Free Akeelah and the Bee by James W. Ellison Page B

forehead, frowned at the board, muttering quietly under his breath. Then suddenly he smiled and looked up at Akeelah.
    “ Arrivederci , sweetheart,” he said.
    Using his three remaining tiles, he spelled “limn.”
    “Seven points ties the game,” Javier said, some of his sportscaster’s exuberance gone. “But Dylan gets Akeelah’s last two points. He wins! A heartbreaker….”
    Dylan walked off with his father, a tight grin on his face. Akeelah let out a long sigh as all the kids started chattering about the close match.
    “Wow, Akeelah,” Javier said, shaking her hand. “No one ever gets that close to beating Dylan. I’m really impressed.”
    “But I didn’t beat him.”
    “Girl,” Georgia said, “you passed up the mall to play Scrabble? You’re loco and I’m never gonna figure you out. Forever trippin’, that’s you.”
    Akeelah gave her friend a wan smile but said nothing. She went inside the house and grabbed her purse from the hallway. As she was about to leave, she heard an angry voice in the living room and she stopped to listen. She tiptoed to the door and peeked around the corner and saw Mr. Watanabe pointing a finger at Dylan, his voice a low growl.

    “If you can barely beat a little black girl at a silly board game, how do you expect to win the National Bee?”
    Dylan bowed his head and said nothing. His father sharply struck the wall, causing both Dylan and Akeelah to jump.
    “You listen to me,” Mr. Watanabe said, his voice thick and threatening. “We’re not coming in second again this year. Second is unacceptable. We are going to win, is that understood?”
    Dylan nodded.
    “You have to work a little harder.”
    “I don’t think I can work any harder,” Dylan said, his voice small, almost childlike.
    “Yes, you can. You can always go the extra mile. And that’s what you’re going to do. Don’t ever forget: you’re my son.”
    “I know that.”
    Akeelah watched Mr. Watanabe lead his humiliated son out of the house.

Eight
    Early Monday morning, Akeelah sat in a chair beside Dr. Larabee’s desk, cradling an enormous book in her thin arms and reading aloud as he sat imperiously behind his desk, listening intently.
    Akeelah read, “‘He began to have a dim feeling that, to attain his place in the world, he must be himself, and not another.’” The book slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. “Dr. Larabee, this book is heavy . My arms are beginning to hurt.”
    “Good,” Dr. Larabee said. “You need to develop your arm muscles.”
    “I thought we were developin’ my vocabulary.”
    “We are. But you have to remember, the mind and body are connected. Do you do any physical exercise?”
    She smiled. “As little as possible. The school makes us take gym, but you can slide out of it if you want to. Crenshaw doesn’t have many rules you can’t break.”
    “You should build up your body,” Dr. Larabee said.
    “Should I lift weights?” she asked jokingly.
    “Not a bad idea,” he said seriously. “Keep reading.”
    “But I already know most of the words in this speech.”
    “It’s not a speech,” Dr. Larabee explained. “It’s an essay by W. E. B. DuBois, the first black man to get a
Ph.D. from Harvard. He empowered blacks to be all that they could be. Unlike Booker T. Washington, who accommodated himself to the white culture—peace at any price—DuBois believed that blacks needed to be active politically, culturally, and intellectually. He was one of the great figures in African-American history.”
    “I know he was important and all,” Akeelah said. “But shouldn’t I be learning more big words? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”
    He looked at her sharply. “Are you questioning my teaching methods?”
    She shook her head. “I’d never do that, Dr. Larabee.”
    Suddenly he broke into a smile, a rare event. “Well, maybe you should. I’m not infallible, and I do believe that DuBois would approve. But I am your teacher and,