Free Spelldown by Karon Luddy Page B

has been nosying around the mill, asking the boss men about Mama and Daddy. But nobody really understands how hard Daddy’s trying to be good. They don’t know he hasn’t had a drop to drink in four weeks. Mrs. Harrison is full of rotten baloney. Telling me
Sapere aude, sapere aude, sapere aude
. And I believed her—I am daring to be wise, I am studying my butt off—but, deep inside, she thinks I am
dooomed
. I don’t need anybody’s sympathy. I am the spelling champion of Shirley County. In January I will become the spelling champion of South Carolina. And then in May I’ll march into Washington, D.C., and win the spelling championship of the United States of America. Who knows? I might even become the spelling champion of the whole goddamn world.I trudge back to bed, but my heart feels restless and I flop around on the bed, biting my fingernails. An image of me and Billy Ray standing on the ledge of the bridge comes into my head, and I relax. The sun is pure gold. The breeze ruffles my hair. We’re holding hands, admiring the sun sinking into the reservoir. I wonder how he really feels about me. What he thinks of me being so ornery and smart-alecky all the time. He talks like a prophet and never judges anyone, even though he has to live with two drunk parents. He’s probably going to be a famous preacher like Billy Graham one day. It’s silly to have these romantic thoughts about him, because it’s obvious he’s God’s boy. But when it comes to Billy Ray Jenkins, my imagination gets diarrhea.
    Mrs. Harrison knocks, and then comes in and sits on the bed. “Hey, champ,” she says, gently pushing my bangs aside. The feel of her fingers on my forehead makes my anger float up to heaven. She tells me all about Mayor Melton’s shindig and asks me about what we did and how the kids behaved. She notices the art book on the nightstand and starts talking about Marc Chagall this and Marc Chagall that. Then she plumps up a pillow beside me and we look at the village picture. “Look, it’s a girl milking a billy goat! I wonder why he painted it there on the lamb’s cheek?”
    “I don’t think that’s a billy goat,” I say.
    “You don’t?”
    “No ma’am. Billy goats don’t have udders,” I say without cracking a smile.
    She leans over and starts tickling me under my arms. Ibreak out in wild giggles and try to push her away. But she holds on and we tumble across the bed until we roll off and hit the soft green carpet. After we untangle ourselves, we lie there laughing our butts off. Finally, we settle down and I hop into bed.
    She tucks me in and kisses my forehead. “Sweet dreams, Jelly Bean.”
    “Good night, Your Craziness,” I say.
    “Light off?” she says, her finger on the lamp switch.
    “No, thanks. I want to look at a few more paintings.”
    She walks away, but the musky smell of her perfume lingers. I pick up the book and turn back to the magical village. There is something peculiar about the milkmaid. One of her hands appears to be tied behind her back.

12 dis·equi·lib·ri·um
    1: loss of stability: being out of balance
    2: loss of emotional or intellectual poise
    On Sunday night at Training Union, Mrs. Shehane is handing out pieces of orange construction paper for us to take home and illustrate this week’s Bible verse. She starts to hand me a sheet, but I hold up my index finger with two Band-Aids wrapped around it. “I cut it with a knife,” I say, which is a lie. I bit my fingernail to the quick and it hurts like hell.
    “Ooh, I hope it gets better.” The phony honey drips off her words.
    I still can’t believe how Mrs. Shehane and all those other stuck-up church members treated the whole family this morning after Preacher Smoot announced my Spelldown victory and invited us to stand in front of the congregation. Usually, people at church pity us. But as the members of the congregation shook our hands and congratulated us, Preacher Smoot beamed as if we had been cured of