The Winterton Deception: Final Word Excerpt

Final Word

Text copyright © 2023 by Janet Sumner Johnson

All illustrations copyright © 2023 by TGM Development Corp. Jacket illustration by Francisco Fonseca

Family tree illustration by Manelle Oliphant

All rights reserved

Pixel+Ink is an imprint of TGM Development Corp. www.pixelandinkbooks.com

Printed and bound in August 2023 at Lake Book Manufacturing, Melrose Park, IL, U.S.A.

Book design by Jay Colvin

Names: Sumner Johnson, Janet, author.

Title: Final word / Janet Sumner Johnson.

Description: First edition. | New York : Pixel+Ink, 2023. | Series: The Winterton deception ; book 1 | Audience: Ages 8-12 | Audience: Grades

4-6 | Summary: Thirteen-year-old twins Hope and Gordon enter a spelling bee in a last-ditch effort to save their family from financial ruin, only to find themselves in a cut-throat competition to uncover a fortune and dark secrets about the wealthy relations they have never known.

Identifiers: LCCN 2023024741 | ISBN 9781645951964 (hardcover)

Subjects: CYAC: Twins—Fiction. | Family secrets—Fiction. | LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Novels.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S855 Fi 2023 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023024741

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-64595-196-4

E-book ISBN: 978-1-64595-198-8

First Edition

For Mike, who always let me borrow his John Bellairs books, thus introducing me to the joy of mysteries.

And for the late Ellen Raskin, who wrote a brilliant book that continues to inspire.

Prologue

IT RAINED THE DAY we went to see Brandon Winterton’s grave. The tombstone was a large, gaudy thing with an obelisk sticking out of the top. Exactly what you’d expect from the Wintertons. People like them had money to waste.

I nudged Gordon. “There, you’ve seen it. Now can we go? I’m soaked.”

“Hope.” Exasperation dripped from his voice. “Can you give me, like, more than one second? This is our father, you know.”

“In name only.” I stomped in a puddle and watched the mud squish up the side of my shoe. Figured. “Besides, I’m older. You have to listen to me, and I say it’s time to go.”

Gordon rolled his eyes. “By twelve minutes. I still don’t get why you hate him so much. He’s been dead almost thirteen years. It’s not like he abandoned us on purpose. He probably didn’t even know Mom was pregnant when he died.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. He was rich. And if he meant something to Mom, we wouldn’t have had to do all this sneaking around just to learn his name.” I yanked off my backpack and held it over my head, as if it would keep me dry. It didn’t.

“You don’t know that,” Gordon shot back as he bent down to lay his drooping flower by the grave. Really, it was a weed he’d pulled at the bus stop by school, but it was purple and pretty and way more than Brandon deserved from us.

The rain roared in my ears and I shivered. “Please, can we go?”

“I haven’t even read the quote.”

“Here, I’ll read it for you. ‘To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.’ So cliché. Now can we go?”

Gordon sighed. “Just stop.”

I didn’t have a watch, but I glanced at my wrist anyway. Raindrops splattered against my skin. “Mom will be worried.”

“She’s at work.”

“She might call to check on us.”

Gordon didn’t answer, staring at the grave as we got more and more soaked. After an eternity or so, he finally looked up. “Don’t you ever wonder what it’d be like to have a dad? Someone to kick a soccer ball around or play chess with? Someone to help so Mom didn’t have to work all the time.”

I let out a long breath, watching the white cloud swirl in the

rain before disappearing. Just like my hopes about our dad had. “You know I do. That’s why we started this whole thing.”

Gordon wiped a sleeve across his wet face. “Would he help us with homework? Would he know how to cook? Would he come to my soccer games? Or would he be the kind who’s too busy at work? Would he tuck us in? Would I still want him to?”

I hugged myself trying to stay warm.

“I know you don’t want to be here, Hope, but I do.”

Gordon’s eyes shifted to me, but I couldn’t keep his gaze.

I did understand. More than he realized. I’d asked all those questions, too. Well, maybe mine involved a Mathlete competition instead of soccer. But even if Brandon were still alive, I’d lost all interest in meeting him the second I’d seen his last name.

The Wintertons had more money than we could imagine. Their wealth was an abyss between us. A whole cavern of reasons to stay away. They’d never see us as anything but beggars.

I refused to be seen that way.

Besides, Brandon’s death had probably saved us a boatload of hurt. No constant disappointments when he didn’t show up to support us, yet again. I’d seen that enough with my friends at Mayfield Middle, who’d spend whole competitions watching the crowd so distracted, they’d miss half their questions.

At least now Brandon Winterton didn’t have to disappoint us in person. He was just one big unknown who carried all our hopes to the grave with him.

