Chapter one

Bee and Reality

    How many words can the alphabet concoct? Can one dictionary really convene them all or do they just elaborate. All the nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, and all that paraphernalia, can we really disengage them all? Who even thought of it all? How many years did it take to complete our never ending vocabulary.
These thoughts that confound in my mind are all I can really think about at times like these. I am determined to find out before it is my turn to go up. But my mind drifts out of reality and in a realm of my own creation where I am a super intellect hero where I help every victim of a brain lock, or just of stupid mistakes, I will help them to come to understand where they went wrong. I fly through the air swerving right and left in the vivid blue heavens that I call my place of escape. Then I hit it, place in the middle of my itinerary, “ABIGAIL,” in big red substantial letters. I fall back into my reality.

            My competitor’s and the crowd’s eyes are fixed on me. Then the commentator says in aggravated voice, “Abigail, your turn is up, please walk up to the microphone to receive your next word.

            I get up to the microphone that was just standing there in the middle of the stage over looking the massive audience. I estimated that there were over five thousand spectators in the audience. Not to mention the camera crew that was pointing at me, who knew how many people were watching from the other end. Behind and to the sides of me were enormous screens which showed my giant face, with red pigtails, freckles and thick black rim glasses that hid my green eyes. It was an almost prefect replica of notorious Pippy Longstocking. Me and Pippy were very different of course, she was more of an arrogant and adventuress, while I was of a realist, anti-social intellect kind of person. I hated looking like her, my mother always put my hair in pigtails she said it was cute. I thought it made me look like a seven year old. Even though I was seven, but I hated the thought of it.

            I stood there impatiently, then the commentator looked at his little flash card “Your word is uncharacteristic,” he said it again but slower making sure he pronounced ever syllable, “uncharacteristic.”  

            What did he think I was dimwitted? I felt stupid spelling this word but I spelt is in the most grown up, sarcastic tone I could, “u-n-c-h-a-r-a-c-t-e-r-i-s-t-i-c.” I rolled my eyes and sat back down; I didn’t wait for the commentator to say it was correct.

            The child after me went off the stage crying. She looked really prissy, she looked eight and she had a pretty floral dress on and a pretty little ribbon in her long blonde hair.  She couldn’t spell, “Stimulate,” what a ditz.

            The Bee went on, the words became vaguely more challenging and finally it was almost over. There was me and one of my good acquaintances. It was Wong Tu, at every Spelling Bee we would always meet up and get into in-depth political debates, I would always win those discussions but he was really fascinating to talk to. To me he looked like every other ten year old Chinese boy, except for the distinct scar on his cheek. He told me that he was playing around with a bunch of chemicals for a science experiment and accidentally used bleach instead of water. He thinks he discovered a new type of bomb; I made him promise me to not elaborate on that theory. He agreed.

            Wong Tu looked really nervous, there was sweat dripping from his forehead. I never seen a ten year old sweat before; I was considerably revolted. The commentator gave him his word; rationalization. Oh sure give him the easy one. These Spelling Bees get easier and easier as the years pass on. I think it’s because nobody likes making children cry, and if they misspell a word they continuously cry, it’s rather sad essentially.

            Wong Tu looked at his mother who was holding a sign that said, “Wong Tu is going to beat you.” It was cleverish, but if I was in Wong Tu’s arrangement I would be thinking in the third person and pondering on whether I could beat myself or not. I think since my brain is so powerful I could subconsciously make myself silent, and my brain would purposely forget how to talk and i would have no control over it.  Therefore I could not spell the word and I would be forced to be deprived of championship and after the Bee it would go back to normal. The doctors would not even be able to explain it, they would say I was just nervous that’s all, and my evil brain would just get away with it. I am so glad that my brain is not evil and still takes orders from its good side.

            My reality snaps back to me when yet another rush of cheering and clapping commences from the audience. I get up not waiting for my name to be called like the way I call my cat when it is feeding time. I was not a household pet and I hated to be treated like one. It was demeaning and repetitive.

The commentator looked at me like he was concerned about something. I didn’t know if he was concerned about me, nor did I know why. Maybe one of his loved ones died right before this and he really needed this job so he had to suck it up. Consequently I decided I was going to be a lot nicer to this man. He gave me my word; maltodextrin.  I thanked the commentator nicely. He gave me an awkward look. This word was way harder then rationalization. I was thinking back on where I saw this word if I have ever. Then it hit me like Einstein’s theory. The first time I had Power Aid I read the ingredients and the one of the main factors in it. Luckily and one of the main reasons I was so smart was because I had photographic memory. I looked back in my mind and there in white letters I spelt it.

 I go back to my seat and remember that I should probably be drinking more Power Aid.  My second grade teacher never let me drink Power Aid. She said it had too much sugar and it was bad for you. I was appalled that she said that so I decisively told her that it’s only bad for you if you drink too much of it, but then even water will kill you if you drink to much of it. Then I explained to her that it had enough calories in it to keep me going and at my age I need all the calories I can get because of my metabolism. That day she sent a letter home to my mom saying not to bring Power Aid to so school anymore. My teacher; Ms Henderson doesn’t like me, I always correct her and I always try to get into debates with about the environment. She gives me bad marks; my mom told me to maybe I should dumb it down just for school. I explain to my mother that if I would even consider ‘dumbing it down’ for anybody my brain would probably just stop growing intellectually and I would be like every other repulsive seven year old. My mother won’t even let me skip a couple grades. She says I need to get a full childhood. Putting me in that grade two class is like putting bee in with a bunch of flies. I work to collect honey while they eat garbage, literally.  I really dislike those immature vermins and that awful teacher.

“Reincarnation,” the commentator said. I knew the word, it was an effortless word. I saw my mother in the stand; she was giving me the thumbs up and had a huge smile on her face. I spelt the word flawlessly, and sat down.

            Wong Tu goes up to the microphone and he was drenched in sweat. It was like he jumped in a pool and scarcely had time to dry himself off.  Word was emphatically, Wong Tu’s voice was shaky has he pronounced the first syllable and by the second his voice cracked. It made all speakers in the building make an unbearable screech. Which made some people in audience scream and everybody grab their ears.

I knew at that moment that I had one the National Spelling Bee.

    On the way home was a five hour drive back to New York. My mother refused to get a hotel and to take the next day off. So we left our journey at 10:00pm and returned to our creaky apartment almost at three.