The Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee

by Deborah Abela

  “Yes, we are friends,” India declared. “My name is India, and this is Summer, Rajish, and—”

  “Chubby.” Mrs. Trifle’s eyes landed on Peter.

  “No.” Holly wore an anxious smile. “His name is Peter.”

  Mrs. Trifle slipped her shoe back on, took her foot off the table, and affected an air of concern. “Do other kids tease you about being chubby?”

  The entire table stopped eating, and Holly felt as if a small part inside her was actually breaking. “Mom, I don’t think Peter wants to…”

  Mr. and Mrs. Trifle didn’t hear Holly’s protests. Instead, they leaned in like lions creeping up on a small, defenseless animal.

  “Don’t you dream of being like the other kids?” Mr. Trifle asked.

  Peter stopped eating his chicken Kiev. His grandfather gave him a small look to see if he was OK.

  Holly wished the floor would open up and swallow her parents whole, but luckily, it didn’t have to, because India’s dad got in first.

  “We’re the Wimples. These are the Kapoors and Mr. Eriksson, Peter’s grandfather.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mrs. Trifle said, sounding like she didn’t mean a word of it.

  Holly turned to Peter. “I’m sorry.”

  Peter pushed his barely touched meal away. His hands clenched into a tight ball in his lap. “It doesn’t matter.” He waved a hand, trying to be as convincing as possible.

  But Holly could see that it did matter. It mattered very much.

  Suddenly, a waiter pouring water accidentally spilled some on Mrs. Trifle’s sweat suit.

  “You imbecile!” Mrs. Trifle dabbed her suit with a napkin. “Look what you’ve done! I’m soaked!”

  He offered her the napkin from his arm, but she waved him away. “I’m so sorry, madam.”

  India thought the waiter didn’t look very sorry at all. In fact, she saw the smallest smidgeon of a smile as he moved to serve another table.

  “Mr. Wimple was telling us stories about when he was young.” Mr. Kapoor hoped to get the attention off the Trifles.

  “I’ve got a story.” Mr. Trifle sat back in her chair. “I remember when I won the Bognor Regis Triathlon. Came in first, beating all the younger competitors.”

  “You were marvelous that day, my dear.” Mrs. Trifle laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “In fact, that is when I fell in love with him. He was holding the trophy, being applauded by thousands, and I knew he’d be the perfect partner—in marriage and in business.”

  Mrs. Trifle stared pointedly at Peter, who had lowered his head and seemed not to be listening to a word. “You could be strong and lean one day, Peter.”

  Peter glanced up. “Sorry?”

  “My grandson is fine the way he is.” Grandpop put a protective hand on Peter’s shoulder.

  “Yes, but we can all improve.” Mrs. Trifle was miffed that she had to state the painfully obvious.

  “Absolutely.” Mr. Trifle rolled up his sleeve and flexed. “You could have muscles like these.”

  Holly wished it was just a bad dream and not her actual father showing his actual muscles during dinner.

  “They are…prodigious,” Peter said.

  Mr. and Mrs. Trifle swapped puzzled looks. Having never heard the word before, they wondered if it was a compliment or if Peter didn’t understand how enormous they really were.

  Holly was in agony. Why did she even come? It wasn’t even that her parents were trying to embarrass her. It just came naturally to them.

  “Hard work, that’s what it is.” Thankfully, Mr. Trifle rolled down his sleeve. “You don’t get guns like this without a lot of effort.”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter barely mumbled.

  “A boy your age should be looking after his health and keeping fit. You want to be a hit with the ladies, right?”

  “Codswallop!” Nanna Flo dropped her knife and fork with a great clatter. It was safe to say she’d had enough. “What you look like has absolutely diddly-squat to do with who you are and why someone might like you.”

  A smile slithered onto Mrs. Trifle’s lips, a look that could only be described as condescending. It took all of Nanna Flo’s resolve not to tip more water over her.

  “And you are…?”

  “Florence Wimple.”

