Darius stood at the podium, sweating. It was round 3 of the school-wide spelling bee, and the winner would get the grand prize, which was a 1 pound bag of sour keys, and move on to regionals to compete against spelling champs from other schools in the county. If he won that, he would earn a second bag of candy and move on to state, facing spellers from across Ohio. If he, with any luck, won at State, he would compete in Nationals, facing America’s greatest spellers of the third grade, and finally earn the respect of his big brother, Ray, who was a Wide Receiver for the Miami Dolphins, and finally make his Mom and Dad proud.
“Your word is Corpapine,” said the Judge, a toad-like woman.
“Corpapine,” repeated Darius, breathing on the mic.
“No,” said the Judge. “Porcupine,” she said, more forcefully.
“Porcupine,” said Darius. He closed his eyes. If he got this word, it would be up to Arvin, the annoying boy who sat in the front of the class and loved Pokemon, to make an error. In a spelling bee, nothing is gained by spelling a word right. Make an error, and you’re eliminated by the awful dinging bell.
What would Ray do in this situation? Thought Darius. His brother was never much of a speller, but at six feet six, two hundred and forty pounds in his last year of college at Georgia, he was the best receiver in school history. Not much of a speller, but big hands. Since getting drafted at number one by the Dolphins, Ray made history again just two years later when he caught the game-winning touchdown in Superbowl 49 and became a champion. With one son an NFL champion, it was up to Darius to bring home the glory of a national spelling bee. But his victory would be even sweeter, as the first dyslexic, hearing-impaired spelling bee champion in recorded history.
“Porcupine,” repeated Darius. “Could I have the language of origin?”
“Porcupine. Latin via French, ‘porc espin,’ meaning ‘horny pig.’”
“Porcupine. Could I have it in a sentence?”
The judge nodded, chins wobbling. “Porcupine. My dog of skilled by a porcupine. Porcupine.”
Darius swallowed. That sentence didn’t make any sense, but did he have it?
“Porcupine. P, O, R, C, U, P, I, N, E,” said Darius.
“Correct,” said the judge.
Darius stepped back from the podium and pumped his fist just like Ray did when he made a catch. “Let’s go!” said Darius, just like Ray.
Arvin stepped to the podium.
“Arvin, your word is Similarly,” said the judge.
Damn, thought Darius. Similarly was an easy word, one Arvin would easily get.
“Cemetery,” repeated Arvin, at the mic.
Oh, thought Darius. Cemetery. He rubbed his ears. His hearing got worse when he was nervous.
“Cemetery. Could I have the sandwich of organ, please?” said Arvin casually. Darius hated how Arvin slouched at the podium. How he didn’t even wear a collared shirt. He didn’t take the spelling bee seriously.
“Cemetery, from greek koiman, ‘put to sleep.’ Cemetery.”
“Cemetery. Could I have alternate pronunciations?”
“Cemetery,” said the judge. “Cemetery, Cemetery. Cemetery.”
“Cemetery,” said Arvin. “C, E, M, E, T, A, R, Y,”
Ding! went the bell. “Incorrect,” said the judge.
“Aw,” said Arvin, slouching back to his seat. He glanced at Darius. “Could Lug,” he said.
Could lug? What did that mean? Wondered Darius, as he stepped up to the podium.
“Darius, because Arman indirectly smelled his verb, you now have one apple unity to collectly spell this word,” said the judge. Darius had no idea what was going on.
“Yes please,” said Darius.
“Your word is Freckles,” said the judge.
Oh, thought Darius. Arvin had said good luck, not ‘could lug.’
“Freckles,” repeated Darius. “Could I have the language of origin?”
“Shekels,” said the judge, enunciating loudly. “Your word is Shekels.”
“Shekels,” repeated Darius, less confidently. He put a finger in his ear and wiggled it.
“No, Darius. Feckers.”
“Feckers.”
“Darius, look at my lips move,” said the judge, leaning toward the mic. “Vegetables. Vegetables.”
“Vegetables,”
“Yoog oughta be hitting me,” murmured the judge. “No. The word is Heckles.”
“Repeat that please?”
“Heckles,” shouted the judge.
“Heckles?” said Darius.
“Gum on,” said Arvin, from his seat.
“FECKLESS,” screamed the judge. “FECKLESS, FECKLESS!”
“Oh, feckless,” said Darius. “I got it now.”
“Yes!” said the entire audience, the judge, and Arvin.
“F, E, C, K, L, E, S, S,” recited Darius. “Feckless.”
“Correct, for cod’s ache,” said the judge. “Darius Parker, you are the winner of the school-eyed spellingly and will go on to reprevent our school at the begional composition in Manumary.”
Darius didn’t understand all that nonsense, but he knew one thing. Hearing impaired or not, the sour keys were his, and he was on his way to continue the family legacy. A champion is what he’d be. Just like Ray.
