Chapter 32
The Richmond School gymnasium smells of rubber mats, old socks, and cafeteria pizza. Rows of metal chairs line the basketball court, flanked by folding tables and PTO volunteers in cardigans. On the far wall, a paper banner reads: Waukesha County Spelling Bee—Welcome and Good Luck!
Most of the men are in work attire, the women wearing everything from athleisure and sneakers to dresses and heels. I’m in black pants and a cashmere sweater that fall somewhere in between.
Dean and I slide into a pair of seats halfway back. He rests his program on his knee, his shoulder touching mine. I glance around, looking for Mick, and finally spot him, three rows ahead, slightly to the right. He’s sitting alone, arms crossed, profile serious.
I scan the crowd again, wishing Eliot and Anna could have made it, but relieved not to see Cara. It hits me that Joan isn’t with Mick. She must be having a bad day.
Finally, the students file out to polite applause. Phoebe is in the middle of the pack, wearing a navy dress with dark tights, her curly hair loose around her shoulders. When her name is called, she steps up to the microphone like she’s done it a hundred times.
“Your word is benevolent,” the moderator says. “Benevolent.”
I hold my breath as Dean takes my hand.
Phoebe doesn’t hesitate, her voice clear and unwavering. “B-E-N-E-V-O-L-E-N-T.”
“You are correct,” the moderator says.
Dean leans over and whispers, “She’s really something.”
I smile as my eyes flick back to Mick. He’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees.
Each time Phoebe steps forward, something in me unravels. This isn’t just about a spelling bee. It’s about a little girl’s resilience.
The rounds pass, thinning the field each time. Meanwhile, Phoebe nails every word with quiet ease.
Round nine, and it’s down to two: Phoebe and a boy named Jasper.
It’s Jasper’s turn. His word is reconnaissance.
He spells it with one s.
“Match point,” Dean whispers.
I suppress a smile, wondering if it’s horrible to feel pleased by a child’s mistake.
Phoebe’s word is camouflage.
I hold my breath as she spells it out slowly, one careful letter at a time.
The moderator leans toward the microphone and says, “You are correct.”
Applause erupts.
I stand, clapping as hard as I can.
Phoebe smiles, then calmly walks off the stage and into the arms of her teacher.
“That was awesome,” Dean says, on his feet, too.
“She did it,” I say, blinking back tears as I think of Erin. How impossibly proud she would be.
A second later, Phoebe is back onstage, collecting a small trophy and a medal. She looks out over the crowd. For a second, I think she sees me—and then her eyes land on Mick.
She grins as he cups his hands to his mouth and yells, “Way to go, Feebs!”
I feel Dean watching me.
I look away.
—
There is a reception afterward. Paper cups of red punch line the tables beside trays of grocery store sugar cookies.
Phoebe finds me, beaming.
“Congratulations,” I say, hugging her as Dean hovers just behind me.
“I can’t believe I won!”
“You were fantastic!” I say.
“You’re a rock star,” Dean says, stepping forward.
She smiles up at him.
“Phoebe, this is Dean. And, Dean—this is our spelling bee champ!”
“Congratulations, Phoebe,” he says. “That was seriously impressive.”
“Thank you,” Phoebe says.
A beat later, Mick finds us.
“Great job, kiddo,” he says, tousling her hair. “You crushed it.”
“I was so nervous when I first got up there.”
“You didn’t look nervous,” he says. “You were a total pro.”
Phoebe grins, turning her medal between her fingers.
Mick looks at me. “Hi, Bill.” Then to Dean—“Hi. Mick O’Leary.”
“Dean Holt.”
They shake hands, quick and firm.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Dean says. “Billie speaks very highly of you.”
“Same,” Mick says. “And thanks for coming today.”
“Glad to be here,” Dean says.
After an awkward beat, Mick meets my eyes again. “Do you guys want to join us for concrete mixers?”
I glance at Dean.
“Concrete mixers?” he asks.
“They’re like milk shakes—only better,” Phoebe says.
Dean and I exchange another glance, and I can tell in an instant he doesn’t want to go. I can also tell this is a lot for him—meeting a child we might raise, across from a man who might share that job.
“You guys go ahead,” I say. “Maybe we could take Phoebe to dinner later?”
“No problem,” Mick says.
“Did you get a video for Gram?” Phoebe asks Mick.
“I sure did,” he says. “We should swing by the house and show her.”
“Good idea,” she says.
“Okey dokey.” Mick puts his hand on her shoulder. “You ready?”
“Yeah. I just have to get my stuff,” Phoebe says.
She takes off with a bounce, gym lights glinting off her trophy as Mick falls into step beside her.