  “Florence, I don’t mean to be rude—”

  “Really? Because you’re just about the rudest person I’ve ever met. We’re here to celebrate these kids, and all you’ve done is criticize them and talk about yourselves. And I, for one, have had a gutful.”

  There was a brief, awkward silence where no one knew what to say next, until Grandpop Eriksson spoke up.

  “Florence is right,” he said. “These kids deserve our support. You two would benefit from working on your manners as well as your muscles.”

  Peter was impressed. He’d never heard Grandpop say anything he thought would make a fuss.

  Mrs. Kapoor patted her husband’s portly belly. “Even those of us who aren’t athletes are most definitely adorable.” She landed a particularly loud kiss on her husband’s cheek.

  Mrs. Trifle wasn’t quite sure how she and her husband could be telling the truth and yet have everyone at the table disagree with them. “If young children can learn from what we’ve achieved in our lives, then it’s a crime for us not to impart our wisdom.”

  “Wisdom?” Nanna Flo said as she stabbed at a crispy roast potato with her fork. “I’d call it a steaming pile of poppycock!”

  India and Boo snuffled back their giggles. Mom and Dad couldn’t help it either, which set off the Erikssons and the Kapoors, until a ripple of chuckles spread around the table.

  Mrs. Trifle stood firm. “That may be what they think in New Zealand, but in Canada, we believe that—”

  “We’re from Australia,” Boo said.

  Mrs. Trifle shivered as if someone had dropped cold water on her—again. “Australia? I don’t know how you can live there—all those spiders, snakes, and sharks… The place is crawling with animals that can kill you. You wouldn’t get me there for all the tea in India.”

  “India?” Mr. Trifle scoffed. “Wouldn’t catch me there either—curry gives me the runs.”

  “I’ll tell you something else that gives me the runs…” Nanna Flo mumbled.

  Mr. Kapoor held a finger in the air. “India is a very fine nation. It is the cradle of the human race, the birthplace of language, the—”

  “In fact,” Mr. Trifle continued, oblivious to how offensive he was being, “a friend of mine was so sick after traveling to India that he was on the toilet for—”

  “Ladies, gentlemen, and spelling champions.” Mr. O’Malley thankfully saved them from any more of Mr. Trifle’s unfortunate toilet story. “Welcome to the official opening of the Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee.”

  The crowd burst into fevered applause, everyone except for Holly, who looked as she did when India first saw her: small, alone, and terribly miserable.

  13

  Fortune

  (noun):

  Fate, luck, or a staggering amount of money.

  His good fortune brought him a life of great wealth.

  “Congratulations on being chosen for the world’s most prestigious spelling competition.” Mr. O’Malley’s face radiated a rosy glow as his words flowed through the hall. “You are the crème de la crème of spelling aficionados, and of that, you should be exceedingly proud.”

  This time, there was no stopping the cheers and whistling as proud adults applauded and kids wriggled in their seats with excitement.

  “Before the bee commences, we have a few surprises in store, including a splendacious treat tomorrow that will enchant and amaze.” Mr. O’Malley paused for effect. “And may even change your life.”

  He let the moment hang in the air like a colorful piña
ta.

  They watched as Mr. Smiley O’Malley again dabbed his eyes.

  “But for now, it is with the utmost delight that I introduce your spelling bee director, Ms. Esmerelda Stomp.”

  There was more applause as India watched the glum woman from the elevator lumber to the microphone.

  Esmerelda sighed at the overexcited faces, gleaming with delight, as if there were no place they’d rather be.

  Well, she could think of plenty of places she’d rather be.

  “All right, quiet down, or we’ll never get this over with.”

  The crowd fell silent.

  “Over the next few days, you spellers will compete in two knockout rounds, which means you’ll only have one chance to spell each word correctly, and if you blow that”—she jabbed a thumb at the air—“you’re gone.”

  Esmerelda smiled for the first time since taking the microphone.

