Akeelah and the Bee

by James W. Ellison

  Tanya’s mouth tightened. “Not if she keeps skippin’ class with Georgia Cavanaugh, she won’t. Akeelah—go turn off the TV.”

  “Ah, Ma, leave it on,” Kiana said. “It soothes the baby.”

  “You mean it soothes you.”

  Devon whispered in Akeelah’s ear, “Flip it over to ESPN real quick. Check out the Lakers score.”

  Akeelah giggled as she left the table. She walked into the living room and switched on ESPN. Instead of the Lakers game, she found a telecast of a spelling bee. A thirteen-year-old, red-haired girl was at the mike. She rubbed her hands together nervously, but when she spoke she sounded confident, even slightly arrogant. “…c-e-p-t-or,” she spelled slowly but with assurance. “‘Nociceptor.’”

  Akeelah gazed at the screen, open-mouthed. “What’s this?” she muttered to herself. She lowered herself onto the couch without moving her eyes from the screen. They had spelling on TV? Did other people really care about this stuff?

  “I said turn it off, Akeelah,” Tanya shouted from the kitchen.

  Akeelah barely heard her mother’s words. She watched curiously as the vast audience applauded the girl. Next, a thirteen-year-old Japanese boy named Dylan Watanabe marched up to the mike, a superior smirk on his handsome face.

  The Pronouncer gave him his word. “‘Brunneous.’”

  As the boy hesitated, Akeelah started mouthing the letters. “B-r-u-n...”

  Finally the boy began spelling. “B-r-u-n-e-o-u-s. ‘Brunneous.’”

  A bell sounded and a demoralized Dylan sat down, while the red-haired girl marched up to the mike again.

  “Akee lah,” Tanya shouted again, now plainly annoyed. “Turn off the television and come eat. I mean now!”

  The red-haired girl again spelled slowly and with confidence. “B-r-u-n-n-e-o-u-s. ‘Brunneous.’”

  “That is correct,” the Head Judge said. “If you spell the next word correctly, you will be the new national champion.”

  Akeelah leaned forward on the couch, her eyes narrowed with curiosity and concentration.

  The Pronouncer slowly said, “‘Schottische.’”

  The red-haired girl could not restrain a smile. “‘Schottische,’” she said, her voice firm and clear. “S-c-h-o-t-t-i-s-c-h-e.”

  “Congratulations!” intoned the Head Judge. “You are the new Scripps National Spelling Bee champion.”

  Akeelah watched the girl jump for joy as she was handed a huge check for $20,000. She was swarmed by photographers as she waved the check in the air.

  “Dang, that’s a lot of money,” Devon said, popping his head into the living room. “Maybe Akeelah should try out for something like that.”

  Tanya also poked her head in. “Maybe Akeelah should try listening for a change,” she said. “Now turn the set off and come eat.”

  Akeelah clicked it off reluctantly and returned to the table, but she had heard nothing that either her brother or her mother had said. Her mind was a million miles away, jumping with words and letters.

  Later that evening, alone in her room, Akeelah slowly wrote “schottische” under “nociceptor” and “brunneous” in a thick notebook filled with handwritten words, a pink Post-it taped to the front cover. It said: Property of Akeelah Anderson. Private and confidential. Do not open. Everyone in the family had honored her request except Kiana, who took a peek one day while Akeelah was at school. One look was enough. She was greeted with a stream of words, none of which she understood. Terrence had never been inside her room and had no interest in anything his little sister did, said, or thought.

  Akeelah grabbed the massive Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, which she had inherited from her father, its dog-eared pages filled with her notes and Post-its, and found the word that kept running through her mind.

  “‘Brunneous,’” she said out loud. “‘Dark brown, used chiefly scientifically’ …Well, why can’t they just say ‘brown’?”

  She closed the dictionary and looked up at a framed photograph of her father, a gentle-looking man with a warm smile.

  “You ever heard of these words, Daddy?”

  She smiled at his image. “Yeah, you probably did.” She stared into her father’s eyes and then, against her will, remembered the scene from three years earlier that recurred again and again, both in her dreams and when awake. A game of Scrabble was in progress. Her father was hunched over the board, thinking. Akeelah was waiting for him to line up his word. Her father had taught her Scrabble the year before and she had immediately fallen in love with forming words and combinations of words. He smiled up at her before making his word. During the game he went out to the corner deli for a pack of cigarettes. Half an hour later, when he hadn’t returned, Tanya began pacing the living room nervously. She knew the neighborhood and feared it.

