The Stupendously Spectacular Spelling Bee Read online

  19

  Disquietude

  (adjective):

  Anxiety, agitation, and generally feeling off-kilter.

  The hectic events of the day left them with a feeling of disquietude.

  India lay in her king-size bed at the Hotel Grand, her head bustling with thoughts: the tour through Sydney, meeting the prime minister, and the spelling bee finals tomorrow.

  But there was something else.

  Rajish.

  I’d rather talk with India.

  Of all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, this is what she remembered the most. Not only did he sit next to her on the bus, but he was also funny and nice, and he wanted to talk to her.

  And it wasn’t awful.

  She even…enjoyed it.

  And she absolutely had never, ever enjoyed talking with strangers.

  Until now.

  She laughed, which was exactly when Mom poked her head in the room. “Something funny?”

  India wasn’t ready to tell her about Rajish. Instead, she told sort of a fib. “I can’t get to sleep because I keep thinking about everything that’s happened.”

  Mom sat on the bed beside her. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

  “A little, but I think I’m OK.”

  Mom reached for a small package that was hidden inside her bathrobe. “I was going to give you this tomorrow, but since you’re still awake, you might as well have it now.”

  India tore off the paper and held up a sleeveless, red dress sprinkled with small purple flowers.

  “I added a pocket for Great-Grandpop’s hanky.”

  “You made this?”

  Mom nodded. “While you were at school. I thought it’d be nice to have a brand-new dress for your big moment.”

  “It’s perfect.” India hugged her mom. “Thank you.”

  “What’s going on?” Dad was at the door.

  “India can’t sleep.”

  “What’s up?” Boo appeared beside him in his rumpled robot pajamas.

  “India can’t sleep,” Mom said.

  “Is everything OK?” It was Nanna Flo this time.

  “India can’t sleep,” the Wimples answered in unison.

  “It’s to be expected,” Nanna Flo said.

  Mom saw the dictionary beside India’s bed. “Would you like us to practice with you?”

  India shook her head. “Could I hear a story instead?”

  “Which one would you like?”

  “Brave Boo and Ingenious India.”

  The Wimples climbed into India’s king-size bed and snuggled up as Mom began.

  “There once was a girl called Ingenious India, who had a brother called Brave Boo. Together, they once saved the prime minister from a perilous plot of treacherous turmoil…”

  As Mom told the story, adding in the details of tenacious terriers and top-secret subterranean tunnels, on the other side of the hotel wall, in the palatial penthouse suite, Summer was having trouble sleeping too.

  Her nanny had long ago said good night, and Summer now stood at the window, with all of Sydney twinkling far below.

  She watched boats sail by with party-loads of people, the Ferris wheel at Luna Park turning in the distance, cars and buses filled with passengers, all with somewhere to go.

  And someone to go with.

  She clambered into her enormous bed, which overflowed with stuffed toys, each one bought by her parents as a present from another business trip. She knew each one by name and liked to pretend they were her brothers and sisters.

  She cuddled up beside them, holding out her phone to make sure they could all see the screen as she played videos of her and her parents at birthday parties, playing on the beach, and on a pier sharing a giant ice-cream sundae.

  There weren’t many, but she watched them all, over and over again.

  “Would you like to speak to Mommy and Daddy before we go to sleep?” She nodded the head of a fluffy dog beside her. “OK.” She wagged a finger. “But not for long. It’s way past your bedtime.”

  Summer pressed a number into her phone and waited. Her face filled with an expectant smile. Then she heard a familiar voice: “Hello, you have reached Evelyn Elizabeth Marigold Beauregard. I am in Auckland and unable to take your call at this time, but if you leave me a message, I will phone you back at my earliest possible convenience.”

  Beeeeep.

  “Hello, Mommy. It’s Summer. I just wanted to say…to say…good night.” And because she wasn’t sure what else to say, she said, “So…good night.”

  But then she changed her mind. “Actually, there is something else. I’ve made it to the—”

  Beeeeep. Message ended. Please call back if you would like to leave a further message.

  Summer stared at the screen as it went black. She laid the phone on the bedside table, opened the drawer, and pulled out a red pencil and a small notebook. Inside the notebook was a foldout map of the world. It was filled with red dots from South Korea to Hong Kong—even as far away as Denmark. She took the pencil and added a dot beside Auckland.

  She stared at the map before folding it up and placing the book back in the drawer. She sank down into her large bed filled with stuffed animals and stared at the lights of Sydney until she slowly drifted off to sleep.

  20

  Disagreeable

  (adjective):

  Ill tempered, peevish, discourteous, impolite, churlish, disabling, ratty. (There are just so many words for this one.)

  She was a thoroughly disagreeable child.

  “How do I look?” Dad made a fittingly grand entrance into the living room of the Grand Plaza suite.

  The Wimple family froze. Nanna Flo held a brush halfway through India’s hair. Boo was in the middle of tying his shoes, and Mom stood with lipstick on half a lip.

  Dad turned before them, proudly modeling a pair of yellow-and-red-striped pants.

