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they were adults. Because I would get in trouble. Because in my town you just didn’t do that.
    I shrugged. “It’s not my store.”
    Spinning on her heel, Jarmaine turned and walked away.
    Why was she upset? I was trying to be nice. Couldn’t she tell?
    About that time, one of the judges tapped on the microphone, and I hurried to my seat. The contest was starting. The spellers took their places on the stage, where Grant snapped their pictures. Then the contestants were called up, one by one, and given words.
    Janie sailed through the first couple of rounds, but I couldn’t imagine how. I’d never heard such words: Precipitous? Jejune? Cloture? Where did they come from? Obviously Janie’s dictionary was different from mine.
    As spellers missed words, the group got smaller. Finally, after two hours and over twenty rounds, the only people left were Janie and a girl from Montgomery named Charlotte Campbell. Then Charlotte missed, and it was up to Janie.
    Mama grabbed my hand and held on for dear life. Down the row, Mrs. McCall was sweating, and it looked like Mr. Forsyth was about to have a heart attack.
    The judge read Janie’s word: “Cloisonne.”
    I glanced at Daddy. He looked at me and raised his palms. We were clueless.
    Amazingly, Janie wasn’t. With confidence she said, “Cloisonne: C-L-O-I-S-O-N-N-E .”
    The judge boomed, “We’ve got our winner!”
    Janie grinned. We leaped to our feet, cheering. The judge raised her hand high, like she was heavyweight champion of the world.
    He leaned down to the microphone and said to Janie, “If you give me your address, we’ll mail your prizes. Congratulations!”
    Janie thanked him, waved to the crowd, and started to walk off. But the contest wasn’t over. As we turned to leave, someone tapped the microphone, and a young girl’s voice boomed out over the loudspeaker.
    â€œHello. Excuse me.”
    I looked back and saw Jarmaine standing onstage.
    â€œMy name is Jarmaine Jones,” she said. “I’d like to say something.”
    All around me, people stopped and stared, including Mama and Daddy. At first I wondered if they knew who she was, but from their expressions, it was clear they didn’t.
    Jarmaine seemed nervous but determined. She took a deep breath, then said, “We have a white champion. Now let’s find out the state champion.”
    The crowd erupted. Down the row, Mama and Daddy frowned.
    Jarmaine didn’t budge. She nodded, and the young man I’d seen at the store strode up onstage.
    She said, “This is Bradley Thomas, the spelling champion of Cobb High. We challenge you to a runoff.”
    â€œGet ’em out of there!” someone shouted.
    The judge, who had walked away, stepped back onstage and leaned in to the microphone. “Sorry about this, folks. We’ll take care of it. The contest is over.”
    Jarmaine said, “It’s not over. It’s only half a contest.”
    â€œYoung lady—” said the judge.
    Bradley Thomas came up behind them. “Sir, what’s wrong? If your winner is such a good speller, what are you afraid of?”
    The judge said, “If you want to be in the contest, send me a letter.”
    â€œSo you can disregard it,” Bradley said. “Disregard: D-I-S-R-E-G-A-R-D .”
    â€œWe’re not going to spell,” said the judge. “The spelling is over.”
    Bradley said, “You can’t prevent it. Prevent: P-R-E-V-E-N-T .”
    â€œStop that!” said the judge.
    Jarmaine grabbed the microphone back. “Ignorance: I-G-N-O-R-A-N-C-E . Prejudice: P-R-E-J-U-D-I-C-E . Segregation: S-E-G-R-E-G-A-T-I-O-N .”
    With each word, there were more shouts. Some of the men in the audience edged toward the stage. As they got closer, Bradley chimed in. “Liberty: L-I-B-E-R-T-Y . America: A-M-E-R-I-C-A .”
    The other Negro students, who had been drifting toward the