wager!â Mrs. Ratcliff teased.
âLetâs go, Chuck.â Bobby yanked on his sleeve.
But Charles was rooted, dazed with the scent of Patsyâs perfume, the caress of her soft auburn hair against his cheek. He was smiling like an idiot, struck down by a sudden, overwhelming crush.
âChuck?â
âEh? Oh. Sorry.â He turned with Bobby and jogged toward the locker room.
âDid you get a hit in the head I donât know about, Chuck?â Bobby joked.
Sort of, thought Charles.
It was the best day of his life. The only thing that would top it, Charles thought, was if Hitler dropped dead.
The next week, it was Wesleyâs chance at glory.
Charles sat midway back in the auditorium and watched his little brother squirm on stage in front of a hundred people. No cheerleaders for this contest, just silent pressure. Lord, thought Charles, this kind of contest didnât seem remotely fun. He promised himself that heâd be sure to praise Wesley for doing itâhe didnât think heâd have the guts for it himself.
Sitting next to Charles was Patsy. Since the game, heâd been rather awkward around her. She was going steady with another bloke. One off fighting the war, no less, he reprimanded himself for his crush. Only a rascal would try to snake a girl from a guy off fighting the Jerries. Besides, he had a snowballâs chance in hell with the likes of such a beautiful girl. But he still stole a quick glance her way. That only made Charles more unhappyâshe was such a dish!
Patsy was smiling encouragement at Wesley. Sheâd tied his necktie tight and neat for him before the spelling bee, and Charles could tell Wesley was about to suffocate in it. He listened as his brotherâs competitors successfully made it through their first round words: âcataclysm,â âfinicky,â ânecessary,â âlectern,â âhippopotamus,â âbazaar.â The words were much harder than Wesleyâs school spelling bee list had been. Charles noticed Wesley scratch his last remaining swatch of poison ivy. Steady, lad. He tried to throw his thoughts up to the stage.
âWesley Bishop,â the moderator called.
Wesley stood.
Charles held up his fist in a gladiator-style salute so his little brother could see him. A small smile crossed Wesleyâs face. âCome on, Wes,â Charles muttered, âfor England, to show up Ron.â
âNeighbor,â said the moderator.
Charles exhaled in relief. Piece of cake!
Without hesitation, Wesley rattled off, âN-e-i-g-h-b-o-u-r.â
The auditorium crowd gasped.
The three judges conferred, with one lady gesturing toward Wesley and making the kind of sweet face mothers did to coax babies to eat some Pablum. But a bespectacled man shook his head vehemently, forcing the man next to him to agree.
âNo, Iâm sorry,â the moderator said finally. âThat is incorrect.â
Wesley was excused from the stage.
Americans didnât put a u following the o in their spelling of âarmor,â âhonor,â ârumor,â orâ¦âneighbor.â
Ron smirked.
âGodâs teeth,â muttered Charles.
24 October 1943
Dearest Mummy,
Do not tell Daddy but I botched the spelling bee. On the simplest thing
â
an American spelling versus our proper British one. I think it humiliated Charles. Now we are coming to another event where I may embarrass him. He and Bobby are hosting a Halloween haunted house. Everyone will come because they are such football heroes now. Plus Yanks do seem to love scaring themselves silly with witches and goblins. I think it is because they have not experienced a REAL fright, not like we Brits have. Last time I went to a haunted house, it reminded me of an Anderson shelter, it was so dark and damp. I vomited on a plate of caramel apples! This year the Ratcliffs want to camp out at a nearby Civil War battlefield, to tell
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