The Fabled Fifth Graders of Aesop Elementary School (11 page)

“Are you nervous?” Missy asked Amisha. Along with some of the other fifth graders, Missy had come to cheer Amisha on.

“N-o,”
replied Amisha. She lifted her chin. “I’m a spelling goddess.”

“Maybe,” said Ham, “but you have some stiff competition.” He pointed to the other contestants lining up onstage. “Isn’t that Rex Lexicon, the third-grade whiz kid from Petronius?”

“Yeah,” said Jackie, “and there’s Dorcas Wordsworth, aka the Great Wordini. She’s won this competition two years in a row.”

“Don’t forget about little Mikey Mapes,” added Calvin. “He may be only five years old, but he’s a genius. I hear he’s going to Harvard next year.”

“Oh,
p-l-e-a-s-e,”
drawled Amisha. “Not one of them can hold a candle to my orthographic brilliance.”

“Huh?” said Ham.

“Her good spelling,” translated Stanford.

“Oh,” said Ham. “I get it.” He thought a moment. “But can you spell it?”

“
O-r-t-h-o-g-r-a-p-h-i-c b-r-i-l-l-i-a-n-c-e,”
speed-spelled Amisha.

Ham whistled. “I’m impressed.”

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” Amisha said smugly.

“Well said!” exclaimed Victoria.

“It’s true,” continued Amisha. “I’m better than anyone else on that stage.” She puffed out her chest. “Do you think Rex Lexicon can spell
crepuscule
? I can.”

She stuck her nose into the air.

“Do you think Dorcas Wordsworth knows the language of origin for the word
flibbertigibbet
? I do.”

She plastered a haughty look onto her face.

“Do you think little Mikey Mapes can even reach the microphone?”

Her friends shook their heads.

“Well, I can,” declared Amisha.

At that moment, Mr. Jupiter—wearing a long black robe and a powdered wig in honor of his position as a judge—stepped up to the microphone. “All contestants, please report to the stage. All contestants to the stage, please.”

“See you in the winner’s circle,” said Amisha. And with her nose still pointed at the ceiling, she strutted toward certain victory and …

 … straight into Miss Turner’s bulging book bag.

Amisha tripped. She stumbled. She careened—off balance and arms flailing—across the stage, knocking over the microphone …

SQUEAK!

The audience slapped their hands over their ears.…

 … bumping into the judges’ table …

THUMP!

Mrs. Struggles snatched at the dictionaries sliding onto the floor.

 … plowing into little Mikey Mapes …

SMASH!

“Mommy!” wailed the five-year-old.

 … before landing with a loud
THUD!
flat on her face.

In the audience, kids laughed.

Parents looked concerned.

Teachers rushed forward to help.

Stunned and red-faced, Amisha scrambled to her feet.

“Are you all right?” asked Mr. Jupiter. He patted her shoulder. “Is anything bruised?”

Just my pride
, thought Amisha.

But she shook her head and stammered, “I’m—I’m … fine.”

Mr. Jupiter nodded. “Then take your seat, please.”

Amisha hobbled over to her chair and took her place between Rex and Dorcas. Waves of humiliation crashed over her, washing away her confidence. She no longer felt like a spelling goddess. She felt like a sweaty-palmed contestant instead.

She turned to Rex. “Are you nervous?”

“M-e?”
Rex snorted. “Never.”

She turned to Dorcas. “Are
you
nervous?”

“N-o,”
said Dorcas with a roll of her eyes.
“I’m
the Great Wordini.”

Amisha fidgeted in her chair. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and her stomach fluttered faster than Mr. Jupiter’s motorized swim fins. To calm herself, she spelled
crepuscule
over and over in her head.

The kid from Marcus Aurelius went first.

“Your word is
nonplussed,”
said Mr. Jupiter. “Gus was
nonplussed
by the fuss made by Russ.
Nonplussed.”

The kid didn’t hesitate.
“N-o-n-p-l-u-s-s-e-d,”
he answered.

“Correct,” said Mr. Jupiter.

Smiling, the kid returned to his seat.

Next up was little Mikey Mapes. He climbed onto a stool and leaned into the microphone.

“Please spell
nausea,”
said Mr. Jupiter. “Spelling bees can cause
nausea. Nausea.”

Mikey thought a moment.
“N-a-u-s-e-a,”
he finally answered.

Mr. Jupiter smiled and nodded.