  “The pronouncer’s decision is final. I don’t want any tears, sulking, or hissy fits.” She pointed a stubby finger at the crowd. “That goes for you grown-ups too. I won’t stand for any mollycoddling nonsense—turns kids into marshmallows. What good are they then?”

  The audience shifted awkwardly in their seats, except Mrs. Trifle, who thought Esmerelda was making perfect sense.

  “If your child fizzles out, adults are to applaud as they exit the stage.” She paused and threw her glare around the room like a beam from a lighthouse, making sure her rules sunk in. “Round one will continue until half the spellers are eliminated. Round two is the grand final and will continue until we have eradicated everyone and only the winner remains.”

  Esmerelda’s speech felt more like instructions for a hunting expedition than a children’s spelling bee.

  She leaned into the microphone, which made her voice boom even more ominously throughout the room. “Any questions?”

  Her menacing stare unnerved the crowd enough that there were none.

  “Now that we understand each other, it’s time to hand this over to the next speaker. He’s the only three-time winner of the Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee, and he’s here for a pep talk, so listen up! I give you…Harrington Hathaway the Third.”

  Esmerelda shuffled away. If she was all gloom, Harrington was all elegance and optimism, with his silver mane and tanned face. His cape billowed out as he swooped to the microphone, waving his diamond-encrusted cane at the adoring audience.

  “Bravo!” Mr. Kapoor jumped to his feet. “Bravo!”

  “My dad’s a big fan,” Rajish said to India. “He wants me to be just like him.”

  “Please.” Harrington held up his hand. “Don’t expire yourselves before the spelling bee even begins.”

  The crowd laughed. Harrington soaked in the adoration.

  “It is with multitudinous thanks that I greet you tonight. You have battled valiantly and spelled magnificently to make it here. But”—he paused, gazing into the audience with a warning eye—“one small slipup could end it all. It will be nerve-racking. It will be discomposing. It will be discountenancing, but great fortitude always triumphs over great adversity.”

  Harrington stood back, closed his eyes for a moment, and relished the applause.

  “For many people, spelling may not seem important, but you and I know better. It makes us rich in mind and heart.” He held his bejeweled fingers against his jacket. “It has also given me a fortunate life, and tonight, I would like to share that good fortune with you.”

  He smiled a Cheshire cat grin.

  “If you look under your seat, you will find a small gift.”

  The diners bent down to retrieve packages that were taped to the bottom of their chairs. A flurry of unwrapping followed.

  “A book.” Mrs. Trifle’s lip turned down in disappointment. “I was hoping it would be something useful.”

  “It’s a copy of my new publication, Being Harrington Hathaway the Third: From Humble Beginnings to Global Spelling Guru. But that’s not all,” Harrington said. “Inside, you will find a small treat.”

  A wave of gasps swept through the room. India opened her book to find a silver hook bookmark with a sparkling gem dangling from the end.

  “Is it a real diamond?” Mrs. Trifle asked.

  Summer held it up against the glow of a candle. “It looks real.”

  “And yes,” Harrington said, raising a silver eyebrow, “the diamonds are real.”

  The audience rose to their feet, wild with appreciation. If Harrington wasn’t sure everyone in the audience loved him, he was certain of it now.

  “Please.” Harrington held up a silencing hand. “It is merely a token of my admiration for your brilliance. I would like to declare the Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee officially launched. Now go forth and spell!”

  The combination of cheers and diamonds and words circling on the walls created a joyous, dizzying effect.

  Mr. O’Malley clasped his hands before him and bounced on the heels of his polished shoes. He surveyed the sea of happy faces.

  The night was going perfectly. Until what happened next…

  India saw a flash of ginger fur disappear beneath their table.

  “Did you see that?” she asked Rajish.

  “I think so. It looked like—”

  Rajish was interrupted by a series of barks and growls.

  And a full-bodied scream.

  This came from Harrington Hathaway the Third. A stampeding Great Dane had galloped into the Imperial Dining Hall in pursuit of the ginger cat, followed by a large woman in a gold sequined dress and feathery headpiece, thundering closely behind.