  “Mrs. Gadsby made them for me after I unclogged her sewer pipe.” Dad shuddered. “That one was a nasty job,” he said before pulling up the legs of his trousers. “So she threw in these green polka-dot socks.”

  Boo, Nanna Flo, Mom, and India stared, not sure what else to do. Finally, Mom spoke up.

  “They’re…” she began, but nothing else came out.

  Dad’s shoulders drooped. “Ridiculous, aren’t they? I knew it.”

  “No!” Mom cried. “I love them.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course,” Mom fibbed, much to the relief of the other Wimples. “In fact, I don’t think there’s anyone else handsome enough to carry them off.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Now, we have a spelling bee to get to.”

  • • •

  The elevator opened onto a lobby crowded with nervous parents and spelling bee contestants.

  “This is it,” Dad said, rubbing his hands together. “The moment we’ve all been waiting for.”

  Mom gave Dad one of those looks that told him he’d gone too far. He dropped his hands. “What I meant to say is that we love you very much, India Wimple, and no matter what happens today, we’re very proud of you.”

  “Oh pish!” Nanna said. “My money’s on India taking home that trophy.”

  “Excuse me, everyone.” They turned to see a woman wearing a microphone headset. “All spellers need to go to wardrobe to get ready for the broadcast.”

  This time, the entire round was going to be live on national TV.

  India’s heart did a flip—one of the old-fashioned ones, where she suddenly felt very anxious.

  The Wimples began what had become their special routine of saying goodbye.

  “Go get ’em, sweet pea.” Dad gave India an extra-long hug.

  “Don’t forget your great-grandfather’s hanky,” Nanna Flo said. “Give it a quick squeeze before you
start.”

  “I will.”

  “Good-luck hug?” Boo asked.

  “Yes, please.” Her voice wavered a little, and Boo could hear it.

  “You’ll be great, sis,” he whispered. “I know it.”

  Mom gave India a final kiss on the forehead, and the Wimples waved as she headed off, but with each step India’s nerves frayed.

  And the voice inside her head came back: Why did you think you could even do this? it said. You’re not just going to freeze in front of a few hundred people like you did during the school play—you’re going to freeze in front of millions.

  Then she saw Rajish.

  His dad was giving him a last-minute pep talk when his eyes met hers. He smiled and gave her a sneaky wave. India waved back, and in that moment, she felt her nervousness fade.

  Maybe that’s all there was to friendship—there wasn’t any magic to it or a manual to tell you how it works. You just had to be with the right person.

  India turned and, with a spring in her step, followed the signs to the girls’ wardrobe area.

  Which is where she saw Summer.

  “Ah, India Wimp.”

  “It’s Wimple.” India took off her sweater.

  “Oh, yes. That’s right.” Summer turned away and flicked through dresses dangling from a clothes stand. “Was that your family in the lobby?”

  “Yes,” India said proudly.

  “Are they performers?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I thought perhaps they were performers,” Summer said. “Those pants your dad is wearing are real showstoppers.”

  “My dad’s a repairman.”

  “How quaint. Who’s the old lady? Is she your nanny?”

  “No, she’s my—”

  Summer turned away, not even bothering to hear the answer. “What are you wearing for the competition?”

  India looked down at the red dress her mother had made. “I was going to wear this.”

  “Oh.” It was obvious that Summer was less than impressed. “I can’t decide on the trench coat by Armani or the Stella McCartney jumpsuit. My father says that when you enter a room, you should make an impression, and I want to make a big impression when I walk onto that stage.”

  Her face lit up. “This one.” She held a flowing, white dress against her. India thought she looked like a glamorous model, with her perfectly styled blond hair. “And these will make it perfect.” Summer chose a pair of strappy heels and headed off to the changing rooms.

  India watched her leave, suddenly feeling incredibly small, as if she were actually shrinking.

  Minuscule.

  Inconsequential.

  Nugatory.

  The room swirled with girls in beautiful dresses huddling in groups and posing for selfies.

  The voice in India’s head came back. This isn’t for you. It’s for rich, beautiful girls, just like you expected.

  “India Wimple?” The makeup artist held up a brush. “I’m Trudy, and it looks like you’re next.”

  India slunk into the chair while Trudy redid her ponytail.

  A group of girls behind them erupted into giggles as they leaned in to each other and whispered conspiratorially. India looked down into her lap.

  “Is everything OK?” Trudy asked.

  India nodded. “Just a little nervous.”

  “Nerves can be good. They can keep you on your toes. You’ll be fine.”

  India tried as hard as she could to believe it.

  “Ten minutes to on air!” the floor manager called. “Time to go, everyone.”

  India shrank behind the others as they were led backstage. Outside, she could hear the excited mutterings of the audience.

  Philomena Spright was in the wings, warming up her voice. “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. How now brown cow…” The light from the stage covered her in a radiant glow so that she shimmered in her gold dress, just like a movie star.

  “Five minutes, everyone.”

  India’s heart quickened. She took a deep breath, trying to slow it down.

  “This is it.” Rajish appeared beside her. “Our big moment. Are you ready?”

