SOME KIDS play sports. They strap on their gear, run hundreds of laps, and tackle, kick, or swing. The athletic field is their domain.
Some kids do makeover parties. They pool their fashion magazines and organize their own spa hair salons. Their French braids rival those twisted by the dexterous (d-e-x-t-r-u-s is how I spelled it in fourth grade) hands of professional stylists.
And some kids are computer geeks. Their programming ingenuity (i-n-g-e-n-i-u-t-y, or so I thought a couple of years ago) is a thing of wonder.
Me? I have the spelling bee.
The bee is my World Series. I train every day on my front steps after school, the dictionary pages rippling softly in the breeze. I build up my musculature (once I spelled it m-u-s-c-u-l-a-c-h-u-r . . . so embarrassing!) carrying around my buddies Merriam, Webster, and Oxford. I laugh in the face of spelling test challenge words. “Serendipitous”? Please. That is so fourth grade.
As soon as I open my eyes on Friday morning, I feel the hairs on my arm stand up.
