Akeelah and the Bee - James W. Ellison [37]
She took out a flashcard, read it, and then shoved it back in the box. She started to take out another, then shut the box, picked up the phone, and dialed. “Hey, girl. What up?” There was no response at the other end. “Georgia, you lost your tongue? It’s Akeelah.”
“Yeah,” she said flatly. “I know who it is. I ain’t forgot your voice.”
“So whatcha doin’?”
“Watchin’ TV. What I always do.”
“You wanna go skating this weekend? I haven’t used my blades in months.”
Georgia paused before saying, “Why don’t you go with your friends from Woodland Hills?”
“What? Girl, what’s wrong with you? Why you sound all bent outta shape?”
“I’m fine.” After a long, uncomfortable silence, she added, “You know somethin’ I noticed about you?”
“What’s that?”
“When you’re with me and my friends, you talk one way—all down-home and stuff. But with your new friends you sound white, like them. Why is that? I can’t help wonderin’.”
Akeelah stared at the telephone receiver, unable to think of an answer.
“I got stuff to do,” Georgia said. “I’ll talk to you later.” She abruptly hung up.
Akeelah shook her head, unable to believe this conversation with her oldest and best friend. First Dr. Larabee and now Georgia. She sensed that her safe existence was no longer safe. It was suddenly falling apart.
She sighed and started to open the box again when Kiana called from the living room. “Keelie, get in here. You’re on TV!”
Akeelah walked slowly out of her room and joined her sister and mother, whose eyes were fastened to the TV.
“Look!” Kiana said.
On TV, Akeelah saw her own image on the news and for an instant she felt weirdly divided between two Akeelahs—the public one and the private one. Which one was she really?
The reporter on TV said, “Akeelah Anderson’s ascension to the National Spelling Bee has captivated her community. All over South Los Angeles, people are talking about her—this eleven-year-old girl from Crenshaw Middle School who never entered a spelling bee till this year. She has quickly become an inspiration for her community, a beacon of hope for many.”
She stuck the mike in front of Steve, who was hanging out, as usual, in front of the neighborhood liquor store, very shaky but offering the reporter a sweet, toothless smile.
“What do you think of this young girl, sir?”
“I know her, a good li’l girl. And she, ah, the whole thing…uh…it’s good for all of us. You could say not too many good things happen around here.” The top of a half-pint bottle of whiskey was sticking out of his pants pocket. “Let’s hope she go all the way.”
The scene shifted to an old woman outside her home.
“If she wins,” said the old woman, “it’s gonna be like all of us wins. It’s ’specially a wonderful thing for all African Americans.”
A thug on a street corner hopped up and down with excitement. “Yo, dat girl’s dope! She da best.”
As each of these sentiments was expressed, Akeelah’s expression grew darker and darker, like a terrible weight was being placed on her shoulders, a weight she couldn’t hope to carry with any semblance of grace. Dr. Larabee was right: it was all a trap, a trap set for her. She was beginning to understand that fame might have pitfalls. It was a spiderweb to capture you and put you on display for others to view, not as a human being but as an object.
“Oh, no,” she muttered as she turned and ran from the room.
Tanya looked up, confused by her daughter’s behavior.
Eleven
Akeelah threw herself on the bed and let the tears come. They were tears that she had been holding inside since she left Dr. Larabee’s house. She beat her fists on the bed and wept with true anguish. A few minutes later Tanya entered the room, sat on the edge of the