She stands there, so smart, so smug, spelling words I never heard of. Marcie is also pretty, pleasant and popular. I, however, never liked her. We are both fourteen. I have few of Marcie’s attributes. My conclusion is I am as smart as she is, period. Part of my smartness is that I realize, my jealousy has green horns.
In grade school we had spelling bees either boys against the girls or row against row. She was lucky, got easy words, and applause. Lots of times I came in second but that was even worse than being the first kid eliminated. I didn’t congratulate her nor did she ridicule me.
Grammar school ends and I will be rid of my nemesis but I am not. We happen to be in 7B together at Willows Jr. High. She and I are semi-cordial to each other while four others from baby school surround her, happy to be together again. They don’t ignore me completely nor am I their shining star.
Miss Fickel, spelled with the ‘e’ before the ‘l’, is likeable at once. I am inspired, am going to get good grades, a boyfriend and enter the state spelling bee. The only one I tell about my aims is Miss Fickel. A broad, lovely smile crosses her face. She asks if I know Marcie Cooke and tells me Marcie has already put her name on the spelling bee list. ‘Maybe you two can practice together,’ Miss Fickel suggests. I tell her that is a great idea but know it isn’t. I’ll study alone or with my mother or maybe with Henry Katz, the only Jewish boy in my elementary class, who is in 7B, too. He is a hopeful speller.
Our first try out eliminates one person from the 40 on stage. I am so sorry for him. Mrs. Smollens advises us that we have to get the contestants down from now 39 to 25 for the final goal. It’s tough. I study the dictionary, practice every day. We are given lists of tricky words that may be used. My parents spend many hours with me teaching me timing, pronunciation, how to remain calm. Marcie, Henry and I, along with all the other final contestants,are nervous as Mexican jumping beans. The auditorium is full. There are cameras and reporters. We line up and parade onto the stage. Marcie is at ease, her long blond hair catches a draft that blows around her face. I try to relax but most likely resemble a soldier standing inspection. My seat is the right end of row one. Henry is about in the middle of row 2 and Marcie is at the end of row one left. The game begins. Mentally I am composed, ready to take on everyone. Students pause too long, request definitions, make errors. Our group gets smaller and smaller.
Henry is given a fairly simple word that means combining many colors. I think I see sweat on the back of his neck. He listens. ‘The word means combining many colors, pronounced–polychromy.’ Slowly Henry spells it and adds an ‘e’ before the ‘y.’ Disappointment is clear on his face as he leaves the stage. My own confidence wanes. Ellen Brady takes her time standing, walking to the mike. Looking directly to where she knows are parents are seated, she waits for her word. ‘Scagillola- pronounced scagilola. It is imitation marble.’ Ellen sinks her teeth into it and adds a second ‘l’ at the end. ‘Aws,’ rise from the audience.
I can feel the tenseness of my parents and Marcie’s. We are the last to spell. ‘Your word is ‘Feromagnesian-pronounced as spelled. It is a metabolic highly magnetic permeability.’ Oh, my god. I take a deep breath, focus my mind on the pronunciation and spell slowly, quietly into the mike. I am shocked to hear the applause. Who in this audience ever heard of this word, much less knew that I spelled it correctly? I sit down, straighten my skirt and wait for the coming duel.
Marcie waits. ‘Your word is ‘lillbullero’ pronounced as spelled. It is popular music in England 1688.’ How could she get such an easy word and I had the hardest of all? Marcie starts to spell, lil’ and hic coughs loudly. She does it again and again. If I could, I would whisper the spelling to her but she wouldn’t hear me. Her diaphragm is convulsing. There is a long pause, silence from the audience. Tears are running down Marcie’s face. I am the closest person to her and feel her pain. Time is called. She covers her face and leaves the stage. I am declared the winner. There is no joy in my heart. The audience pays little attention to me and may think I did something to Marcie.
As I near my parents who are standing in the back of the auditorium, I hear a little gremlin who assures me Marcie would have made a mistake without the hic coughs. ‘You worked hard. You won.’
The gremlin is right. I WON.
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