Janet Sumner Johnson

I shivered again—from the cold or my thoughts, I wasn’t sure. “Fine. I’ll wait.”

Brandon would never give us anything. I could at least give Gordon some time.

But I was totally claiming the last hot chocolate packet when we got home.

Chapter 1

8 MONTHS LATER

SATURDAYS WERE THE BEST. But Saturdays Mom had off were even better—Unicorn Saturdays.

Gordon and I let Mom sleep in while we secretly worked on a big breakfast. Our motel apartment was just one room, so it was never really a surprise, but Mom always acted like it was. And it wasn’t actually that big—pancakes and cereal—but it felt big. Maybe because we were together.

Three of us. Sitting at the table. A family.

I made the pancakes while Gordon mixed up the syrup: maple flavoring, water, and sugar all boiled together in the microwave.

He clicked the TV remote, and the local news filled the room. I hissed at him to turn it off before it woke Mom.

“I want to hear this,” he snapped. He’d been snapping at me a lot lately.

A man with fake blond hair and Hollywood teeth smiled at

the camera. “I don’t come from the Winterton wealth, so I could care less . . .”

“Couldn’t care less,” I muttered, stirring the pancake batter harder.

“. . . kids were all shocked to be completely cut out of the will. Furious. The lawyer tried to give them letters written by the old lady before she died, but they all chucked them in the fire. The only unified thing I’ve seen from them in years.”

The banner at the bottom of the screen identified him as bob birch, husband to elinor winterton. I was sick of hearing about the Wintertons, but between the recently deceased dictionary magnate Jane Winterton cutting her kids out of her will and the upcoming Winterton Bee, it was all anyone talked about.

Even now, the news cut to an image of her. It must have been taken recently. Soft silver hair framed her thin, wrinkled face, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. That cold, steel-blue gaze seemed to look through you, even in photos.

The news anchor continued: “The Twenty-fifth Annual Winterton Spelling Bee promises to be the event of the year! What used to be a private family affair turned public almost fifteen years ago when James Winterton hosted a public spelling bee to raise funds for the Mayfield Foster Care Coalition.”

The scene cut to a shot of a snooty-looking man in wirerimmed glasses. The banner read fitzwilliam winterton,

oldest son of jane winterton. But I didn’t need the caption to know that. “Mom started the spelling bee when I was fifteen. Elinor got a bad score on a spelling test, and Mom was humiliated. Understandably. She proposed the family bee as a fun way to practice, and it became a yearly tradition. We were ready to end it when our father had the idea of extending it into a community fundraiser. As a Winterton, I’m proud of the good it’s done for so many.”

I rolled my eyes. Fitzwilliam probably had no idea who their fundraiser had helped.

The news anchor droned on as footage from last year’s bee played. “From the beginning, James Winterton envisioned this event as a way to bring families together. The rules of the Qualifier required all entrants to compete as a family—in its broadest definition. No individual spellers allowed. The entire winning team got the chance to join the family’s private spelling bee, which, in past years has been broadcast live from the Mayfield Convention Center. The bee has grown each year, and has supported hundreds of foster kids throughout the region.

“This year, with the prize jumping from ten thousand to a whopping five hundred thousand dollars, the qualification bee has had a surge of applications, despite the hefty one hundred dollar entrance fee. But in a surprise announcement, the Winterton Corporation has closed the family bee to the media and moved the event to Winterton Chalet. We asked Bob Birch what his family thought about these changes.”

“It’s ridiculous. It should be held at the Mayfield Convention Center like always. At Winterton Chalet, there won’t be an audience,

and we’ll all be stuck together for a week. You can just imagine how that’ll go. I’d put odds on at least one family leaving early, but Jane always did like to be in control. Apparently even from the grave.”

Gordon kept his eyes glued to the screen as he popped the syrup bowl into the microwave. “You know the Birches have four kids? One is our age. Boyd.”

Of course I knew. Despite my protests, Gordon obsessively inhaled every news story about the Wintertons, and then talked nonstop about them as though his constant onslaught would change my mind.

“Did you know he plays soccer? He’s a forward, like me.”

I regretted our decision to sleuth out our dad more every day. But how could I have known he’d be a Winterton? And now Gordon couldn’t let it go.

Once upon a time, I’d loved the Winterton dictionaries with their personalizations. I’d even planned out my ten pictures— Mom’s next to loving, Gordon’s beside brave, and I’d, of course, be by clever. Not that we could have afforded it, and not that we even had any pictures to upload. But now the things gave me nightmares.

The microwave dinged, pulling me from my thoughts. I flipped the now-burnt pancake.

