Chapter 5: The Spelling Bee Slip
The school auditorium smelled faintly of wood polish and chalk dust. Rows of plastic chairs lined the polished floor, occupied by an audience of students, teachers, and a few proud parents. The air was taut with anticipation, punctuated only by the occasional shuffle of feet or the nervous whisper of someone reciting letters under their breath.
It was the Annual Inter-House Spelling Bee, and Amrita sat on the stage, palms sweaty, heart thudding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She had studied for weeks—flashcards, late-night drills with her mother, whispered spellings on the bus ride with Tushar. Everyone expected her to win. She had a reputation—"Amrita the Dictionary," they joked. She remembered the hardest words, even the ones the English teacher stumbled on.
But today, none of that felt solid. Her stomach churned. She scanned the front row for a familiar face. And there he was—Tushar, sitting quietly, sketchbook on his lap, eyes locked on her with a steady, calm expression.
The spelling bee progressed quickly. Students from each house took turns stepping forward, their voices trembling or strong, depending on their confidence. One by one, competitors were eliminated, their faces falling as they returned to their seats. The words grew trickier with each round.
Amrita breezed through the early rounds: benevolent, kaleidoscope, silhouette—each word clear in her mind before the judge even finished speaking. She was in the final round now, facing off against one boy from Red House.
The auditorium was hushed. The final two contestants stood at the mic, awaiting their challenge.
"Amrita," the English teacher said, adjusting her glasses. "Your word is: 'inoculate.'"
Amrita paused. She'd heard it before. It meant to immunize. But as the word echoed in the large hall, doubt snuck in like a shadow. She saw it in her mind: innoculate? inoculate?
Was it one "n" or two?
Her throat tightened.
She closed her eyes.
"Inoculate. I-N-N…"
A ripple ran through the crowd.
She opened her eyes too late.
"…O-C-U-L-A-T-E."
A pause.
Then: "That is incorrect."
Her heart plummeted. She blinked, as if hoping to reverse what just happened.
The correct spelling was announced—I-N-O-C-U-L-A-T-E—and just like that, the final boy was declared the winner. Applause rang out, but it felt far away. Her vision blurred, and the lights suddenly seemed too bright.
She walked off the stage slowly, each step heavier than the last. She didn't cry. She didn't smile either. She just found her seat in the second row and stared at her shoes.
The event ended. The students began to disperse. Laughter returned to the air. And then, without a word, Tushar slid into the seat beside her.
"I can't believe I missed that," she whispered, still not looking up. "I knew that word. I've spelled it right before. A hundred times."
"I know," he said.
"I ruined it. Everyone expected me to win. Even I expected me to win."
Silence.
Then he said, "Want to hear something weird?"
She nodded, barely.
"I always spell 'restaurant' wrong. Every single time. I have to write it slowly: R-E-S-T-A-U-R-A-N-T. Still forget it. Spellcheck saves me."
She let out a quiet laugh. "Seriously?"
He nodded. "Also, 'definitely.' I always write 'definately.'"
She turned toward him, a smile trying to fight its way to the surface. "That's terrible."
"Exactly," he said. "And you know what? It doesn't make me any less of a writer. Or you any less of a speller."
"But it was my moment," she said. "I messed up my one moment."
"No, Amrita," he said gently. "Your moment isn't one spelling. Your moment is all the people who already knew you were great before you stood on that stage."
She looked at him, finally meeting his eyes.
"And I'm one of them," he added.
She swallowed. "You're really good at saying the right thing."
"I practiced," he said. "In my head. All the way through the spelling bee."
"You knew I'd lose?"
"No," he said, with a grin. "But I was ready either way."
They sat like that for a while, watching as the janitors began stacking chairs and dusting off the front table. Tushar pulled something from his sketchbook and handed it to her.
It was a drawing of her—standing on the stage, confident, hands behind her back, looking up. But instead of showing the moment she misspelled the word, the sketch captured her just before it—all confidence and grace, the poised Amrita everyone had cheered for.
At the bottom, he'd written in his tiny, neat print:
"You are not one mistake. You are a hundred right things."
Tears pricked her eyes, but this time, she let them fall.
She reached over and hugged him. Not a quick side-hug or a polite pat, but a real, lingering hug full of gratitude and the kind of trust that only grows in the space between silence and support.
The storm inside her began to pass.
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Moral of the Chapter:
Real friends don't measure you by your successes. They stay by your side through your failures—reminding you that your worth isn't defined by a single moment, but by who you are every day.