The Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee

by Deborah Abela

  “A long time ago,” Mr. O’Malley began, stirring the melting marshmallow in his cup, “when I was a young boy, I lived in a small house in a coal-mining town called Bogstow. I was short and wore pants pulled up high to my waist. And I could spell. Brilliantly. Much like you all.”

  He smiled briefly.

  “I lived with my mom, dad, and twin baby brothers. We didn’t have much money, and there were times when my parents went without food to make sure we never went hungry. I loved visiting the library, which I did most afternoons, but one particular day, I saw a poster calling for entrants for a national spelling bee.

  “I read the poster again and again, memorizing all the details, especially the part about the five hundred dollars in prize money. I wondered what so much money would look like. I imagined a pile of bills reaching higher than our house, higher than Cragg’s Hill, the highest part of all Bogstow.

  “I raced all the way home through the coal-dusted alleys, through sheets of gray, flapping laundry. I knew this was the moment our lives would change forever. I could feel it.

  “The day of the first round, I was so nervous, I could barely stand. The pronouncer called me to the microphone three times before I finally convinced my brain to move my legs. After four hours, countless words, and a lot of hand-wringing, it was over.”

  “You won?” Holly was literally on the edge of her seat.

  Mr. O’Malley nodded. “I did. I won the next few rounds until I found myself invited to compete in the grand final. Mom and Dad used all their savings to send me to London, and I knew I had to win for them.”

  Mr. O’Malley smiled, remembering the details of a moment long ago.

  “When I handed my parents the money, my dad cried. He said he didn’t think there were two parents who’d ever felt prouder. Then came the invitation for the international competition. My family helped me practice every day. My mom sewed me a new pair of pants, and my grandma bought me a new jacket—the first one I’d ever owned.”

  “And you won,” Peter guessed.

  “No.” Mr. O’Malley looked down, gripping his mug of chocolate. “I made it through the final round, but on the night before the grand final, the director’s room was broken into.” He winced, as if the next part were too painful to say out loud. “And the cards for round two were found in my room.”

  “But you didn’t take them.” India knew Mr. O’Malley’s revelation was untrue.

  “No. I would never cheat. It was Harrington. He even admitted it.”

  Rajish rankled at the injustice. “Why didn’t you tell the director?”

  “Harrison told me if I did, he’d deny everything,” Mr. O’Malley said. “I was a poor boy from a coal mining town, Harrington was rich, and his father was one of the spelling bee sponsors. I knew no one would believe me.

  “I was banned forever from competing. Worse than that, it broke my mother’s heart—she never looked at me the same way again.”

  “We’re going to see him,” India decided.

  “I agree,” Rajish said without hesitation.

  “Really?” Peter shifted in his seat. “Because he sounds pretty nasty.”

  “He can’t get away with it,” Summer argued. “Not again.”

  “He’ll never admit it,” Mr. O’Malley said.

  “He has to.” India had never felt more resolved about anything in her life. “We’re going to his house, and I’m going to make him.”

  “I don’t want to be mean,” Summer said carefully, “but you?”

  “Yes.” India frowned. “Why not me?”

  “Because we want a cheat and a liar to invite us into his home so he can confess to a crime, and you’re too…nice.” She flicked her head back. “This is going to take special skills—skills built up over years by someone always determined to get her way.”

  “Meaning you?”

  “Yes, me.”

  “She was very good back there with Reko,” Rajish reasoned.

  “And that wasn’t even my best work,” Summer bragged. “Who votes that I be the one to make Harrington confess?”

  Rajish, Peter, and Summer slowly raised their hands.

  Holly paused for a moment before raising hers too. “Sorry, India.”

  “Good choice, everyone.” Summer turned to Mr. O’Malley. “Do you have his number?”

  “Of course.” He retrieved Harrington’s details from his phone.

  Summer entered the numbers and put the call on speaker.

  “Harrington Hathaway the Third speaking. How may I improve your life?”

  “Mr. Hathaway, my name is Summer Millicent Ernestine Beauregard-Champion, and I am calling from the Harrington Hathaway Fan Club.”

  “I have a fan club?” Harrington was clearly impressed.

  “Oh yes! We have quite a few members who are all tremendous fans.”

  “Well, that is very flattering.”

  “It’s nothing more than you deserve, Mr. Hathaway.” She paused, building up to her next comment. “You are our hero. My friends and I are from the Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee, which sadly has been canceled due to a series of unfortunate accidents.”

  Summer listened carefully, but he responded without a hint of guilt. “Terrible business indeed.”

  India gave Summer an irritated look, but the interrogator had only just started and wasn’t fazed at all.

  “We are, understandably, heartbroken,” she continued, “but what would help mend our young and delicate hearts is the chance to meet you and have your autograph.”

  “Well now, little lady, I am a very busy man—”

  “Please, Mr. Hathaway, it would go such a long way to alleviating our devastation.”

  “I understand it is upsetting, but I—”

  “When I saw you at the spelling bee dinner,” Summer said, actually sounding as if she were crying, “you changed my life.”

  “I did?”

