The Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee
Page 3
Mrs. Trifle considered the idea. “It would give her a chance to redeem herself from the previous failure.”
Coming second in a national spelling bee wasn’t actually a failure, but Holly could feel her mother changing her mind, so she didn’t bother to argue.
“All right. Molly can enter.”
Mrs. Trifle didn’t realize that she’d just called her daughter the wrong name. This was not, as you’ve probably guessed, the first time this had happened. She glared at her youngest child, leaned down, and poked a glossy fingernail against Holly’s chest. “This time, we’ll be there to make sure you don’t blow it.”
Holly froze. “Actually, the competition will only pay for one chaperone, so I was thinking Dad could come with me.”
“It’ll be better if we’re both there,” Mrs. Trifle decided. “We’ll need both of us if we’re going to expand to Britain.”
Holly had to think fast. “What about the business here?”
“Gertrude and Benedict can be in charge.” Mrs. Trifle gazed proudly at her favored children. “They’re more than capable.”
And with that, the Trifles went back to watching their commercial. Again.
Holly shuddered at the idea of her mother coming to the bee. Mrs. Trifle seemed to make it her life’s aim to embarrass her daughter, performing aerobic routines at sports events and doing leg lunges while pushing the shopping cart. She even made the family ride the bus so she could hand Beaut Butts and Guts flyers to the overweight passengers.
Mrs. Trifle was so embarrassing that Holly’s friends had long ago stopped coming over after school in case they got one of her mother’s lectures.
Now she’d have the opportunity to embarrass Holly in another country, on the world stage.
Holly’s initial excitement had almost disappeared, and she wondered if she should even go.
But that made her feel worse.
Staying in her room and reading would save Holly from any embarrassment, but she also knew that being part of the Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee would be a way to meet people who were more like her.
Or even make a friend who might want to hear what she had to say.
4
Namby-pamby
(noun):
A coward, a weakling, a wimp.
They often teased him by calling him a namby-pamby.
In a drab apartment on a dead-end street in Wormwood, England, a child named Peter Eriksson lived with his mom and grandfather.
He sat on his bed, staring at the gray street below. Gray apartment buildings were squished tightly on both sides, and the whole neighborhood was soaked by a steady drizzle of rain.
The boy’s pet lizard, Prince Harry, snuggled on his chest.
“At least he didn’t punch me in the face this time.” The brand-new bruise on Peter’s stomach ached. “I guess that’s something.”
Prince Harry stretched out his neck and nuzzled Peter’s cheek, making him laugh. “If only you were bigger, you’d stand up to him. I know it.”
That day, after school, Peter had been bullied.
Again.
Bruiser had slammed him against the brick wall of the building. There’d been an icy chill to the day, which made the bricks feel even harder and sharper, and Peter knew they’d leave another bruise he’d have to hide from his mom.
The playground was empty, and a cold wind had blown across the yard, kicking up litter. There was something about the way they swirled against the cloud-filled sky that made Peter wish he were a scrap of paper too, so he could float away, light and free.
“Well? What’ve you got to say?”
Peter had been dragged away from his daydream by the tightening grip of Bruiser’s fingers, which had held him by the scruff of his shirt.
“You gonna answer me, Chubby, or not?”
Chubby. That’s what Peter was called at school—even by some of the teachers. They said it with a smile, as if it were a joke, but he never understood why they didn’t realize how much it hurt. At least the bruises faded over time.
“Why didn’t your dad come to the father-son breakfast?”
Every year, the school had a special breakfast for fathers and sons. Every year, Peter’s father never showed up.
Bruiser knew why, but he enjoyed watching Peter squirm as he tried to think of an answer.
The truth was this: it had been eight years since Peter’s father had left.
Two thousand nine hundred and twenty-two days since he had decided Peter and his mom weren’t worth staying around for.
Seventy thousand one hundred and twenty-eight hours since he had walked out the front door, leaving his muddy footprints on the carpet and a giant, father-shaped hole.
Most nights, as Peter lay in bed beneath the glow of the streetlight through his curtains, he thought of his dad. He wondered what he was doing and if he had other kids. He wondered if his dad ever thought about him and his mom, even for just a moment, or maybe on Peter’s birthday.
Every year on his birthday, while his mom was making a special breakfast of pancakes, blackberries, and extra whipped cream, Peter would listen for the clink of the mailbox. When he heard it, his heart raced, and his thoughts ran together in a jumble.
Maybe this was the year his dad would remember.
Maybe this year, he’d send a present.
Maybe he’d apologize for all the other years he hadn’t been able to send presents, because he’d been on great adventures all over the world, in remote locations with no mail carriers to deliver the dozens of letters he’d written, telling Peter how special he was and how he’d soon come back and say he was wrong for leaving, and they’d be a family again.
