The Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee

by Deborah Abela

  Her stomach flipped. Not in that nervous, nauseous way that used to happen to India, but like a butterfly had been let loose in her stomach and was flapping its wings wildly.

  As if Dad had been reading her mind, he said, “And you’ll see Rajish again.”

  “Who?” India turned to Dad so quickly that she almost tripped.

  “Rajish.” Dad caught her by the arm. “You know, from the last spelling bee. We went to India on vacation together.”

  India hoped the darkness meant Dad couldn’t see her cheeks, which she knew would be fiery red.

  “Oh, that Rajish.”

  “How many boys called Rajish do you know?”

  “I… We…” India was desperate to change the subject. “You did a great job with the photographs today.”

  “Thanks.” Dad wrapped his arm around India’s shoulder. “It was fun to get behind the camera again. It reminded me how much I enjoyed it.”

  Dad used to work at the local newspaper before it shut down.

  “Do you miss being a journalist?”

  He nodded. “I worked on some really interesting stories.”

  “Like when Yungabilla hosted the National Vanilla Custard Competition, or when the Tivoli sisters turned one hundred and celebrated by skinny-dipping in the lake.”

  Dad laughed. “They caused quite a stir.” He stared off into the distance. “Some things aren’t meant to last, I guess.”

  India knew Dad didn’t quite believe that. “But you were so good at it.”

  Now it was Dad’s turn to change the subject. “Race you home?”

  And before India could answer, he was off.

  “Hey! Not fair! You got a head start.”

  And with that, they ran through the quiet, lamp-lit streets of Yungabilla all the way home.

  6

  Preparation

  (noun):

  Plans, arrangements, and the necessary steps to carry out an idea.

  The preparation for the competition was in full swing.

  When the printed calendars arrived, they were glossy and colorful, and everyone was convinced they were going to be a huge hit.

  Boo put the final touches on the crowdfunding campaign before launching it into the world. All they had to do now was sit back and wait for the orders and donations to roll in. Daryl and the Wimples raised glasses of orange juice to toast its success.

  But after ten days, the total amount raised had inched up to just four hundred dollars, which wasn’t nearly enough to get them to London. Boo knew they needed another angle to make it go national.

  Early one Saturday morning, while Nanna was at yoga, Dad was rebuilding their neighbor Elsie’s chicken coop after her goat had rammed it to pieces, and Mom was delivering Meals on Wheels, Boo knew he had his chance.

  He was never allowed out of the house unless he was with someone, not because there was anything to worry about in Yungabilla—it was as safe a town as you could ever visit—but mostly it was so he wasn’t alone if he had an asthma attack.

  Boo going anywhere alone would usually make Mom quite nervous. There’d be lots of questions about where he was going and when he’d be back until she decided it would be better if she went with him. Boo knew this was Mom’s way of taking care of him, but this morning, there wasn’t time for any of that.

  After a quick phone call, he poked his head into India’s room. “We have to go.”

  She looked up from her dictionary. “Where?”

  “You’ll see. Come on, or we’ll be late.” Boo knew he couldn’t tell India what he was planning or she’d never agree to it.

  Within minutes, they were walking down Main Street toward the Yungabilla Community Center. The hub housed the local government offices, post office, and the Yungabilla Tourist Information Bureau, all run by Mrs. Rahim.

  Boo pushed open the glass doors. Mrs. Rahim at the counter greeted them with a smile.

  “You can go right in. He’s waiting for you.”

  “He who?” India asked.

  “You’ll find out.” Boo strode down the corridor to the end of the building and stopped in front of a door with a sign that read:

  Radio Yungabilla

  The Sweet Sounds of the Country

  India froze. “It’s Macca.”

  Macca was a radio host her parents had listened to since she was a kid. His show was heard all over the country. Macca was famous.

  “Yep, and he wants to talk to you.”

  “Me?” India was about to launch into all the reasons this was a bad idea when Boo put his fingers to his lips and opened the door to the radio booth.

  Macca wore headphones and sat in front of a computer and a desk filled with buttons. He leaned into his microphone and waved Boo and India in to take a seat.

  “And that was Dora Williams singing an old favorite, ‘I Love You More Than I Love My Ute.’”

  Boo and India sat at the microphone opposite him.

  “Now, we’re in for a special treat,” Macca said. “Each year, the Stupendously Spectacular Spelling Bee finds Australia’s best speller, and the current champion is Yungabilla’s very own India Wimple. I’m lucky to have India and her brother, Boo, here in the studio. Welcome to Radio Yungabilla.”

  India said nothing, so Boo spoke for both of them. “Thanks for having us, Macca.”

  “India, after winning the bee, how does it feel to be invited to London to compete with the world’s best?”

  Boo nudged India gently. “Good.”

  “How’s the preparation going? You studying that dictionary?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Macca waited for her to say more. “I hear there might be a little bit of a hitch to competing.”

  It was at this point that Boo took over. “It’s a great honor to be part of the international bee, but we need to raise money to get there. We’ve started a crowdfunding page where people can donate whatever they can, but anyone who gives more than fifteen dollars will receive a Yungabilla souvenir calendar.”