  Akeelah’s smile faded as she remembered. It could have been yesterday, the scene was so vivid—the sound of gunshots from the street, the wail of police sirens growing louder. Those sounds haunted her mind now. And those memories triggered another: the sound of pounding on the front door, a somber-looking police officer on the front porch, her mother with a piercing cry knocking over a lamp that smashed to the floor.

  Akeelah jerked suddenly in her seat. Returning to the present, her breathing ragged, she stared at her father’s photograph. Her eyes filled with tears. “God, I miss you,” she whispered. “You left us and we couldn’t let you go. We still can’t let you go. You’re in every corner of the house. Your voice—your spirit—they’re everywhere, Daddy. You understood… you understood everything.”

  She removed her glasses, damp from her tears, and wiped them absently on the sleeve of her blouse. Then she went to the window and slammed it shut, muffling the sounds of the neighborhood. She grabbed her word list and started methodically spelling words out loud. “‘Anachronism.’ A-n-a-c-h-r-o-n-i-s-m. ‘Assiduous.’ A-s-s-i-d-u-o-u-s….” The spelling, as it always did, had a calming effect on her. She was safely tucked in a world of her own, with her nonthreatening friends—letters and words that never bullied or belittled her. Bad images of the past evaporated. Her mind was at rest.

  Three

  The following morning when Akeelah arrived at Crenshaw Middle School, the exterior walkway was clogged with students. When the bell rang the students began slowly drifting to class, except for a few habitual truants, mostly male. Akeelah didn’t hurry, either. She leisurely strolled up to a water fountain. Two of the toughest girls in her class, Myrna and Elaine, walked up behind her.

  “Hey, freak,” said Myrna, who was built like a football lineman. As Akeelah turned to find Myrna towering over her, the girl gave her a shove.

  “How’s the genius today?”

  “I’m fine,” Akeelah said. “And I ain’t no genius.”

  “Oh yes, you are. Everybody know you are.”

  “No, I ain’t.”

  “Me and Elaine, we want for you to take care of our English homework. Everybody call you a brainiac.”

  Akeelah shook her head emphatically. “Well, everybody is wrong. I ain’t no brainiac.”

  “Like hell you ain’t,” Elaine said menacingly.

  “Don’t be tryin’ to fool us,” Myrna said. “You’re always pullin’ down A’s.”

  Akeelah tried to twist away from the girls, but they grabbed her and started punching her face and shoulders. Coming down the hall at that moment, as Akeelah fought the bigger girls with all the fury in her tiny body, was the school principal, Mr. Welch. Conservatively dressed in a dark suit and white shirt, grave and sanctimonious in manner, he was deep in conversation with a tall, somber African American in his mid-forties. With his tweed jacket and black turtleneck, he was the perfect model of a professor. All he lacked was a pipe.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming here today, Josh,” Mr. Welch was saying. “The district’s been breathing down my neck. Test scores dropped again last semester.”

  Dr. Joshua Larabee nodded, his lips pressed together. “Well, I appre
ciate your dilemma, but I don’t think there’s much I can offer.”

  “I just think if you see the kids in action you’ll change your mind. I honestly think you will. Some of them are very special.”

  As they turned the corner, they came upon Akeelah fending off Myrna and trying to butt Elaine in the stomach with her head.

  “Girls!” Mr. Welch shouted, “Why aren’t you in class?” Dr. Larabee looked at the melee in dismay.

  “She holdin’ us up,” Myrna said, nodding her head at Akeelah.

  The two girls scampered off and when Akeelah started to follow them, the principal called out to her. “Akeelah—wait!”

  She stopped and slowly turned around. Mr. Welch scrutinized her carefully. “What was that all about?”

  She shrugged. “It wasn’t nothin’. Just a little misunderstanding.”

  “I don’t associate you with rowdy behavior,” he said.

  She shrugged again and stared at her shoes. She was very aware of the tall stranger but hadn’t once glanced at him.

  “Are you signed up for the school spelling bee today?” Mr. Welch went on.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s hardly an answer.”

  “Well, it’s the only one I’ve got.” She raised her eyes to his and managed not to flinch.

