Alan the Beautiful introduces himself and says he plans to win a basketball or tennis scholarship to Clemson University.

“So, Mr. Smith, you are the ambitious type—I like that in a young man.” She holds open the bag and he takes a few.

Peggy Greer says she’s half Catawba Indian and wants to become a doctor.

“Well, Miss Greer, I’m half Martian,” Mrs. Harrison
teases. “Latin will come in handy when you study medicine.” Mrs. Harrison doles out more jelly beans, walks to the front of the room, and puts the candy in her desk drawer.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to the abiding principle of this class.” She picks up a piece of chalk and writes big block letters across the board, pronouncing the words as they appear:

Then she writes
Cor ad cor loquitur
on the board. “Does anyone know what that means?”

“Can you give us a hint?” Desi asks. She walks up to him, places her right hand over her heart, then places it gently over his.

“Heart to heart,” I yell out.

“That’s close, Eager One.” She underlines
loquitur
. “Heart
speaks
to heart. Now, please repeat after me. Heart speaks to heart.”

“Heart speaks to heart,” I proclaim. Some students look perplexed, as if they can’t figure out what she’s selling. I don’t care what it is. I’m buying every breath of it. At least she’s not stumbling over words or acting like she has a corncob stuck up her fanny.

“Please be seated,” she says, then circles
HABIT
on the board. “Now, little dearies, all you have to do is acquire the
HABIT of excellence. There are four simple rules for doing this.” She reads them as she writes them on the board:

She strolls around the classroom, challenging us to become Daredevils in the Pursuit of Knowledge. She lifts each student’s chin and looks them square in the eye, saying something to each of us about being a miracle. “You are not a mushroom—you are a human being. You are meant to be wise. You are a miracle. I am a miracle. We are all miracles. It’s a scientific fact—you are unique. You are one of a kind. There never has been anyone like you. There never will be anyone like you.” When she gets to me, she says, “You are an original.”

Then Mrs. Harrison walks to the front of the class and starts talking about “the glory that was once Rome,” throwing out Latin phrases like jelly beans—calling herself our
alma mater—
telling us we have a choice between an
annus horribilis
or an
annus mirabilis
. She writes
Vivat, crescat, floreat!
on the board—commanding us to live, grow, and flourish as though there were no other choice. She says that
it’s a privilege to be our teacher. She writes
lusus naturae
on the board and confesses that’s what she is: a freak of nature! Andrea looks over at me and shrugs her shoulders, but her eyes are dazzled, as if she’s been watching a trapeze artist fly from swing to swing.

Finally, Mrs. Harrison points to a Smokey the Bear sign with
SOLUM POTESTIS PROHIBERE IGNES SILVARUM
written along the bottom, and says, “Anybody know what this means?”

“Only you can prevent forest fires!” we all yell like first graders.

“Just like I thought. A pack of geniuses!”

“What about homework?” Desi asks.

“Your homework each night is to reflect upon your teacher’s brilliance, study your notes, and go over the vocabulary words for the next day. Every Monday, you need to bring in a list of five Latin phrases that you find interesting. The phrases must come from two different sources. That will force you sly coyotes to crack open something besides your textbook. I’ve put some books on hold at the Shirley County Library for the semester.”

After the bell rings, Mrs. Harrison stands at the door, challenging everyone to
Carpe diem!
as they leave. Most of the students seem enthralled by her, like me, but a few of them look scared or perplexed or both. I lag behind on purpose so I can speak to her if I muster up the courage. Mrs. Harrison is the precise opposite of Mrs. Helms, a.k.a. Madame Blah-blah-blah, who has the unique burden of teaching me history for the second year in a row.

“I enjoyed your class,” I say when I reach the door.

“I enjoyed it too.” She laughs.

“Mrs. Harrison, if you ever need a babysitter, I am the absolute best.” I write my name and phone number on a piece of notebook paper and hand it to her before I lose my nerve.

“Thank you, Karlene. I’ll keep that in mind. Hey, maybe we could all meet after school tomorrow and talk about the spelling bee.”

“That would be terrific.”

“And don’t worry your clever little head. I am
not
contagious.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” The words come out in a chirpy voice I don’t recognize.

“Well, well, well.” A four-inch grin spreads across her face. “I’m tickled you noticed, Karlene. Real tickled.”

1: a collection of books

A few weeks later, on Saturday morning, I’m sitting at the kitchen table listening to the Lovin’ Spoonful sing that song about believing in the magic in a young girl’s heart and how music can free you up on the inside. It is a groovy song, but it’s not making me feel free at all. I have too much studying to do. I take another gulp of Dixie Darling coffee and pick up my black marker and write the hardest
S
words I can think of on my “S” poster board:
sanctimonious, serendipity, scurrilous, scatological, subterranean, stridulous, schizophrenia, susurration, superannuate
, and
strabismus
, which is the fancy name for being cross-eyed. The phone rings and I run to the living room and pick it up.