Hopping off his stool, Mikey skipped back to his seat.

Rex was next.

“Watch and learn,” he whispered to Amisha before stepping up to the microphone.

“Your word is
doodlesack,”
said Mr. Jupiter. “Angus
MacTavish refers to his bagpipes as a
doodlesack. Doodlesack.”

Rex puffed out his chest.
“D-o-o-d-l-s-a-c-k,”
he speed-spelled. He shot the judges a smug look.

“No, I’m sorry, that’s incorrect,” said Mr. Jupiter.

“But … but …,” began Rex.

“Please step off the stage,” said Mr. Jupiter.

Looking like he had been slapped, Rex slumped away.

Dorcas was next.

“Now you’ll see how the
great
ones do it,” she whispered to Amisha. She approached the microphone.

“Your word is
flocculence,”
said Mr. Jupiter. “
Flocculence
should never be confused with flatulence.
Flocculence.”

“That’s soooo easy,” drawled Dorcas. “I, the Great Wordini, spell words like that in my sleep.”

“Then spell it, please,” said Mr. Jupiter.

Dorcas rolled her eyes.
“F-l-a-t-u-l-e-n-c-e.”
She smirked at the judges. “See? I told you so. I don’t stink.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Jupiter. “That’s incorrect.”

“What?” shrieked Dorcas.

“Please step off the stage,” said Mr. Jupiter.

“But I’m the Great Wordini!” cried Dorcas. “I always win the spelling bee.”

“Not this year,” said Mr. Jupiter.

Furious, Dorcas stomped offstage.

It was Amisha’s turn.

Gulping, she stepped up to the microphone and faced the judges.

“Your word is
orthographic,”
said Mr. Jupiter. “Spelling bee contestants are very
orthographic. Orthographic.”

In the audience, Amisha’s friends grinned at one another.

“She knows this one,” whispered Missy.

“And watch her flaunt it,” Victoria whispered back.

But Amisha didn’t flaunt it. Standing in the spotlight, her heart pounding and her stomach fluttering, she could barely contain her nervousness. Crossing her legs and bouncing from foot to foot, she slowly, carefully began to spell.
“O-r-t
 … um … um … 
h-o-g-r
 … ah … ah … 
a-p-h-i
 … ummm … 
c
?”

“That’s correct,” said Mr. Jupiter.

Relief washed over her.

Mr. Jupiter grinned. “You may return to your seat.”

And so the bee went. Word after word. Contestant after contestant.

The speller from Socrates went down in the second round.

But not Amisha.

The speller from Cicero went down in the fourth round.

But not Amisha.

The spellers from Homer, Petronius, and Caesar went down in the seventh round.

But not Amisha.

By the tenth round, only Amisha and little Mikey Mapes remained onstage.

Mikey climbed onto his stool and leaned toward the microphone.

“Your word is
beriberi,”
said Mr. Jupiter. “Strawberries are good, but
beriberi
is bad.
Beriberi.”

Mikey shot Amisha a triumphant look before spelling,
“b-e-r-r-y-b-e-r-r-y.”

“No, that’s incorrect,” said Mr. Jupiter.

“Mommy!” wailed Mikey. He ran offstage.

Mr. Jupiter turned to Amisha. “If you can spell this next word, you will be our new district-wide spelling champion. Are you ready?”

Amisha took a deep, calming breath and nodded.

“Your word is
crepuscule,”
said Mr. Jupiter.
“Crepuscule
is a word always used in spelling bees.
Crepuscule.”

Amisha wanted to laugh at the easiness of the word. She wanted to show off by speed-spelling. But then Miss Turner’s book bag caught her eye. Slowly, methodically—no flash, no sass—Amisha spelled,
“C-r-e-p-u-s-c-u-l-e.”

“That’s correct!” cried Mr. Jupiter. “Amisha Spelwadi, you are the new district-wide spelling champion!”

The audience cheered.

The superintendent presented Amisha with a bee-shaped medal, then posed for a few quick photographs before racing back to her office.

And Amisha’s friends crowded onstage to congratulate her.

“You
are
a spelling goddess,” squealed Missy. “You really are!”

Amisha blushed. “Naw,” she said. “I’m just a fifth grader who can
s-p-e-l-l.”

   
MORAL: False confidence is the forerunner of misfortune
.