  “Now there’s a deal you can’t resist, listeners. My fifteen dollars bought me my own copy, and it really is something. I donated a photo of me sitting on my 1954 vintage John Deere tractor. Do you think you’ll reach your goal?”

  “We have to!” Boo said. “India deserves to be there. She’s one of the smartest people I know. And the kindest. I have asthma, which can get pretty scary, but India has always been there for me, and now it’s my turn to be there for her.”

  “You think your sister’s pretty special.”

  Boo paused. He thought of all the times India had woken up next to him or rushed to his side whenever he coughed and how she nearly gave up her spot in the Stupendously Spectacular Spelling Bee Grand Final when he wasn’t well. “She’s the best sister a brother could have. Sorry to all the other sisters out there.”

  Macca laughed. “Well, that’s good enough for me. So what do you say, listeners? Your fifteen dollars will get you a calendar and can help send Australia’s spelling champion to London. India, we wish you all the best and know you’ll make our country proud.”

  Boo spent the rest of the day hovering over Mom’s phone, waiting for the donations to roll in.

  The hours ticked by. Little by little, the total increased. When night fell, Dad poked his head into Boo’s room. “How’s it going?”

  “Getting there. Slowly.”

  Dad saw a flicker of disappointment on Boo’s face before Boo turned back to the screen.

  Much later, when India crept into Boo’s room (as she often did), she found him asleep, still clutching the phone. She carefully slid it from his fingers and placed it on his bedside table.

  When she tiptoed back to her room, she saw a small glow through her curtains. It was coming from the shed. Inside was Dad. The light from his computer made his face look gh
ostly pale. He slumped forward and cradled his head in his hands.

  India slipped into her sneakers and crept outside across the yard. She peeked in the door and saw the table covered in papers.

  “You’re up late.”

  Dad flinched, surprised to hear a voice in the darkness. “You too.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Dad held out his arm, and India slipped into his hug. “You OK?”

  India nodded. “What are they?”

  Dad shuffled the papers into a messy pile. “Nothing important.”

  India could tell that wasn’t true and that they were in fact very important.

  “Nice try, Dad, but I’ve known you for over eleven years. You’re not good at fibbing.”

  “OK.” Dad sighed. “I’ve been writing articles and stories ever since the paper shut down. I send them to news agencies all over the country, and they send me these rejections.”

  India pulled one from the top.

  Dear Mr. Wimple,

  Thank you for submitting your article. Unfortunately, the subject of your story isn’t interesting enough for our readers.

  India frowned and read another.

  Dear Mr. Wimple,

  While we like your style, your piece isn’t quite right for our website.

  India wanted to shout at them all. “They’re wrong.”

  “Wrong or not,” Dad said, “they don’t want me to write for them.” He took the rejection letters and put them in a box beside him. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  India nodded.

  “Working at the paper was the only thing I ever felt really good at.” He sighed. “But maybe even that’s not true.”

  “It is true!” India cried. “Plus, you’re good at lots of things.”

  Dad held up his bandaged thumb. “Really? Tell that to Elsie’s goat.”

  “OK, sometimes there’s an accident, but what about being the best dad in the world?”

  Dad laughed. “I’m not sure even that’s true.”

  “It is for me! You’ve read stories to Boo and me every night since we were babies, and you tell the best dad jokes when we’re sad.”

  Dad looked down. “But I can’t get you to London.”

  India snuggled closer. “I don’t need to go. I like being here with you in Yungabilla. Can you read me some of your stories?”

  Dad shook his head. “They’re no good, India.”

  “Please?”

  Dad couldn’t refuse India’s pleading look. “All right,” he said, taking a story from the pile, “but don’t complain when you realize the rejection letters are right.”

  India listened intently as Dad read. He was nervous at first and kept tripping over his words, but as he continued to read, he became more confident.

  And the story was good! Really good. It had everything India wanted in a story: vivid details, clever twists, interesting characters with big hearts, and it kept her fascinated till the very end.

  “Can you read another?”

  “You’re not just being nice?”

  “As a dedicated bookworm, I know a good story when I hear one, and I’d like another, please.”

  Dad read to India by the light of the computer—stories about people overcoming tragedy, small heroic acts, and scientific discoveries that could change the world. India never wanted them to end.

  Just as Dad was about to read another, they heard a cry from the house. They knew instantly who it was.

  “Boo,” India said.

  Dad threw his story aside, and they raced from the shed and across the yard. He yanked open the screen door and hurried into Boo’s room. “Are you OK?”

  Boo was sitting up in bed. He was panting, and his eyes were wide. “I…”

  Mom flew through the door and took the inhaler from his bedside table. “Is it another attack?”

  “I…”

  Nanna Flo rushed to Boo’s side and rubbed his back, trying to keep her voice calm. “Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll have you better in no time.”

  “It’s not an attack!” Boo cried.

  The Wimples stopped their fussing.

  “It isn’t?” India asked.