  “I think so.” India nodded, wanting it to be true.

  “You’ll be great,” Rajish said. “I know it.”

  “Good luck, everyone,” Philomena said as the audience began to settle. “And remember, enjoy yourselves.”

  The floor manager led the spellers to the chairs onstage.

  India held her hand against the glare of the lights. She searched for her family, but apart from the people in the front row, the audience was shrouded in shadow.

  Her head was a muddled jumble of letters and words—none of them made sense. India dipped her hand into her pocket and gave her great-grandfather’s hanky a squeeze, and she felt a little better.

  Every kid on either side of her was nervous too, judging by their fidgeting hands and jiggling knees. Every kid, that is, except Summer, who sat perfectly still, waiting for the cameras to roll.

  “Have a great show, everyone.” The stage manager held her fingers in front of the main camera and counted down. “We’re going live in four…three…two…” Her hand dropped and the theme music started.

  Philomena Spright beamed into the camera. “Welcome to the finals of the Stupendously Spectacular Spelling Bee!”

  The audience erupted into applause, the music blared, and searchlights lit up the stage.

  “Over the next two exhilarating rounds, we will discover who is going to be our new champion. Tonight, each speller is allowed one incorrect answer…but any more than that means we say goodbye. At the end of the night, we will have our top twelve spellers, who will go on to compete in the grand final.” Philomena paused. “At the world-famous Sydney Opera House!”

  This sent the audience into another excited round of applause.

  “So, let’s begin.”

  Children were called to the microphone and Philomena Spright carefully pronounced each word.

  Enthusiastic.

  Rhapsodic.

  Euphoric.

  India practiced writing each word on her hand, but every attempt confused her even more.

  Chronicle.

  Labyrinthine.

  Was it chronical or chronicle? Was it laberinthine or labyrinthine? She wasn’t sure which ones were right.

  She searched the audience again, hoping to see Dad’s wave, realizing how much she needed it, but the stage lights were so bright she couldn’t see anything but an endless stretch of black.

  Flummoxed, the voice in her head said, more snarky than usual. A verb meaning to be confounded, bewildered, or completely stumped.

  “India Wimple.”

  “Yes?”

  Philomena was staring directly at her—and may have been for quite some time. “Your turn.”

  Some of the audience laughed.

  India stepped gingerly to the microphone.

  “Your word is infinitesimal.”

  She immediately wrote it on her hand. Did she have her i’s and e’s in the right place? Did it end in el or al? Or maybe le? She tried it again and again, but nothing looked right.

  “Fifteen seconds remaining.” Philomena Spright gave her a hopeful look.

  “Infinitesimal,” India began. “I-n-f-i-n…” She scribbled on her hand. “i-t…”

  “Time’s almost up,” Philomena said. “I need an answer.”

  Slowly, she spelled the rest of the word: “i-s-i-m-a-l.”

  She heard a gasp from the spellers behind her.

  Philomena looked down to double-check her card. “That is…incorrect.”

  India felt as if a weight had landed on her chest. She nodded to the pronouncer and trudged back to her seat. She slumped forward, staring at her shoes, barely hea
ring the next words. You shouldn’t be here, the voice said. Summer was right. You’re not even dressed properly.

  “Rajish Kapoor.”

  India watched Rajish walk to the microphone. He looked relaxed and was smiling.

  “Your word is erroneous.”

  Rajish thought about it, frowned, and thought some more.

  India stared in disbelief, wondering why he hadn’t begun spelling.

  “Erroneous.” Rajish paused again, as if he was deciding what to do. “E-r-r-o-n-i-o-u-s. Erroneous.”

  He looked hopefully at Philomena Spright.

  “I’m afraid that’s incorrect.”

  Rajish shook his head, and, as he made his way back to his seat, he snuck India the smallest smile.

  India was confused. Rajish knew that word. She’d heard him spell it in the elevator with his dad.

  More contestants came and went. More words were spelled incorrectly. Slowly the number of children was whittled down.

  And the words became harder.

  Kaleidoscope.

  Reconnaissance.

  Onerous.

  India had spelled four words correctly and was feeling more comfortable when she was called back up to the microphone.

  “Your word is indefatigability.”

  She needed to get this right or she would be out of the competition.

  “I-n-d…”

  Was it an a next…or an e? She wrote on her hand. “e-f-a-t…”

  Then she saw it, as if the spelling had formed on a screen in her head, like Rajish said it would.

  “i-g-a-b-i-l-i-t-y.”

  “That is correct!” Philomena Spright waved the card.

  When India walked back to her chair, Rajish was staring at her with a look that said, See? I told you you’d be great.

  The room was tense. The audience sat in nervous silence, hanging on every letter, waiting anxiously for each verdict.

  India glanced at the empty seats onstage and the twelve kids who were left. They all had a chance at the grand final, but one of them had to go.

  “Solecism,” Philomena announced. “This is a noun meaning a mistake or blunder.”

  Even though the word wasn’t long, India knew it was tricky. She closed her eyes and watched it form in her head.

  The boy at the microphone began. “Solecism.”