Every year, Peter would stand at the mailbox, take a deep breath, and open the squeaky lid…only to find it full of bills and flyers for gyms or Chinese restaurants.
Every year.
This was what he had thought about as Bruiser’s thick bucket head and wire-brush hair leaned over him.
“Is it because your dad left after he found out you were a loser?”
Peter had stared at Bruiser’s crooked sneer and done what he always did in these situations. He’d lied.
“He’s a brilliant surgeon, busy saving lives.”
Sometimes Peter’s dad was a firefighter, like his grandpop, other times a paramedic, but he was always a hero.
Peter had known exactly what was coming next.
What always happened.
He’d tensed his stomach, making it as hard as he could before Bruiser landed a punch that had doubled him over and crumbled him to his knees, leaving him gasping for breath.
“Namby-pamby.” Bruiser had chuckled and shuffled away.
Peter had rolled onto his side, the hurtful words ringing in his ears.
Bruiser had called him a namby-pamby from the first day of school. The parents had been invited to the classroom as a special welcoming treat, but when it was time for them to leave, Peter had clung to his mom and cried.
He couldn’t help it. What if she never came back? What if she disappeared like his dad?
Bruiser had waited for her to go before he hissed through a cruel smile, “Namby-pamby.”
It was an insult Bruiser used when he needed to add an extra sting to his punch. And it always worked.
When Peter was able to stand without his stomach hurting too much, he’d begun the slow walk home.
As he’d approached his house, he had seen his grandfather waiting inside the gate. He’d been out of breath and waving something in the air.
Peter had walked faster, worried that something was wrong—that Grandpop was sick, or his mom had been hurt, or…
“Peter, my boy, this arrived for you this morning.” He’d handed over a cream-colored envelope with swirling gold lettering, sealed with a red wax crest.
Peter had taken the envelope. “What do you think it is?”
“We won’t know until you open it, but you’ll have to be quick—my old heart can’t wait much longer.”
Peter had carefully opened the letter. He’d stared at the words on the page.
“It’s…it’s…”
“Yes? Yes?”
“An invitation to…”
“Yes?”
Peter had found it hard to find the words, even though they were right there in front of him.
“The Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee in London.”
“Woo-hoo!” Peter’s grandfather had thrown his fists into the air and swept his arms around his grandson, the letter squished between them. “I knew it was something great. I’ll call your mom. She’ll want to buy something on the way home to celebrate.” He’d hurried to the house and cried out, “My grandson’s going to London!”
Peter had stared at the letter. It wasn’t the one he’d been hoping for all these years, the one that might never arrive, but this one was pretty good. As he’d stood on the path, a twinge of pain gripping his stomach, he’d smiled for the first time that day.
He was going to London.
Peter Eriksson of Dreary Lane, Wormwood, was going to London, far from Bruiser and the taunts of the kids and teachers.
Far from being a namby-pamby.
But there was something else even more important than that.
As Peter sat on his bed in his boring bedroom, stroking Prince Harry, he said, “The Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee is broadcast on TV, so maybe Dad will be watching.”
Peter could see it now. His dad would be at home, having dinner in front of the TV, and he’d recognize something in one of the kids onstage—a dimple, or the way he walked, or the stubborn curl above his forehead that he could never comb down—and maybe, just maybe, he’d know it was his son.
“He’ll see that I’ve grown up to be someone worthwhile, maybe even a champion. Then he’ll have to come back. Don’t you think, Prince Harry?”
The crested gecko placed a foot on Peter’s cheek.
Peter snuggled him even closer and allowed himself another smile.
Maybe this time, his secret birthday wish would come true.
5
Conundrum
(noun):
A quandary, a puzzle, or a really difficult problem.
It was a conundrum they wondered how to solve.
The Wimples sat hunched over their breakfasts. The clanging of spoons into bowls and the crunch of toast were all that could be heard over their melancholy mood.
Mom slurped her tea. Normally in situations where her family was feeling blue, she’d say something to cheer them up, which moms often do in families, but this morning, she couldn’t, no matter how much she tried—not when her daughter was going to miss competing against the best spellers in the world.
India deserved to be there, but how could they afford to make it happen?
Nanna Flo buttered her toast, thinking the same thing, but she also wondered something else. If she hadn’t broken her wrist enthusiastically attempting a yoga move and come to live with the Wimples, they’d have enough money for India to enter. She was sure of it.
She snuck a look at her granddaughter, knowing this was all her fault. What kind of grandmother did that?
Boo pushed his porridge around his bowl. He wouldn’t have agreed with Nanna Flo one bit, because this was all his fault. If he didn’t have asthma, Mom would still be teaching instead of homeschooling him. They’d have more than enough money for all of them to go to London.
But as terrible as they all felt, it was even worse for Dad.
He knew this was definitely his fault.
