Akeelah and the Bee - James W. Ellison [21]
“You know I have to do this, Daddy. I don’t have a choice.”
She took a deep breath and slowly signed the bottom of the form, forging her father’s careful handwriting.
Samuel Anderson….
Seven
Akeelah stood in front of Dr. Larabee’s house the following Monday, the first day of summer vacation. She took a deep breath, muttered “Good luck, girl,” then rang the buzzer. After a few moments, Dr. Larabee answered the door. They stared at each other for a moment, neither willing to start the conversation.
Akeelah said finally, “1979. ‘Maculature.’ M-a-c-u-l-a-t-u-r-e. 1990. ‘Fibranne.’ F-i-b-r-a-n-n-e. 1996. ‘Vivisepulture.’ V-i-v-i-s-e-p-u-l-t-u-r-e.”
She took a breath. He looked at her, his head cocked to one side, the trace of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth.
“I learned all the winning words since 1924. Just like you said I should.” She waited for him to respond, but when he didn’t she rushed on, saying, “I’m sorry for being so insolent last time. That’s not gonna happen no more—anymore. I promise.” Again she waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. “So I was wondering…I was wondering if you might reconsider coaching me for the State Bee. ’Cause I need a coach. Bad.”
There was a long pause as he seemed to consider what she was proposing. Then he let out a long, deep breath.
“Badly,” he corrected her. “You need a coach badly.” He opened the door wider. “Come in.”
He stepped back into the house, leaving the door half open behind him. Akeelah hesitantly ventured into the foyer and was immediately impressed by the antique wooden moldings and by how immaculate and well kept the house was. He might live in a bad neighborhood—her neighborhood—but his house was really cool.
“Wipe your feet,” he said.
She turned back to the doormat and did as she was told. Dr. Larabee disappeared through an office door at the end of a long hall. Akeelah hesitated and then followed him. Swallowing back nervousness, she entered the impressive room flanked by two towering bookcases made of polished walnut. On the wall were framed university degrees from Yale and UCLA, as well as photographs of Dr. Larabee as a younger man on the Yale football team and with a pretty black woman with a dazzling smile.
Dr. Larabee moved behind his desk, every inch the professor. Standing hunched over his computer, he finished typing something and then, without looking up, said, “So tell me, Akeelah. What guarantee do I have that I can trust you?”
“’Scuse me?”
“I don’t want to squander my time on someone who’s not committed. Commitment is crucial for success. Work, hard work, work all the time, practically in your sleep. That’s what it’s going to take.”
“Well, I’m committed.”
He finally looked up at her, but she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. She thought she detected a hint of warmth.
“How do I know that? You’re a very unpredictable little girl. Blowing warm, then blowing cold.”
“All I can do is make you a promise,” Akeelah responded calmly. “And if that’s insufficient, well, I’m sorry, sir. All I have is my word.”
She held Dr. Larabee’s gaze as he slowly nodded. After a pause, he sat down behind his desk and gestured for her to take a seat. Akeelah saw a more recent photo of Dr. Larabee and the pretty woman with the dazzling smile.
“She’s beautiful,” Akeelah said, nodding at the wall. “She your wife?”
Ignoring her question, Dr. Larabee said, “Listen—you got lucky at the District Bee. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “I’m aware of it.”
“The competition’s much stronger at the state level. You’re up against kids who have practiced for years, kids who can afford private tutors. So if we were to prepare for that, we’d do it on my schedule. I administer online classes in the afternoon”—he glanced at his computer—“so that means we’d work in the mornings.