I came, I spelled, I lost

“A spelling bee?” Owen blinked at me as if I'd just suggested we should drive our bikes to the moon and back. “Oz, buddy… You can’t be serious. Those kids spell for fun. For fun.”

Owen was my best friend. We’d known each other since kindergarten, back when my parents moved into the house on Maple Drive in Oakridge, and I still thought “pussy” was the name of a cat.

We were both ten when I told him I wanted to enter the school spelling bee.

“Why would you say that?” I asked, even though I already knew. Hearing it said out loud just made it worse.

“Oz,” he said, “nobody wants you to win more than I do, but…” He gave me that look adults give, when they try to convince you that carrots technically are food as well.

“You won last year,” I said. “And wouldn’t it be cool if—”

Owen threw his hands up. “Whoa, cowboy. I don’t have your… situation.”

“My what?”

“Look, I can spell. You can draw. If this had been a drawing bee, I’d be roadkill.”

Two weeks later, the spelling bee was coming up, and Owen had spent every single day trying to talk me out of it.

“Oz, these kids are the Navy SEALs of spelling,” he warned. “And some of them are mean. Like, mean mean.”

“How mean?” I asked.

Owen sighed.

“The winners go after everyone else like wolves at an all-you-can-eat loser buffet. And the losers who still beat someone? Same thing. It’s like a food chain, but with vocabulary.”

I knew Owen hadn’t done that when he won. He was a good winner. The kind who'd just say “good game” and actually mean it.

“But you didn’t do that,” I said.

Owen suddenly found something very interesting on his shoes.

“Well?” I asked.

He avoided my eyes.

“Yeah, Oz. I did. And… it wasn’t pretty. That’s why I don’t want you to do this.”

It felt like watching a cute little farmhouse explode without a warning. My whole picture of Owen-the-Good cracked.

He put a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t do it, Oz. They’ll tear you apart when they see you struggle with spelling.”

I stepped away.

“Maybe I’m not as good as you,” I said, “but why can’t I try? Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

Owen exhaled like an old guy in one of those back‑support infomercials.

“Oz, that’ll only happen if every other kid drops out.”

Backstage at the spelling bee looked like the waiting room for kids whose dreams were about to be gently—and sometimes violently—crushed. There were metal folding chairs, a water cooler that wheezed like it had asthma, and a bunch of kids clutching dictionaries like emotional‑support animals. I tried to look like I belonged, which was hard when I mostly looked like a kid who’d wandered in by accident while searching for the art room.

That’s when I saw her.

Lixa Speller went to my school too. She was pretty—not “movie star descending a staircase” pretty, but “you notice her and then pretend you didn’t” pretty. Her dark hair (blonde underneath, apparently) framed her bright blue eyes.

I know I said “pretty,” but looks aren’t everything. I’d learn 'pretty' was not the perfect word to describe Lixa. She was much more than that.

She sat alone at a table, humming softly while writing words on a napkin. Not normal words. Words with so many syllables they should’ve come with warning labels. I considered turning around and pretending I’d never seen her, but my legs had apparently decided to betray me today, because they walked straight toward her.

“Uh… hey,” I said, sounding like I was trying to cough up a small bird.

She looked up. Her eyes were so blue I forgot how to function for a second.

“Hi,” she said. “You’re Owen’s friend, right? The drawing guy?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I mean—yes. That’s me. The drawing guy. I draw… things.”

Great. Pulitzer‑level conversation skills.

She smiled—not the polite kind, but the real kind.

“I liked your comic in the school paper,” she said. “The one with the dog who thinks he’s a detective.”

I blinked.

“You… read that?”

“Yeah. It was funny.” She leaned forward a little. “You’re brave, you know. Entering this.”

I laughed nervously.

“Brave? More like… confused.”

She laughed too.

“Same thing sometimes.”

For a moment, we just sat there—her with her impossible words, me with my rising panic. Then she said something I absolutely didn’t expect:

“I hope you do well today.”

I opened my mouth to say something smooth, but my brain chose violence and delivered:

“Thanks. I hope I don’t… die.”

She laughed again.

“You won’t. Probably.”

Then her name was called, and she stood up.

“See you out there, Drawing Guy.”

As she walked away, one thought hit me hard: If I lost to her, it might not be the worst thing in the world.

Guess what... I lost.

When I met up with Owen afterward, he patted my shoulder.

“That sucks, man.”

We both knew this would happen, I thought, trying to look cool, like losing was part of my five-year plan.

“But hey,” he said, “you tried. That’s what matters.”

He had no idea. He thought the important part was trying. But after seeing his real ego-face? Nope. Not even close.

The next day, I was sitting on a bench in the park when three boys from my grade walked by. They’d definitely seen me. I prayed they either hadn’t heard about the spelling bee—ha!—or had better things to do on a warm spring day.

Spring was warm. Life was not. Of course, they’d heard. Of course, they knew I’d lost. And of course, they knew I’d lost to Lixa Speller.

“Looking back,” Owen said, “I wish Lixa Speller had won last year.”

I didn’t even remember her being in last year's spelling bee, and I didn't remember her losing to Owen.

“She was there?” I asked.

Owen finally looked at me.

“Oh yeah. She was there,” he said, sounding like someone remembering a tragic documentary. “And she lost. Unfortunately.”

“Why ‘unfortunately’? You won.”

Owen nodded and sighed.

“Oz, you just lost the spelling bee, and you’re handling it okay.”

“Win some, lose some,” I said.

Owen gave a tight smile.

“Lixa’s parents didn’t have that attitude when she lost last year.”