If only he was the hard-hitting journalist he had once been and not a handyman working for IOUs and secondhand clothes, they would all be going to London. What kind of dad was he when instead of breaking tough stories, he was unclogging toilets? And all while watching his daughter miss one of the most marvelous moments of her life.
Dad’s worst fear was letting his kids down, and here he was, doing just that.
India glanced at her family, knowing their misery was all her fault, and she was determined to cheer them up.
“You know what? I’m OK about not going to London.” This was one of those white lies, of course, but she desperately wanted to wipe the gloominess off their faces. “Really, I’m not disappointed at all.”
It didn’t work. Mostly because the Wimples knew she said it only to make them feel better, which made them all feel a little worse.
What a conundrum.
“Anyone home?” Daryl let himself in the back door. “Just came to say hello to Yungabilla’s newest hero.”
Daryl was in a fine mood, which is why it took him a little longer to realize that something was terribly wrong. He stared at the disappointed looks that swamped their faces.
“OK, what’s wrong?”
No one knew how to break the news to Daryl.
India decided it was up to her. “I’m not going to London.”
“What?!” Daryl’s hands flew into the air. “Why not?”
“The competition will pay for me and one chaperone, and I won’t go if we can’t all go together.”
“But you can’t—”
“I’m sorry, Daryl.” India did her best to sound firm. “I’ve made my decision, and there’s no point trying to change my mind.”
“But I think—”
“I know you mean well,” India interrupted, “but the truth is I only just made it through the Stupendously Spectacular Spelling Bee because my family was with me. How can I possibly choose one person to fly to London with me, knowing I was getting farther and farther away from the others every second? I’m not going, and I won’t be talked out of it.”
India crossed her arms and tried to look as defiant as she could, which wasn’t very defiant, because she wasn’t very good at that kind of thing.
A sly smile rose to Daryl’s lips. “And that, India Wimple, is one reason this family is my favorite of all time. Of course you have to go together! It would be a travesty if you didn’t!” He pulled out a chair and sat with them. “Now all we have to do is come up with an ingenious plan for making it happen.”
“But how?” Dad scratched his head. “We need plane tickets, hotel rooms, cab fare… We don’t have that kind of money, Daryl.”
“Then we’ll find it.”
“Where?” India asked.
“That’s what we’re about to figure out.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket.
Daryl’s enthusiasm made them all feel a little brighter.
“You’re a good egg.” Nanna Flo kissed him on the cheek, and Daryl blushed bright red. “Have been ever since you were a boy.”
Over lots of cups of tea and steady servings of toast and jelly, Daryl and the Wimples came up with an ingenious plan.
• • •
Within twenty-four hours, the townsfolk of Yungabilla were gathered in the town hall. The Country Women’s Association had set up a stall in the back, serving tea and scones with helpings of jam and cream—but no lamingtons—while a rowdy rabble of adults, kids, and animals waited their turn to be photographed.
The plan was this: the entire town would pose for the Yungabilla souvenir calendar, which would be sold online in a crowdfunding campaign that was sure to make a fortune.
Or, at the very least, send the Wimples to London.
E
veryone pitched in, helping out with hair and makeup, arranging the lights and props so that each photograph looked unique and captured the spirit of the town. Dad set up his camera on a tripod, and Mom wrote down the order in which the groups would be photographed, while Nanna Flo used a loudspeaker to make sure everything ran smoothly.
“Thank you, everyone, for supporting India on her way to London,” Nanna’s voice boomed. “This is going to be a roaring success, or I’ll eat my boots for breakfast.”
First up was Farmer Austin, standing proudly beside Bessie, who was wearing her best winter coat and beanie with a freshly picked daisy bobbing from her ear.
Next came Mayor Bob, Mrs. Wild, and the kids from Yungabilla Primary School. They were dressed as Willy Wonka and the Oompa Loompas from last year’s school play.
Gracie Hubbard posed as she was about to eat a spoonful of delicious cheesecake beside Mrs. O’Donnell, who sipped a frothy milkshake. The Country Firefighters wore bright yellow uniforms with a fire hose draped around them like a giant python. The Craft Society wore sweaters and hats they’d knitted themselves, and the local yoga club, led by Nanna Flo, demonstrated their best poses.
For the final photograph, everyone involved stood behind India and held up letters that spelled:
India Wimple
Spelling Champion
Apart from Bessie eating up the last of the scones, it was a great success.
By the time the last of the locals had left the hall, it was well past midnight. Mom and Nanna Flo had driven a sleepy Boo to bed, while Dad and India locked the hall and began to walk home.
“Do you think it’ll work?” India asked.
“Of course it will,” Dad said. “Who wouldn’t want to buy a Yungabilla souvenir calendar? They’ll sell so fast, all you’ll have to worry about is what to pack.”
India felt a shiver of excitement. Maybe she would be going to London after all—and she’d see Rajish.