  Mr. Welch said gravely, “Please come to my office. There are a few things we need to discuss.”

  The two men and Akeelah, who was fighting hard to maintain her composure, walked down the hall in silence. As Akeelah stood in front of the principal’s desk, leaning first on one leg, then the other, Dr. Larabee studied some class pictures on the wall. Mr. Welch was poring over Akeelah’s file.

  “Well,” he said, looking up finally, “Ms. Cross has an interesting record on you. According to her, you’ve never missed a word on your spelling tests.”

  Akeelah was aware that the tall man had turned to look at her. She could feel his gaze.

  Mr. Welch cleared his throat and tried to catch her eye. “Your attendance record, however, leaves a little to be desired.” He cleared his throat again. “More than a little, as a matter of fact.” He studied her, waiting for a response, but she said nothing. “You’re only eleven, according to your records. Did you skip a grade?”

  Speaking to the edge of the desk, Akeelah said reluctantly, “The second.”

  “Why was that?”

  “The work was too easy. That’s what they told my mother.” After a moment she added: “I wanted to stay with my class.”

  She glanced at Dr. Larabee for the first time as he took a seat beside the principal’s desk. There was something in his eyes—an intensity, a depth, an intelligence—that reminded her of her father. He looked at her and then quickly away. He seemed bored with the whole affair, and jiggled his left leg, crossed over his right, impatiently.

  “Akeelah,” Mr. Welch said, “have you ever heard of the Scripps National Spelling Bee?”

  Akeelah gave him a sudden intent look. “Uh…yeah.…I saw some of it on TV last night.”

  “ESPN shows it every year,” Mr. Welch said, leaning forward in his chair, a note of excitement in his voice. “Middle-schoolers from all over the country compete in school, district, and regional spelling bees, trying to make it to the National Bee. That’s the goal, and the competition is keen.” He paused until Akeelah felt compelled to look at him. He then continued, saying, “I have a dream for this school. That one of our students will be there. Whoever wins our school bee today will represent Crenshaw at the District Bee next month.”

  Akeelah stared at him but said nothing.

  “Well? What do you have to say?” He smiled tentatively. “Have I made a convincing case?”

  “Why would anyone wanna represent a school that can’t even put doors on the toilet stalls?”

  Dr. Larabee looked at her sharply, revealing the ghost of a grin for just an instant.

  “You have to learn to take pride in what you have,” Mr. Welch said, trying to cover his embarrassment. “Look, Akeelah… if we can’t show that our students know how to perform and perform well, there might not be money for books, let alone bathroom doors. Do you understand me?”

  Akeelah slowly nodded.

  “Now I want you to do that spelling bee today. I can’t order you to, but I really want you to. Will you do that for the school?”

  Akeelah drew in a deep breath, sneaked a look at Dr. Larabee, and said, “Why should I? So everybody can call me ‘freak’ and ‘brainiac’ and attack me in the hall or on the way home?” She shook her head. “Naw, Mr. Welch. I ain’t down for no spelling bee.”

  The principal glowered at her.

  “Well, then, maybe you’d be ‘down’ for spending the rest of the semester in detention for all your absences.” Akeelah and Mr. Welch locked stares. Dr. Larabee studied them both, his eyes suddenly alive with interest.

  “Let me think about it,” she said finally. “I’ll come back here at lunchtime.” She turned and marched stiffly out of the office.

  The Crenshaw Middle School Spelling Bee took place that afternoon. The auditorium was sparsely filled, but nonetheless resounded with noisy, rowdy students. Akeelah, one of twenty contestants onstage, stared at the floor, her hand tapping nervously on her leg. Georgia waved to her from the first row and Akeelah grinned before looking away. Ms. Cross sat at a table on the side of the stage, and two other teachers served as assistant judges.

  Ms. Cross approached the front of the stage as the audience began to settle down. She said, “Hello, and welcome to Crenshaw’s first schoolwide spelling bee. We have some very special students competing today, so let’s give them a big round of applause.”

  The clapping was scattered, and there were some sarcastic hoots and raspberries mixed in. Elaine and Myrna made faces at Akeelah, and Myrna shook her fist at her, mouthing some threatening words. A few rows back from the stage Mr. Welch sat with Dr. Larabee, talking earnestly into his ear. Dr. Larabee didn’t look thrilled to be there.