  “Mergatrude!” she wailed. “Come back to Mommy, darling!”

  There were loud cries as more dogs entered the room. The floor was alive with fluffy, curly-haired canines in ribbons and bows—dachshunds, beagles, and pugs. They leaped onto tables and sent glasses crashing to the floor. Plates were overturned, splashing pasta sauce onto expensive white dresses and suits and hurling chicken Kievs into surprised faces.

  “Someone get that cat!” Harrington screeched.

  Mr. O’Malley joined the waiters, who tried to catch the escaping feline, which sidestepped them at every turn, darting between diners’ legs and jumping onto laps.

  “My dress!” Summer lifted her skirt. “It’s Armani!”

  Nanna Flo and Mom held onto Boo while Dad and Grandpop Eriksson formed a circle with the other adults, shielding the kids.

  Dog owners poured into the room, hurrying after their manicured pets now drenched in gravy and tangled in strings of spaghetti and snuffling down chicken and vegetables. The stands of cupcakes were toppled, and frantic guests slipped in the slick icing mess.

  The cries of pet names added to the chaos.

  Fluffy!

  Poochikins!

  Captain Cutie-pie!

  The hall was full of tail-wagging, feasting dogs.

  The cat continued to run.

  “Mergatrude! Come back!”

  But Mergatrude didn’t come back. Instead, he bounded toward the cat, which had dashed between the legs of Harrington Hathaway the Third.

  Mr. O’Malley watched in horror as the Great Dane headed directly for the three-time world champion.

  “Oh no,” was all he could utter before the full force of the dog slammed into Harrington’s chest, sending him flying through the air and crashing to the ground with a great thud.

  Mr. O’Malley rushed to his side. “Mr. Hathaway! Are you OK?”

  “Of course I’m not OK, you fool!” Harrington screeched and held his back. “Apart from being in terrible pain, I could have been killed!”

  India watched Harrington writhe on the floor. Mr. O’Malley’s face was a portrait of devastation as he helped the gentleman sit up and handed him his cane, which was now broken in two.

  Harringt
on, it was safe to say, was more than a little peeved.

  He snatched the cane from Mr. O’Malley’s grip and jabbed a threatening finger into the royal representative’s chest. His face twisted with rage as he hurled abuse.

  India saw Mr. O’Malley flinch with each jab.

  The Imperial Dining Hall lay in ruins, as if a tornado had swept through the once elegant affair. Tables and chairs were scattered across the floor, silk curtains were in tatters, guests were smeared with food, and pooches licked the now empty plates.

  It was then that India noticed something curious.

  Esmerelda Stomp stood at the side of the hall with her arms crossed, not bothering to help one bit, which in itself wasn’t surprising.

  What surprised India most was the smile on Esmerelda’s face.

  A smile that could only be called…gleeful.

  14

  Gumption

  (noun):

  Initiative, resourcefulness, get-up-and-go.

  She faced the challenges ahead with great gumption.

  “Once again, I apologize profusely for last night’s dinner, which took such an unfortunate turn.”

  The next morning, Mr. Elwood O’Malley addressed the spellers and their families, who assembled in the lobby of the Royal Windsor Hotel.

  His eyes were heavy and bloodshot, as if he’d barely slept.

  “I will do my utmost to ensure the Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee runs flawlessly from this moment on, and I hope that the splendidness of today’s surprise will more than make up for any unpleasantness. Please, follow me.”

  He headed to a line of red double-decker buses waiting to take them to a secret destination.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling OK?” It was the fifth time Mom had asked Boo that morning.

  After the dogs had run riot at the dinner, Boo had begun to wheeze and could feel his chest tighten, so the Wimples rushed him back to their room and sat with him while Mom gave him his medication.

  Just in case.

  Within minutes, Boo had felt better, but that didn’t stop Mom from worrying.

  “I’m fine.” He hoped his voice didn’t sound too wheezy.