“Nice,” Gordon said. He bumped my shoulder harder than necessary as he passed by with the hot syrup.

We don’t waste food, so as tempting as it was to give the

charred hockey puck to Gordon, that one would be mine.

A few flips later, Gordon had set the table and woken up Mom to come eat.

She stretched. “How did I get so lucky to have two such amazing kids?”

It’s what she always said on Unicorn Saturdays, and I loved it. Mom worked harder than anyone I knew. Two jobs, plus picking up any overtime she could. Gordon and I didn’t have tons of time with her, but what we had was the best. Scavenger hunts, trips to the park (as long as it was within walking distance), games with our worn-out set of playing cards. And we talked nonstop—about school, work, our dreams, and what we’d do if we suddenly won a million dollars. On Unicorn Saturday, we had her full attention, and I couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest kid in the world.

We said a quick prayer over our food and dug in. I poured as much syrup as I dared over my burnt pancake, saving the unburnt one for after.

“So.” Mom clapped her hands. “I may have squirreled away enough change for a quart of Mix Masters ice cream for after our scavenger hunt.”

Gordon stuffed a huge bite of pancakes into his mouth before speaking through his food. “Awesome! Winner gets the leftovers.”

I cringed. “Gross, Gordon! No one likes see food.”

Janet Sumner Johnson

Mom dabbed at a bit of syrup on her chin. “She’s right. But I don’t know. What do you think of his plan, Hope?”

I held up my fork. “Fine by me, because I’m totally winning this time.” My brother had won the last three competitions, which meant no one had beaten him in months. Today would be different.

“Ha! I’d like to see that.” Gordon snatched the no-name marshmallow something-or-other carton, when there was a knock on the door.

We all froze. The last time anyone had knocked—three months ago—it hadn’t been a welcome surprise. That had been a Unicorn Saturday, too. Miss Emma Summerill had come to introduce herself as the new manager of the motel and to announce that Mom owed hefty back rent. Gordon and I had almost talked Mom into applying for nursing school. Since then, not only had she been working more hours at the motel, but we were working with her to pay off the debt.

Mom gripped her frog necklace and marched to the door. The charm was engraved with the words Be gone, foul beast! Maybe it would help her drive off any bad news.

As soon as Mom opened the door, Miss Emma pushed past.

“And a great big good morning to you, Betty!” she called in her Southern twang. The manager of the Merry Motel held a thick book in one hand and waved a letter in the air with the other.

“Good morning, Miss Emma. Please, come in,” Mom said as she closed the door.

“I will, I will. And boy, do I have good news for y’all.”

I sat up straight. Had the motel forgiven the back rent? Maybe some generous donor had paid it off for us.

Miss Emma paused, taking in each of us, before her gaze landed on Gordon. “I have right here in my hand one Winterton Spelling Bee qualification registration, and can you guess whose name is on it?”

“You got it?” Gordon leaped out of his seat to take the envelope Miss Emma held out, then ripped it open while Mom and I watched, dumbstruck. With shaking hands, he began to read.

“‘This certificate hereby guarantees the Smith Family, comprised of Betty Smith, Hope Smith, and Gordon Smith, one slot in the Winterton Family Bee Qualification Round at North Mayfield. As such, they are certified eligible to win the five-thousanddollar prize, as well as one of two non-family slots in the Twenty-fifth Annual Winterton Bee, which has an additional grand prize of five hundred thousand dollars. This certificate is nontransferable and nonrefundable’ blah, blah, blah . . .”

Miss Emma clapped her hands. “Isn’t this wonderful?”

Gordon jumped up and down. “I can’t believe you did it!”

“You know I couldn’t resist odds like that.”

I stared at the motel manager trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Your offer is very kind,” Mom said, shaking her head, “but we can’t accept. You’ll have to give this to someone else.”

I nodded. I wanted nothing to do with anything connected to the Wintertons.

Miss Emma’s jaw dropped. “Can’t accept? Bless my heart, whyever not? This ticket is nontransferable, you know.”

Mom wiped her hands down her pajama pants. “We can’t afford the entrance fee, and I certainly can’t ask you to give us the money . . .”

“Give?” Miss Emma lowered her bright pink cat-eye glasses to peer at Mom before patting at her fake-blond pompadour. Her attempts to look younger weren’t working. The wrinkles on her face announced her age: old. “I’m giving nothing away. Gordon and I have an agreement. I spend my lotto ticket money on the spelling bee registration, and I get half the winnings. Twenty-five hundred dollars to be exact. Much better odds than choosing some random numbers at a gas station. Of course, if y’all make it through to the big bee and win that grand prize, that would be yours to keep.”