  “We drew numbers to see who’d go first,” Ms. Cross went on, “and that would be Chuckie Johnson from the eighth grade. Chuckie—will you come up here to the mike?”

  A plump boy strolled slowly up to the microphone. His buddies shouted out to him from the audience, and he waved to them and grinned. He then turned to Ms. Cross and said, in a voice verging wildly between soprano and baritone, “Hey, what up?” His buddies broke into raucous laughter and Chuckie did a low comic bow.

  “Now, Chuckie, you’re going to start things off with ‘grovel.’ Okay? ‘Grovel.’”

  “‘Grovel’?” Chuckie said. “Like, ya know—little rocks?”

  “No,” Ms. Cross said. “‘Grovel.’ Like get down on your knees and beg for mercy.”

  “Get down on my knees?” Chuckie said, completely confused. “Say what?”

  “Just spell the word,” the teacher said, trying to hide her growing impatience.

  “Okay,” Chuckie said. “Uh…g-r-a-v-e-l?”

  Akeelah rolled her eyes and then looked out at Dr. Larabee, whose gaze was fastened on her.

  “Actually,” Ms. Cross said, “it’s g-r-o-v-e-l. Sorry, Chuckie. Better luck next time.”

  “Who cares? I didn’t want to do this in the first place.”

  He rushed off the stage and joined his buddies.

  “Okay, moving right along,” Ms. Cross said, trying for a smooth and cheerful approach to a difficult job, “next up is Akeelah Anderson. Akeelah—would you step forward?”

  She slinked up to the mike, her eyes fastened on the floor. She tried to ignore Georgia’s whistles of encouragement and a few scattered catcalls.

  Ms. Cross said, “Okay, Akeelah. Your word is ‘doubt.’ ‘Doubt.’”

  In a barely audible voice, Akeelah said, “‘Doubt.’ Do-u-b-t.”

  “I’m sorry? You have to speak up. Talk directly into the mike.”

  Akeelah nodded, cleared her throat, and
said, “D-o-u-b-t,” her voice trembling but louder.

  “Uh…very good.”

  Akeelah returned to her seat, her eyes cast down.

  Mr. Welch nervously turned to glance at Dr. Larabee, who was watching the proceedings without expression.

  “The words are pretty basic,” the principal said.

  Dr. Larabee nodded but said nothing.

  “Next up, Regina Baker,” Ms. Cross said.

  Twenty minutes later, the competition had been reduced to two girls—Akeelah and Cheryl Banks, an eighth-grader. Cheryl was a rotund 200 pounds of intelligence and good cheer, picked on unmercifully by the girls in her class.

  “Cheryl,” Ms. Cross said, “your word is ‘placid.’”

  “‘Placid.’ That mean like remainin’ calm? Take things as they come?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “An excellent definition.”

  “‘Placid,’” she said. “Ah…p-l-a-s-i-d. ‘Placid’?”

  Akeelah shook her head as though to say, These words are just too easy.

  “I’m sorry,” Ms. Cross said. “It’s p-l-a-c-i-d. Okay, Akeelah, if you get this next word you’ll be the winner of the Crenshaw School Bee.”

  Moving to the microphone, she muttered under her breath, “Let’s get this farce over with.”

  “The word is ‘fanciful,’” she said. “‘Fan—”

  Akeelah interrupted her and said quickly, “F-a-n-c-if-u-l. ‘Fanciful.’”

  “Outstanding, Akeelah! You have won Crenshaw’s inaugural spelling bee. Good job!”

  Georgia cheered, as did Mr. Welch. Dr. Larabee, however, sat stony-faced, clearly not impressed.

  Akeelah grabbed her blue ribbon and started to exit the stage when a high-pitched whistle suddenly cut through the room. All eyes in the auditorium swung toward Dr. Larabee, who stopped whistling and, to Mr. Welch’s amazement, stood up.

  “She’s not done yet,” Dr. Larabee said, staring at Akeelah intently. He leaned on the chair in front of him, took a deep breath, and speaking very slowly, said, “‘Prestidigitation.’”

  Laughter erupted at the size and complexity of the word. Akeelah stayed rooted in one spot, her hand beginning to beat against her thigh, her lips moving, as she stared suspiciously at the tall stranger.