  “Nope.” The phone was in Boo’s lap. “We’ve had a few more donations.”

  “How many more?” Dad asked.

  “Quite a few.” Boo wore a knowing smile.

  Nanna Flo was almost too scared to ask. “How much do we have?”

  Boo paused to build up the suspense. “Eleven thousand three hundred and forty-six dollars.”

  The Wimples stared at Boo as his words sank in.

  “But that’s more than our goal,” Mom realized.

  “How?” India worried she was in one of those dreams where something happens that you really want to happen, but in the end, you’re disappointed because it’s only a dream.

  “Macca put the interview on his Facebook page, and it’s been shared over one thousand times. People from all over Australia have donated. Even from overseas.”

  “That means…” Mom giggled. She couldn’t help herself.

  “Yep!” Boo gleamed with delight. “We are going to London.”

  Dad ruffled Boo’s hair. “You are officially a genius.”

  “It was a team effort.” Boo nodded.

  “That’s the Wimple spirit for you,” Nanna Flo said. “There’s no stopping us.”

  Dad jumped up from the bed and whisked India into the air. “We’re going to London!” He swirled her around while the others ducked. “The Wimple family is going to London!”

  7

  Monumental

  (adjective):

  Tremendous, staggering, and even a little bit overwhelming.

  It was a monumental day they would never forget.

  All around the world, contestants from the Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee were staying up late and waking up early, practicing every chance they could. They read dictionaries, held mock spelling bees, and watched past competitions online. They even dreamed about spelling.

  Time flew, as it often does, and soon, the day of departure arrived.

  In Toronto, Canada, Holly straightened her dress and gave herself one last look in the mirror. “You can do this, Holly Trifle.”

  Holly often did this. Because her family never seemed interested, she was her own cheerleading squad, along with Grandma Trifle, who often sent her emails and cards. And even though it felt lonely having a cheerleading squad of two, it helped when she felt nervous.

  Maybe today, though, her parents would be excited. Maybe they’d have words of support—words of wisdom and love. After all, it wasn’t every day your daughter was invited to compete in an international competition televised to millions around the world.

  Today was a monumental day.

  Today would be different.

  Today, her parents would finally be on her side.

  “Molly!” Mrs. Trifle screeched from the driveway below. “We’re leaving without you if you don’t get down here right now.”

  Or maybe not.

  Holly tried to give herself another cheerleading squad smile, but this time, it didn’t work. She picked up her purse and walked downstairs to the car.

  Gertrude stared openmouthed at her half sister. “What are you wearing?”

  Benedict laughed. “Is that one of Mom’s tablecloths?”

  “It’s a dress.” Holly held her arms out. “Grandma Trifle sent it to me.”

  “Who?” Gertrude asked.

  “Grandma Trifle.”

  “I thought she was dead.”

  “She’s not dead. She lives in Vancouver,” Holly said.

  Gertrude gave a petulant sneer, annoyed that no one had bothered to tell her. “News to me.”

  “She must be old.” Bene
dict perked up. “Maybe I should be nice to her so she’ll leave me money in her will.”

  “I wouldn’t bother,” Mrs. Trifle said and waved her hand. “She’s as poor as a church mouse. Her house actually smells of mice, if I remember correctly, but it’s been a few years since I’ve been there.”

  “It smells fine,” Holly argued.

  Holly often spent school vacations with Grandma Trifle while the rest of the Trifles were busy running the business, so she knew what her house smelled like. It was true that Grandma didn’t have much, but her house was cozy and warm and always smelled of baked chicken or apple pie. Never mice.

  “Anyway, you can’t go out in that dress.” Mrs. Trifle applied hot-pink lipstick to her pouting lips. “It looks like the cat coughed up a fur ball and dragged it through some paint.”

  Mr. Trifle was loading multiple suitcases and boxes into the trunk of the car. “I think the dress looks nice.”

  “It’s awful,” Mrs. Trifle corrected him.

  “I like it,” Holly said.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Mrs. Trifle really had no idea.

  “I just thought—”

  “Save your thoughts for spelling. People judge you by how you look, and if you wear that, they’ll think you’re a homeless child with parents who don’t care.”

  Holly looked down at her dress. She liked the bright red flowers and the careful way Grandma had sewn orange buttons on each pocket. It was one of her favorite dresses, partly because the colors made her feel happy, but mostly because it was given to her on her tenth birthday, which only Grandma remembered.

  Mrs. Trifle stared at her reflection in the side mirror of the car and dabbed at the corners of her shiny lips. “This family prides itself on how we present ourselves to the world, and I won’t have you embarrassing us with that homemade sack. Now run up to your room and change, or we’ll miss our flight.”

  Holly knew there was no point in arguing. “Yes, Mom,” she said, doing exactly as she was told, just as she always did.

  In her room, she folded Grandma’s dress into a neat square and tucked it carefully into her bottom drawer. “I’ll make you proud, Grandma. I promise.”

  • • •

  In Wormwood, England, Peter’s mother stood on the sidewalk with her son and father, waiting anxiously for a taxi. “And do you have your train ticket?”