I glared at my brother before turning back to Miss Emma. “Kids at school study year-round for this thing. What if we lose and can’t pay you back?”

“Lose? If you put half the effort into this bee as you do your schoolwork, this’ll be easy money for you . . . and for me. Goodness gracious, your work ethic makes my heart sing.”

Mom opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. “May I see that?” she finally said, reaching out her hand to Gordon.

He passed her the letter while I stared at him. Gordon and I shared everything. Everything. We’d never kept secrets from each other . . . until now.

I thought Gordon would forget about trying to meet the Wintertons when I refused. And then Old Lady Winterton had died, and that had been that.

Clearly, it hadn’t been over for Gordon.

“The qualification round is Monday,” Mom said. “Two days from now. We can’t possibly be ready.”

Gordon raised his hand like some overeager schoolboy. “I’ve been studying for weeks. Since it’s a family competition, it doesn’t matter if you aren’t ready, because I am.”

“And I brought along a gift to help.” Miss Emma dropped the thick book she’d been carrying on the table.

The Winterton Dictionary.

“I’ll leave you to it. No doubt you’ll want to dive right in, and I have some rutabaga beggin’ to be made into a pie. Bet you can’t spell that!” She waggled her fingers before sweeping out of the room, leaving us to deal with the chaos she’d left behind.

Chapter 2

“I WON’T DO IT.” I pushed my uneaten pancake away and crossed my arms. “You had no right to go making deals with Miss Emma behind our backs!”

Gordon crossed his own arms. “This is a chance to win twenty-five hundred dollars. And I didn’t plan to keep it secret. It just happened.”

“Right. It just happened.”

I waited for Mom to say something. Anything. But she clutched her frog necklace, staring blankly at the certificate.

Gordon sighed and sat back. “Remember when you broke that ceramic car?”

Heat crept up my face. Of course I remembered. But you could hardly call it a car. It was more like a blob with four roundish things where tires might go.

Really, it was Miss Emma’s fault for bringing those cookies from the fancy bakery everyone always raved about. The kind

we never got. She’d even pulled out some bottled milks for us. I’d been checking the accounts in an old ledger and didn’t want to lose my place, so when I reached for another cookie, I hadn’t looked up.

I could still hear the crash, followed by Miss Emma’s screechy shrill. What in the Sam Hill? You careless girl! Get out of my office! Apparently, the car-shaped blob had a lot of sentimental value. I couldn’t imagine who’d given it to her. She had no kids, and she didn’t seem the type to keep that kind of gift from someone else’s.

I’d run home as fast as I could. If I’d had a choice, I’d have stayed away forever. But that’s a luxury only rich people get.

We’d both apologized the next day, but things had been awkward the past few weeks. Another reason not to accept Miss Emma’s charity.

“After you left,” Gordon explained,“the news did a story about the spelling bee. I randomly said I wished I could enter. Miss Emma got this funny look on her face, then suggested the deal. I thought she was joking. But Hope, please? It’s just a spelling bee.” He glanced at Mom, then sighed. “If we win, we can skip the Winterton Bee final. Take the winnings and call it good. Please?”

“No.”

Gordon snorted. “Of course you’re going to be like that.”

Mom set the certificate gently on the table. “Maybe we should.”

“What?” I was on my feet. “You can’t be serious. We have no time to prepare, and even if we did, the Wintertons are a bunch of stuck-up, rich—”

“Hope.” Mom closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I need to tell you something. Both of you.”

I froze. For thirteen years, Mom had refused to tell us who our father was. I didn’t understand why until Gordon and I uncovered the truth. The Wintertons had obviously traumatized her.

Mom’s wobbly chair screeched across the yellow-and-brown linoleum as she yanked it from the table and sat. She motioned for me to do the same.

This was it. She’d finally come clean and tell us how they met. How he treated her. If we reminded her of him.

I slid into my chair.

Mom sighed. “I’ve lost my job at the hardware store.”

“What?” Gordon and I demanded at the same time.

“I didn’t want to tell you until I found something new.”

“But why?” I racked my brain for a reason the gentle Mr. Antonio might let Mom go when she’d been his most reliable employee.

She shrugged, trying to look casual, but squeezed her frog necklace even tighter. “Business was slow. It happens.”

“How long ago?” Gordon asked quietly.

“A month.” She ran a hand through her dark hair.“I should’ve

told you sooner, but I was sure I’d find a new job by now. Look, I’m not excited about competing in the Winterton Bee, either, but we really need the money.”

“We can help you find a job,” I offered. “That’s way better than some old spelling bee.”

Mom set a hand on mine. “Honey, I’ve been looking for a month. Either they never call or they say my references didn’t pan out. Rent is due, and I can pay that or I can buy food, but not both.”

