Mr. Welch’s car, washed and waxed for the occasion, was idling by the curb. “Come on, girls,” he called out. “We’re going to be late.” They piled in the car. As he roared away from the curb, around the corner, tires squealing, Akeelah said quietly, “I don’t think we’re gonna be late, Mr. Welch. Either on time or dead.” “I’m an excellent driver. Don’t worry.” “Well, we’re all prayin’ you are.” When they arrived at Beverly Hills High (ten minutes early, Mr. Welch announced proudly), more than a hundred middle school students and their parents were crammed into the auditorium—a spacious and spotlessly clean auditorium, Akeelah noted with envy. Many of the parents were giving their children last-minute spelling drills. Akeelah was dumbfounded, and more than a little overwhelmed, at the number of kids entered in the competition. “Dang,” she said to Mr. Welch, “I didn’t know there would be this many.” “Don’t worry about it,” he said, squeezing her arm.