“Hey, Karlene, this is Mrs. Harrison,” she says in her zip-a-dee-doo-dah voice. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve been studying spelling words since four o’clock this morning.”

“Why in Howdy Doody’s name did you get up so early?”

“I kept having this crazy nightmare, so I finally got out of bed, percolated a pot of coffee, and pulled out the dictionary.”

“Tell me about the dream.”

“You really want to know?”

“I absolutely insist,” she says in her pretend indignant voice.

“Okay. Okay, already. If you insist,” I say in my pretend aggravated voice. “In the dream, I am a huge yellow bird flying over a shimmery green ocean. My wings stretch out so far I can’t see where they end. There’s not a speck of land in sight, so I have to keep on flying and flying and flying. My wings ache so bad, I know I am going to fall out of the sky,” I say, feeling out of breath.

“You sound all jazzed up. How many cups of coffee have you had?”

“A couple,” I say.

“Tell me the truth, Jelly Bean.”

“I’m on my fourth.”

“Bless your little pointed head! Pour that coffee down the sink and put that dictionary out of sight. You’re studying too hard! That’s what your bird dream means.”

“But the school bee is next Friday!”

“You are more than ready for the bee, Karlene. Besides, the Spelling Squadron has practice every afternoon next week.”

“But—”

“No buts, Karlene. I order you not to do any spelling today. You understand?

“Yes ma’am.”

“Now that we have that settled—I need a babysitter next Saturday—are you available?”

“I’d love to babysit for you.”

“Jack and I have to leave early on Saturday morning. Do you think you could spend the night on Friday?”

“I think it will be okay. I’ll ask Mama when she comes home from work.”

“That’s fine. Just let me know Monday at school, okay?”

“Okay, Your Craziness,” I say.

“Hey, that’s your title, not mine!”

“Not anymore,” I answer.

“Well, hardy-har-har,” she laughs, and we hang up.

Holy moly. I grab the “R” and “S” poster boards filled with tricky spelling words and thumbtack them to the living room wall. I can’t believe I’m going to babysit for Mrs. Harrison. I can’t believe I told her about my crazy dreams. The thought of spending the night with the Harrisons makes me feel perky. I pick up the phone and call Royal Taxi.

Later, when Kelly pulls into the driveway in his shiny yellow Chevelle, I’m sitting in the porch swing. Before he can get out and open the door for me, I run and plop onto the front seat.

“Where to, Miss Karlene?”

“Could you please take me to Weave Room No. 9?”

“Sure,” he says, backing out of the driveway.

There’s a new elephant carving hanging from the rearview mirror. I rub my finger along the purple swirl in the cedar. “Mmm. Smells fresh. I love how you carved the toenails so distinct like that.”

“Glad you like it.”

Kelly swears his name is Kelly Kelley, but I think he made it up. Last year for school, I had to interview someone about their occupation, so I picked him. Before he started his taxi business, Kelly used to be Colonel High’s chauffeur. He even used to go flying with the colonel in his plane. I guess that’s why he’s so comfortable being around white people. I love how intelligent he is and how confident he looks in those crisp white shirts he wears, and that antique pocket watch he keeps in his black vest. Kelly’s taxi service used to be over on Beale Street, where the blacks have their own separate little town, but a few years ago, he moved it to South Main. At first there was quite a ruckus about it, but Kelly had lots of white friends from the AA program, and they supported him. I sure have learned a lot about alcoholism from him. Plus, he only charges fifty cents each way to take me anywhere I want to go in Red Clover, which is a bargain price for freedom.

“Your daddy came by with the boys this morning on his way to Sadie’s Pond. Said you kicked him out of the house.”

“I had to study my spelling, but with the twins running around, all I can think about is murder.”

He grins at me. “Josh pulled the cork out of the cricket basket and they all got loose in the car.”

“I told you they were incorrigible!”

“Spell that one for me, Miss K.”

“
I-n-c-o-r-r-i-g-i-b-l-e,”
I say as we cross the bridge on First Street and climb the steep hill that leads to the Red Clover Plant of High Cotton Mills. “Mind if I turn on the radio?”

“As long as you don’t play any hillbilly music.”

I turn the radio to WGIV in Charlotte, and Jackie Wilson’s chirping away about how disappointment used to be his only friend, but now he’s got a new lady whose love is lifting him higher and higher. Kelly’s snapping his fingers to the beat.