“Then we’ll move somewhere cheaper.”

“This is the cheapest we’re going to find. Trust me.”

“Then we starve.”

“Or we do the spelling bee,” Gordon said. I hated Gordon just then.

“Another option is foster care.” Mom still wouldn’t look at us. “Just until I find something.”

The words thunked on the table like an anvil.

I should’ve known something was wrong when Mom suggested Mix Masters ice cream. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “How can you even consider that? What about your family? Isn’t there someone we could stay with?”

Mom’s face went hard like it always did when we asked about her relatives. “Not an option.”

“Just until you find—”

“I said no.” Mom brushed up some crumbs, then swept

across the kitchen to chuck them in the trash. “Escaping that life was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I won’t put you in that situation.”

The fire in my chest fizzled. “There has to be another way.”

“If there is, I haven’t found it. Twenty-five hundred dollars would buy us time. Or maybe even pay for EMT training. That could change everything.”

I shook my head. “You want to be a nurse, not an EMT.”

Gordon smacked the table. “You are so selfish, Hope! This affects all of us. I won’t go to foster care because you hate the Wintertons!” He held up the certificate. “This is the answer, and if you don’t agree to do the bee, I’ll never forgive you. Never.”

“Never is a long time, Gordon,” Mom whispered. “I’m sure you don’t mean that.”

But he did. We’d visited the cemetery eight months ago. Nothing had been the same between us since. This was about way more than our money problems. He wanted me to embrace a family I could never feel part of. A family who’d chew us up and spit us out. Wasn’t it better to reject them first?

“Think about it, sweetie,” Mom said. “In the meantime, we’ll practice spelling. We can make a game of it.”

I slumped in my chair. “Fine. I’ll do it. But only for the qualifiers. No way am I going to the finals.”

Gordon grinned, the dweeb, then ran to get the spelling lists he’d stashed in his school binder.

Chapter 3

UNICORN SATURDAY WAS A BUST. Ditto Sunday. All we did was study spelling, which is boring any way you look at it. Not even Mix Masters could help.

The qualification round consisted of two parts: first, a multiple-choice vocabulary test, taken as individuals, and second, the family spelling bee. Only the top ten from the test, along with their families, would compete.

Gordon got Miss Emma to download some sample tests from previous years, so we practiced them over and over until we could get most questions. Then we practiced spelling bee etiquette: say the word, spell it, then say it again. By Sunday night, I was ready to scream.

“Your word is fuchsia,” Gordon said.

“Your word is boring. Can we please be done?”

Mom tapped her pen on the table. “Hope’s right. We could all use the break.”

Janet Sumner Johnson

The next morning, Mom offered to let us skip school to study. Even Gordon declined.

Like usual, we caught the city bus to the most prestigious private school in Mayfield, which felt especially ridiculous considering we couldn’t even afford rent at a dinky motel.

The school board had offered us scholarships last March— tuition, secondhand uniforms, and free lunch. All the kids had called us trophy-stuffers, because that was basically our job. Gordon had led the soccer team to first in the region, and I’d gotten the Mathlete team a state championship. I’d half expected we’d have to serve lunch or clean desks after school or something, but I guess the trophies were enough.

We got off at our stop and walked the last two blocks, just in time to see Jennifer Winterton—Fitzwilliam’s daughter— climb out of a limo. She was about my size. If I had her kind of money, we might have been recognizable as cousins. But fake tans, manicures, and perfect blond highlights tucked up in perfect poofy buns were all out of our budget. I took comfort in the fact that her nose was bigger than mine.

I ducked behind a tree so I wouldn’t accidentally have to talk to her.

Gordon nudged me. “She’s nice.”

“Whatever.” I’d given her a chance last spring when we were Mathlete teammates. She’d been friendly right up until she

found out I was a scholarship student. Her dad scolded her for sitting with me, and we’d barely talked since.

“Come on, Hope. You don’t even know the Wintertons. I’m sure they’re nothing like Alexis, or whatever her name was.”

“Alexandria Swanson.” I cringed at the memory.

Alexandria and I had been best friends from the moment we met in kindergarten. We ate lunch together. Did specials together. Played at recess together. Everything.

Back in second grade, she invited me to her house. The place was huge. Not as big as the Wintertons’, but for real, her bedroom was bigger than our whole motel room.

So I invited Alexandria to our house on Mom’s next day off. I did everything I could think of to make it nice. Made the bed. Borrowed the vacuum cleaner from the motel office. Mom had even bought a bag of goldfish crackers—the extra-cheesy kind. We never got those.