  “Absolutely. I knew I had finally found someone I could look up to for the rest of my life. And I wasn’t alone. It would mean the world to us to hear from the greatest spelling champion of all time.”

  There was a pause. India crossed her fingers.

  “Well, I suppose I could spare a few minutes, for the edification and consolation of the young. When shall I expect you?”

  22

  Nemesis

  (noun):

  A formidable opponent, archenemy, or all-around bad person.

  He finally had the chance to confront his nemesis.

  “This is your car?”

  Peter nestled into the leather seats of the limousine, positive he was the only one in his family ever to have done so.

  “Yes, when we’re in London.” Summer was sitting opposite Peter and wasn’t sure why he was so shocked. “Mommy and Daddy let me use it whenever I need it, and Hansen has been driving me places since I was a baby. Haven’t you, Hansen?”

  “Yes, Miss Summer.” The stony-faced driver replied without missing a beat.

  Peter stared as they passed street after street of multistoried mansions sprawling behind ornate iron gates. The afternoon was fading, and one by one, lights turned on, sending out an almost fairy-tale glow over the hedges, stately balconies, and bubbling fountains. “Harrington must have some serious money to live in this neighborhood.”

  “He is very wealthy,” Mr. O’Malley said. “After winning the international spelling bee three times in a row—a feat no one else has ever repeated—he was hailed as a child genius.”

  “It helps when you’re a cheat.” Holly scowled.

  “After that, Harrington set up his first tutoring company when he was still a teenager, promising to produce child geniuses just like himself. The classes were a worldwide success, and he became even wealthier.”

  India felt her whole body burn with anger. “W
hile you were accused of something you didn’t do.”

  “Don’t worry.” Summer dug out a hairbrush from the seat-back pocket in front of her and ran it through her hair. “After we play the adoring fans, he’ll admit what he’s done.”

  “Please be careful,” Mr. O’Malley said. “He has a terrible temper.”

  “He does?” Peter was worried. “Maybe we could get him to confess by phone instead.”

  Summer replaced the brush and sat up with renewed determination. “Follow my lead, and everything will be fine.”

  Peter wondered how people like Summer did it—how they had so much confidence when he had almost none. He stared out the window, the lights from the mansions playing across his face.

  “Mr. Harrington’s home is coming up on the left, Miss Summer,” Hansen said.

  Rajish gave Mr. O’Malley an apologetic look. “It’s time to hide.”

  “Good luck,” Mr. O’Malley said as he crouched on the limousine floor. “And thank you.”

  Summer took a shawl from the armrest beside her and placed it over him. “Just to be safe.”

  “We won’t be long,” India said. “I promise.”

  Summer took out her phone. “I’m going to call you now and keep the call going so you can hear everything we’re saying.”

  Mr. O’Malley answered immediately, and Summer dropped her phone in her pocket. “And we’re ready.”

  Hansen pulled up at the gates, which were fashioned into a golden H. Strings of lights flickered around the edges like the entrance to a theme park.

  The driver announced their arrival into the intercom. The gates swung slowly open, splitting the H in two. They drove down the tree-lined driveway that was lit on either side by smaller H-shaped lights. The sprawling mansion soon towered above them.

  Hansen pulled up, and the children climbed out of the limousine. There was something about the size and easy magnificence of the building that made Peter feel very, very small. “It’s like a palace.”

  A man in a long, dark coat with gold trim and white gloves appeared on the front veranda. “Mr. Harrington is ready to see you.”

  They followed him inside between two life-size gold statues of Harrington.

  “It’s good to have a healthy ego, I guess,” Rajish muttered.

  Holly treaded lightly down the long corridor that was lined with paintings, some of them very famous. “A Van Gogh,” she said in awe. “He owns a Van Gogh.”

  They were shown into a light-filled drawing room with marble stands bearing trophies and medals and walls plastered with photographs of Harrington as a boy receiving awards from pronouncers and world leaders. There was even one with the Queen.

  At the head of the room was Harrington himself, seated on a gold, throne-like chair. “How lovely for you to meet with me.”

  He was dressed in a red velvet robe tied with a golden cord. India thought the only thing that was missing was a crown. She clenched her jaw at the sight of his smug, smiling face. She wished she had brought Nanna Flo with her. Nanna was never one to tolerate superiority and self-importance and would have given him something to be sorry about. But if Summer was miffed, she didn’t let it show one bit.

  “It is such an honor to be in your presence, Mr. Hathaway.” She reached out and shook his hand. “This is simply one of the greatest moments of my life.”

  Harrington blushed. “It is always a thrill to encountenance one’s idols.”

  “It’s more than a thrill.” Summer was in her element. “It’s a privilege I will remember for the rest of my life.”

  “Please,” Harrington said, clearly enjoying the admiration, “have a seat.”

  The children sat down on an antique chaise longue opposite his throne. Behind Harrington were glass doors that overlooked a sprawling but finely manicured garden. Peter scowled at the lake in the center until he realized it was actually a fountain, and in the middle was a statue of Harrington himself. Lit from below, he was holding a book in one hand and a trophy in the other, with water spouting from both.

