Akeelah and the Bee - James W. Ellison [15]
Akeelah stepped up to the microphone for the next round.
“The word is ‘concierge,’” the Pronouncer said.
She started tapping lightly on her thigh. “Uh…is that, like, a guy who stands around in a hotel? Wears a uniform ?”
“Speak into the mike, please,” the Judge said.
“A concierge,” said the Pronouncer, “is a head porter or doorkeeper. The origin is French.”
Akeelah nodded as she continued to tap her leg. “Co-n-c-i-e-r-g-e. ‘Concierge.’”
As she returned to her seat. Javier leaned toward her and whispered, “You’re doing great.” He raised both of his thumbs.
“I’m gettin’ mad lucky. I could be gettin’ words like ‘vinculum.’ Really tricky words.”
The speller at the mike put one too many “n’s” in “vinculum,” the bell went ding! and the speller left the stage, fighting back tears. Akeelah and Javier exchanged knowing glances.
Half an hour later, only a handful of spellers remained onstage. Many of the disappointed parents in the audience had left. For those remaining in the auditorium, the tension had grown more palpable.
The Judge approached the podium and spoke loudly into the mike. “As you can see, we’re down to eleven spellers. The top ten qualify for the Southern California Regional Finals. So in the next round if you miss a word, please do not leave the stage….”
Suddenly the loud crying of a baby erupted from the sparse audience. Akeelah felt her stomach tighten. She shot a look at Kiana that could kill (she and Mr. Welch had moved closer to the stage) as Kiana tried to calm her child. But the crying soon turned to wailing.
Akeelah half rose from her chair and said in a kind of strangled shout, “Kiana, get that baby outta here.”
Kiana huffed with indignation and threw up her free hand in protest before marching out of the auditorium with her screaming baby. Akeelah smiled sheepishly at the Judge, who looked unmoved.
“So let’s begin,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, the eleven remaining spellers were still in contention. Javier was up and his word was “syllogize.” He cocked his head to one side and stared at the ceiling, peered out at the audience, and milked the moment for all it was worth.
“Mr. Mendez,” the Pronouncer said, with a hint of impatience.
Javier nodded and gave the Pronouncer a brilliant smile. “‘Syllogize.’ S-y-l-l-o-g-i-z-e.”
His parents cheered as he gave a high sign and moonwalked over to the right side of the stage where the other finalists were congregated.
It was Akeelah’s turn to step up to the mike. Kiana peeked through the small window in a door near the stage, watching her sister intently.
“‘Synecdoche,’” said the Pronouncer.
Akeelah’s hand froze on her thigh. “‘Si-neck-do-key?’ You wanna tell me what that means?”
“It is a figure of speech in which a part is used for a whole, an individual for a class, a material for a thing, or the reverse of any of these.”
Akeelah stared at the Pronouncer for a moment, then let out a breath and leaned her head against the microphone, which made a popping sound. Her hand nervously tapped away, she blinked her eyes rapidly and cleared her throat. She saw Mr. Welch leaning forward in his chair, hopeful, seemingly willing her on. Then she caught sight of Dr. Larabee standing in the back, completely immobile, watching her intensely. She was surprised to see him and had to force herself to breathe. Dissect it, girl, she said to herself. The problem is in the ending.
“We need you to spell the word,” the Judge said.
Akeelah nodded. She made a fist with her nervous hand, took a deep breath, and said, “S-y-n-e-c-d-o-k-e-y. ‘Synecdoche.’”
The bell dinged, which to Akeelah’s ears was the sound of doom. She glanced at Dr. Larabee, who was looking down, closed her eyes, and rocked back and forth as though she might fall