When Alexandria’s black suburban showed up, I ran to greet her, but the car sat there idling, the doors shut. When the window finally lowered, Mrs. Swanson frowned out at me.

“Alexandria won’t be able to stay. Something has come up.” I waited for her to explain, but she didn’t.

Mom came out then and laid a hand on my shoulder while I stretched to get a view of Alexandria. She had to have been as disappointed as I was.

Janet Sumner Johnson

“I hope this won’t affect our kids’ friendship,” Mom had said. Mrs. Swanson eyed her. “I’m sure you do. Good day.” The window went up, and the car backed out of the parking space. Mom pulled me toward our room. “Come on. Let’s eat those fishy crackers and play whatever game you want. Maybe we can get some Mix Masters later.”

That’s when I knew how bad it was. We only ever got Mix Masters in extreme situations—the very best and the very worst—and this was no best.

Alexandria transferred to private school a week later. I shook away the memory. “The Wintertons are exactly like her.”

Gordon shifted his backpack. “If you hate rich people so much, show them all up at the bee final. Everyone knows you’re the smartest person at this school.”

“One, we’d have to win the qualifier tonight, which is a long shot; and two, smart is not the same as being a good speller, Gordo. Jennifer made it to the Scripps National Spelling Bee last year.” I knew because she’d bailed on the Mathlete team when she got in.

The bell rang before he could respond, and we had to hurry to class.

With everything on my mind, it was not my best day. I got caught not paying attention twice, and the whole class laughed when I couldn’t solve a simple problem like -625 = -5x. The

worst, though, was science. I didn’t hear Ms.Wu call for partners, so when Gordon pointedly asked Nico instead of me, like he’d been doing all semester, I got stuck with Jennifer Winterton.

“This’ll be great,” she said, then dropped her voice. “It’ll be nice to have a partner who helps for once.”

I stuck to business. “I think we should split the material, and each do half at home. If you tackle cell structure, I’ll take care of—”

“As a reminder,” Ms. Wu interrupted, “this project counts for twenty-five percent of your grade, which will hemorrhage if you do poorly. I expect a cohesive presentation you’ve practiced and prepared together. You only have two weeks, so don’t procrastinate.”

Jennifer tucked a strand of hair back into her bun. “Sounds like we better meet up outside school. But I need to finish this week, since I’ll be gone next.”

The Winterton Family Spelling Bee Final was next week. She didn’t need to say it, because everyone knew.

We exchanged phone numbers, and I told her I’d call after work.

She squinted at me. “Aren’t you thirteen?”

I struggled to stay civil. “Are you seriously asking my age? We’re in the same class.”

“Right, but thirteen-year-olds can’t have jobs. It’s the law.”

“Well, this one can. I’ll call around five thirty.” Having to

leave for the spelling bee would be a good excuse to keep the call short.

When the bell rang, I threw my books into my worn-out backpack as fast as I could and dashed toward the door. “This’ll be great!” Jennifer called after me.

I didn’t bother responding. The bus schedule was tight, and if Gordon and I missed it, we’d have to wait thirty minutes for the next one. Miss Emma was not a patient woman.

The bell clanged as we entered the motel’s main office. Mom was at the reception desk. “My two favorite people!”

“Hey, Mom. Miss Emma gave you extra hours?”

Mom blushed. “Guess I should have talked to her sooner.”

Gordon leaned over the desk and kissed her on the cheek. “I could get used to seeing you in the middle of the day.”

“Me too.” She sighed. “I just wish it were under better circumstances.”

“I’ve got a lot for y’all today,” Miss Emma called from her office. “I hope your mom isn’t a distraction.” Her Southern twang made her sound like a pushover, but I’d learned otherwise.

Two hours later, I’d finally finished reviewing all the accounts. I dropped the folder on her desk. “Done! And I marked all the tax-deductible expenses in pink in case that’s helpful.”

“You’re a doll.” Miss Emma looked up from her laptop, one hand gripping the screen as though protecting it from me. Was

she afraid I’d somehow knock it off the desk like I had the car?

“Showoff.” Gordon coughed the word into his arm.

“Slacker,” I hissed, then turned back to Miss Emma. “Is it all right if I head home? I have homework I need to do before the spelling bee.”

Her face lit up. “Of course, darlin’. I’m so glad you and your mom came around. Tonight is going to be so exciting! You go finish up, but don’t tire out that brain of yours. We need y’all in top form, ya hear? I hate losing money almost as much as I hate cake made without butter.”

With a wave to Gordon and Mom, I hurried back to our room and dug out Jennifer’s number, then picked up the corded phone half my classmates wouldn’t know how to use and dialed 9 to get out of the system. Motels may not be great, but at least all the rooms have a telephone.