TOWARD THE END OF MAY—AS HE HAD
every single Friday morning since the beginning of the school year—Mr. Jupiter said, “Let’s begin by reviewing some American history. I trust everyone read last night’s assignment?”

As always, Ashlee A. bit her lip.

Ashley Z. tapped his pencil.

Calvin quickly looked at Stanford.

“Stop!” cried Stanford, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. “I didn’t read it, okay? I was busy studying something else, so I didn’t read it. Geez!”

Mr. Jupiter sighed. “Didn’t anyone read their American history last night?”

Lenny’s hand shot into the air. “I did!”

“You did?” said Mr. Jupiter. He waited for the punch line.

It never came. Instead, Lenny said, “It’s taken me most of the school year, but I’ve read the
whole
book. And you know what? History isn’t half bad.”

“It isn’t?” said Calvin.

“Actually, it’s kind of exciting,” continued Lenny.

Mr. Jupiter nodded. “Why don’t you tell us what you learned, Leonard.”

“Well,” said Lenny, “it all began when the British put a tax on stamps. Boy, this made Americans so mad, they wanted to lick them. They were still steaming about that stamp tax when the British took away America’s favorite drink. ‘Give us liber-tea or give us death!’ cried the Americans. Even dogs took to the street in protest, an event we now call the Boston Flea Party.”

“Wait a second, Leonard,” interrupted Mr. Jupiter.

But Lenny was on a historic roll. “So the leaders of the American colonies—those guys in wigs and three-cornered hats—decided to declare themselves free from England and George the Third’s cruel rule.”

“Very accurate,” complimented Mr. Jupiter.

“Go on,” urged Calvin, leaning forward. “What happened next?”

“England didn’t want the colonies to be free, so there was a war.”

Bruce rubbed his hands together with glee. “I love war stories.”

“Get this,” confided Lenny. “The whole American Revolution is a war story.”

“Who knew?” said Bruce.

“It’s all right here,” said Mr. Jupiter, tapping the history text.

The fifth graders ignored him.

“Tell the rest,” pleaded Calvin.

“So the wigged guys said ‘Rats!’ to the British and called up George Washington at his house, Mount Vermin, and asked him to lead the American army.”

“Mount Vernon,” corrected Mr. Jupiter.

Lenny was too absorbed in his story to hear. “George Washington was one fierce army dude, even if he did have hippo teeth. He power-slammed the entire British army—sometimes called Tories—straight into the Atlantic Ocean. He was helped by some Massachusetts Minutemaids.”

“I believe you mean minute
men,”
said Mr. Jupiter.

“In one famous battle, George Washington crossed the Delaware River,” Lenny went on.

“Why did he cross the river?” asked Bruce.

“To get to the other side,” answered Lenny.

“Actually,” began Mr. Jupiter, “the Battle of Trenton was important because—”

Lenny cut him off. “And you want to hear the weirdest part?”

Heads around the room nodded eagerly.

“Birds—lots and lots of them—took part in the Revolution.”

“What?”
exclaimed Mr. Jupiter.

“It’s true,” said Lenny. “I read it on Chickipedia.”

Mr. Jupiter waved his hands. “No, no, no!” he cried. “That’s completely untrue. How many times have I told you not to trust online sources? Believe me, birds took no part in the Revolution.”

“What about Patrick
Hen-
ry, John
Jay
, Benjamin Frank-
loon
?” said Lenny.

Mr. Jupiter looked at him, bewildered.

“So then what happened?” said Calvin.

“The Patriots (that’s us) trounced the Redcoats (that’s them) in a close war. The Patriots almost lost a couple times, but after a last-minute surge, they beat the Redcoats. The final score was eighty-nine battles to eighty-seven battles.”

The fifth graders whooped triumphantly.

And Ashlee A. and Ashleigh B. leaped to their feet.

“Ready?” cheered Ashlee A.

“Okay!” cheered Ashleigh B.

Then, stomping and clapping, they cried:

“I’m thrilled by your enthusiasm,” Mr. Jupiter shouted above the cheering, “but I’d like to redirect the lesson to—”

Lenny cut him off again. “Let me teach you a song I learned last night,” he told the others. “It’s from the Revolution.”

Minutes later the students—and guinea pigs—were singing:

Mr. Jupiter shrugged. “They may not have the
full
scope of history yet,” he said to himself, “but it’s a start. Yes, it’s definitely a start.”

   
MORAL: Little by little does the trick
.