Young Writers Society

“Are you nervous?” Mom asked.

“Not at all,” I replied unconvincingly. My knees were shaking, but Mom ignored this and I tried to sound confident.

I thought back to everything that had led up to this moment. First in the county spelling bee, first in districts, and now this. Regionals. Today. I was going to go against the absolute best spellers from the whole state, and some other states as well.

My family was there to cheer me on, but I was definitely worried. What if I messed up? I smiled weakly. Everyone was counting on me.

Dad parked the car and smiled reassuringly as we walked into the children’s museum that the contest would be held in. The butterflies in my stomach grew into dragons. Angry dragons.

Inside, a lady asked for my name and zip code.

“Amelia Trishin,” I replied.

“Zip code?”

“Oh…” I was drawing a blank. Right then, I probably could have spelled anything she threw at me, but I just couldn’t think of numbers.

“I know,” the lady smiled sympathetically, “you’re here for letters and the first thing we do is ask you for a number.”

The fog cleared. “Four-one-two-five-eight,” I stammered.

The lady gave me a sticker and gave us directions to the contest area of the museum. I was numb as we walked past a few colorful displays and exhibits. In the contest area, a cheerful teenager was handing out doughnuts, but I wasn’t hungry. I waited with my parents until…

“Spellers, please take your seats at the tables!”

I walked to the tables. People who had scoped out their seat from the audience area were sitting down. A few, like me, were looking lost as they searched for the number pinned to their shirts. Where was my seat? Of course the numbers weren’t in order; number six was next to twenty-nine and number thirty was right across from sixteen. Finally, I spotted my seat and sat down anxiously.

It seemed to take forever for the enunciator to read through the rules that I already knew by heart. I had memorized all the information weeks ago.

As I waited, I looked around at my competition. That tiny blonde was definitely the only fourth grader; that boy in the purple sweater was probably in my grade. There were kids of all shapes, sizes, and colors, and with a shock I realized that I wouldn’t be seeing them next year at the contest. I was in eighth grade, so this was my final year—ever—of spelling bees.

Focus, I told myself. As the enunciator, the reader, read the rule about no erasing or crossing out mistakes, several people around me grimaced. We each had to get it right the first time.

As the paper and pens were passed out, I ran through all the spelling rules I knew. I before E, double the consonants, Y to and I, keep it simple. I thought about all the challenge words that I had practiced so hard on. I had studied all the challenge words in the practice booklet that I got in the mail. No problem.

After the first practice round, I waited patiently for my paper to be checked. I was pretty confident that I hadn’t missed any. Mom kept trying to catch my eye for a thumbs-up. Usually, I would have been embarrassed, but not today.

Finally, the checkers came around. If they showed me my paper, that would mean I had a word wrong. If not, no words missed. The boy on my left had missed a word; the girl on my right had missed one also. Which means (drumroll, please!), I didn’t miss any! I was so relieved and finally I started to believe that I could do it.

The next and final practice round passed the same way. I was feeling great. Before I knew it, it was in the real deal. The main event. The first round. I took my time, not wanting to make a stupid mistake, one that I wasn’t allowed to fix. Then it hit me like a punch in the stomach: word six. I had studied this one, hadn’t I? I was so sure that I was prepared, but now this! A simple word, really. Diligent. Dilligent. Which one was it? I carefully listened to the definition. It gave no clues. Wrestling with this in my mind, I thought maybe the word could be related to ‘intelligent’, with two l’s. Not wanting to miss the next words (no repeats!) I wrote it down. D-i-l-l-i-g-e-n-t. I tried staying focused on the next words, but I just wasn’t sure about number six. At word eight, it hit me: Diligent. Not dilligent, diligent. How could I do this? I’m sure I studied that word! But it was too late. Miserably, I completed my other words. If I tried changing it, it would be counted wrong. Then again, if I left it, it had a very slim chance of being right. With a heavy heart I let the checker take my paper.

Mom kept trying to catch my eye again. I turned to her once, saw her grin, and almost cried right there. Instead, I shook my head in disgust and looked away. I was so disappointed! Forcing myself not to let the tears slip away, I waited desolately. The enunciator told us not to leave the tables yet, even if we were eliminated. The checker came around. She stopped at the tables in front of me. Finally, my agonizing wait ended. He stopped in front of me, pointed at word six, and moved on. That was it. I had to bite my tongue to keep from sobbing. All that hard work, and for what?

Everyone who was eliminated stood up. It was over half of the group, but I didn’t look around to see who was still in. I simply stared at the ground while we received our final applause.

When I got to her, Mom gave me a hug. “Do you want to stay and watch?” she asked.

“No.” I attempted a smile. “We can still go check out the rest of the museum.

She nodded. “Okay.”

I realized something in that moment, and my fake small turned into a real one. Small, but real. I realized that I had come a long way. Even if I didn’t get to go the National spelling bee, I was the best in my county and district. I was a good speller, I decided, and I didn’t need to win a contest to prove that.