I punched in the number, taking a deep breath before hitting the final one.

The phone rang once.

“Hello?”

“Jennifer? This is Hope.”

“Oh, great! I was getting worried you wouldn’t call.”

“I’m, like, a minute late.”

She giggled nervously. “Yeah. My dad is kind of strict about being on time. If we’re not fifteen minutes early, we’re late. I sometimes forget other people don’t live like that.”

I didn’t know how to respond without being rude, so I said nothing.

After another few seconds of silence, she cleared her throat. “Thanks again for being my partner. I’ve wanted to do a project with you since last year, but you were always with Gordon.”

I snorted. “I thought your dad wouldn’t allow it.”

Jennifer sighed. “I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t my choice. I like that you aren’t fake and how hard you work. Maybe we could even be . . . I mean, friends, maybe?”

“Friends?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Well, yeah. We seem to like a lot of the same things. Like Mathletes. You were incredible. I felt really bad missing the state competition. Obviously, you had it covered, but I wish I could have been there to see you blow the other teams away.”

My face got hot. “I’m not that good.”

She laughed. “Except you are. I can’t wait till it starts up again.”

“Me neither.” I found myself smiling. Maybe I’d been too quick to judge her. “Are you doing the Scripps Spelling Bee again?”

“I don’t want to, but my dad might make me. With any luck, the dates won’t overlap like last year.”

A dog barked on her end of the line, and her voice got all mushy. “Aww, Magnus. Who’s a good boy? But I have to

work, puppy.” There was a pause before she spoke again. “Sorry about that.”

My heart flopped. I’d always wanted a dog, but rent comes before a pet. “What kind of dog do you have?”

“A Weimaraner. He’s an old softy who loves attention. Especially when you can’t give it to him.”

“I’ve never had a dog, but it sounds nice.”

“Really? You have to meet Magnus. He’d love it.” She paused. “And so would I.”

I hadn’t wanted to get to know Jennifer. I’d done everything I could to avoid her. But now I was struggling to hold onto that resolve. And wouldn’t I be just as bad as all those rich snobs if I didn’t give her a chance? I hated to admit it, and Gordon would never let me hear the end of it, but Jennifer was fun to talk to.

“I’d like that,” I finally said.

“Awesome! I have to check my dad’s schedule, but how about we plan our project today, then work on it during study hall? We can practice at my house before we present. That way you can meet Magnus.”

How could I say no to meeting her dog? “Let’s do it. As for our project, I was reading about cell structure, and it would be fun to make a model out of—”

“Jennifer!” a man interrupted. Fitzwilliam. I knew that voice.

“Hold on,” she whispered.

Janet Sumner Johnson

Before I had a chance to reply, her dad barked at her again. “Who are you on the phone with?”

“It’s my science partner. We’re working on our project.”

“What’s her name?”

“Hope.”

“Hope, what?”

“Smith.”

“We don’t know any Smiths at Riverview. Wait. Isn’t she that scholarship student from the Mathletes team?”

Jennifer cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s her. Which means we’ll get a good grade.”

“Remember what I’ve said about who you choose to spend time with.”

“We’re assigned partners. I have to.”

The exchange went on for a few more seconds, but I didn’t hear any of it. This was Alexandria Swanson all over again. Rich people only cared about themselves. I knew that. And I’d still fallen for Jennifer’s friendly act hook, line, and sinker. I imagined her scoffing with her friends: Can you believe Hope, the scholarship girl, actually thought I wanted to hang out?

“Hope? Are you still there?”

My eyes burned, but I refused to let any tears slip down my cheeks. People like Jennifer Winterton and her dad didn’t deserve them.

“Hope? Did we get cut off?”

“So much for wanting to be friends,” I snapped, then slammed down the handset.

The phone rang immediately, but I didn’t answer.

The good thing about a motel phone is you can’t leave a message. It will ring forever . . . or until the caller gives up.

Jennifer didn’t give up easily.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Mom asked when she and Gordon walked in.

“It’s just spam.” I picked up the handset and dropped it back down. Then for good measure, I took the phone off the hook.

Chapter 4

THE WINTERTON FAMILY Spelling Bee Qualifier was being held at the Riverview Preparatory School theater. The Wintertons donated the money to build the place, so the school let them use it whenever they wanted. We’d been there for the awards ceremony at the end of last year, and for the welcome assembly when school had started.

Miss Emma offered to take us, so we got there with fifteen minutes to spare. From the way she drove, you’d have thought we were seriously late. She sped around the drop-off loop and stopped abruptly by the doors. “You three better hurry on to the check-in. I’ll get parked and meet you in the gym after.”