  “Would you mind if we recorded you?” Holly carried out the role of adoring fan with great skill. “It’ll be a souvenir we can keep forever.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t—”

  “I will play it every morning, so I can hear your wisdom and try to be more like you.”

  “Even though we’ll never have your natural intelligence,” Rajish added.

  As much as it irritated India even pretending to like this man, she knew they needed to act as a team if their plan was going to work. “No,” she said as she shook her head sadly, “but it will give us something to strive for.”

  “Well,” Harrington chuckled, “it’s humbling to know I have made your lives so meaningful.”

  “How did you feel when you won your first international spelling bee?” Summer asked.

  “Well, that was a great day.” He crossed his legs and shook his silver mane of hair. “I was nervous, of course, but in the end, the best speller won.”

  “What tips do you have for those who aspire to be like you?” Holly asked with bright-eyed curiosity.

  Harrington settled happily into his throne. India got the feeling he sat there quite a lot. “It’s the big three: hard work, practice, and a natural, innate talent.”

  “You must have competed against some tough rivals,” Summer said.

  “There were other admirable spellers, but no one I couldn’t out-spell when the time came.”

  “We heard Mr. O’Malley was a brilliant speller too,” Holly said as innocently as she could.

  Harrington flinched before he regained his composure. “Was he?”

  “He competed against you when you won your third international competition.” India shuffled forward. “You must remember him.”

  “There were so many children, I—”

  “Yes, but only three spellers from the same country make it to the international competition. You and he were two of them.”

  He pulled at a loose thread on his robe. “I was very focused, which is the motto of my company—Stay Focused, Be Successful.” He rubbed his hands. “Which reminds me, I should get back to it.”

  Summer waited a few moments before she delivered her next line. “But we haven’t even had time to chat about Reko.”

  Harrington’s head snapped toward her. “Reko?” His voice sounded strangled.

  “He’s a waiter at the hotel. He had lots of interesting things to say about you.” She frowned and tapped her chin. “What were they again?”

  Harrington was desperate to change the subject. “Shall I sign your autograph books before you leave?”

  “I remember.” India had never considered becoming an actress, but she impressed herself by her fake remembering. “He told us about the cat he dunked in gravy. You know, the one that ran through the Imperial Dining Hall and caused such chaos.”

  “Yes!” Holly cried. “And he also mentioned tampering with the ropes on the banner, and the wire cutters he used to cause the blackout.”

  “He sounds thoroughly unpleasant.” Harrison shifted uncomfortably in his throne, as if it were suddenly lined with tacks. “You’d be wise to have nothing to do with him.”

  Rajish looked at his watch. “Esmerelda Stomp should know all about it by now too.”

  “There was something else he told us.” Summer was getting ready for her big finale. “Something about being paid.”

  “Yes!” India let her cry hover in the air for a few moments before adding, “Something about being paid by you.”

  “What… I never… That’s outrageous,” Harrington sputtered. “The lengths people will go to to destroy the rich and famous are—”

  “He said you did it to ruin the bee for someone.” Rajish fixed him with an accusatory eye.

  Harrington stood up and tightened the cord on hi
s robe. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m very busy.”

  “It was Mr. O’Malley, wasn’t it?” Summer’s words were like a blow to his stomach.

  “Mr. O’Malley?” Harrington huffed. “Why would I want to harm Mr. O’Malley?”

  “Because,” India began with some delight, “he is a brilliant speller who you thought would ruin your chances at becoming the first three-time world champion.”

  “And you deliberately planted spelling bee cards in his room so he’d be expelled for cheating,” Rajish added.

  “You children have the most active imaginations.” His voice was riddled with menace. “You ought to be careful they don’t get you into trouble. Now, I really must ask you—”

  “And you sabotaged him again this year.” Summer wasn’t about to be dissuaded, menacing voice or not. “Because you requested to be the Queen’s representative, and she turned you down.”

  “She preferred Mr. O’Malley over you,” Holly finished with a broad smile.

  Harrington’s body stiffened. His hands opened and closed into fists.

  “It should have been me. I’m the champion. I’m the one who deserved the Queen’s attention, not a cheat and a liar like O’Malley.” He was seething now, the anger churning in him like a boiling kettle. “Not that…that…namby-pamby.”

  The children smiled, knowing Harrington had as good as admitted it was him—and they had it all recorded.

  The only one not smiling was Peter.

  And it was because of those two words: namby-pamby.

  Words that were thrown at him on the bus and in the playground. Words used as weapons during sports and to turn his friends against him. Words hurled at him, letting him know he was worthless—and he always would be.

  And those words had worked.

  Until now.

  Hearing them again, used against someone else, made Peter’s back straighten and his fear fall away. Before Harrington could say anything more, Peter was on his feet. He stepped forward, pointing a finger at the flaming, bloated face of Harrington Hathaway the Third.

  “You’re nothing but a bully. A sad, empty, rich man who wants nothing more than to be adored, and you do it by making others feel small—others who can’t stand up for themselves when they should. Mr. O’Malley is a good man who is kinder, smarter, and more loyal than you’ll ever be.”