“Are you sure?” Mom asked. “We’ve got plenty of—”

“Don’t argue with an old woman. Now, scoot!”

Inside, signs pointed audience members one direction and contestants another. We followed the signs to the end of the

trophy hall, where a sharp-dressed woman about Mom’s age sat behind a table.

“Please take a number two pencil, a bubble sheet, and a test booklet. Classrooms one-oh-one through one-ten are all available. Find a spot wherever you can. Once you’ve finished, please turn in your test to the room’s monitor, then proceed to the theater.”

My stomach churned as we grabbed our supplies and found open desks in Room 108, our math classroom.

If we hadn’t needed the money, I wouldn’t have been nervous. Luckily, the test wasn’t hard. The whole thing consisted of questions like:

A synonym for support.

A. palpitate

B. succor

C. manage

D. none of the above

I had to wonder how this test could possibly narrow down the pool to a top ten. More likely, there would be a hundredway tie.

Mom and Gordon were still working when I finished, so I made my way to the theater.

Miss Emma waved me over to the front row. “Sit down, darlin’! I want to hear all about it.”

“They asked us not to discuss the test,” I lied.

She raised an eyebrow, and I could feel a Southern tirade coming until Gordon plopped into the chair next to me.

“Well? Thumbs up? Thumbs down? Will you make it to the top ten?” Miss Emma asked.

Gordon shrugged. “Probably. Along with everyone else. The test was way easy.”

“He’s right,” I said.

Miss Emma clapped, the grin on her face wider than the Cheshire Cat’s. Before I could respond, she hunkered down in her seat. “We better hush up. You’re going to make the others feel bad. I bet it wasn’t as easy as you think.”

I had no problem keeping quiet as the theater slowly filled. Some people came in grinning while others dragged themselves to a seat. Mom didn’t show up until right before the program was supposed to start.

“Wow, that was hard,” she said. “Good thing we only need one top score.” Her eyes went wide. “You do think you’ll get a top score, right?”

Miss Emma patted Mom’s arm. “I think we’re good.”

The microphone squealed, and the room went from a dull roar to silence in less than a second.

A gentleman in a tuxedo stood at the front of the stage. His

black hair was buzzed close to his head with lightning bolts along the sides. I might not have noticed if we hadn’t been so close. “Welcome to the Twenty-fifth Annual Winterton Family Spelling Bee Qualifier in North Mayfield!”

The crowd erupted in applause.

“My name is Kyle Webb, and I’ve been asked to host tonight’s event. Here with me is my wife, Anne Winterton, and our son, Logan.”

The spotlight flashed to the edge of the stage, and a petite dark-haired woman stepped out with a boy who was maybe a couple years younger than us. They waved as the audience politely applauded.

Gordon elbowed me. “Maybe we’ll get to meet them if we win!”

I rolled my eyes, then studied the boy. Logan. Our cousin. His black hair stuck out in cool ringlets with blond tips that almost hid his eyes. Despite his smile, he fidgeted and held his mom’s hand in a death grip.

“Now, before I read the names of those ten lucky families”— Kyle beamed at his wife and son as they stepped back behind the curtain—“I remind you that the winners of tonight’s spelling bee will not only take home five thousand dollars, but will also earn one of the two non-family slots in the Winterton Family Spelling Bee Final, which begins one week from today. The second slot will go to the winner of the South Mayfield

Janet Sumner Johnson

Qualifier. Without further ado, I give you tonight’s contestants.”

The audience erupted again. Gordon cheered as loudly as any of them.

“First up, we have the Jackson family: Dean, Jodi, and James. Congratulations!”

The family screamed from the back of the room and hurried down the aisle, clapping and yelling like they’d just been selected for The Price Is Right.

Kyle read a bunch of other names. The Nguyens, the Wus (so weird to see my science teacher outside of school, and doubly weird to see her so happy), the Moores, the Morenos, the Garcias, the Kims, and the Rices.

Mom gripped my hand so tightly I was starting to lose feeling in my fingers. Still, with only two slots left, even I was getting worried.

“The ninth slot goes to the Smith family!”

I started to stand, then sank down as Kyle read out the rest of the names.

“Charles, Ryan, Lucy, and Joseph. Congratulations!”

My mouth went dry. Had I breezed through a test full of tricks?

If it was possible, Mom gripped my hand tighter. Gordon leaned close, chewing at his fingers. Even Miss Emma threw us a worried look.

“Our tenth and final contestants are . . . another Smith

family! Betty, Hope, and Gordon. A hearty congratulations to all our finalists! Please take your places on the stage, and we’ll get this party started.”

Mom pulled me to my feet, and I stumbled after Gordon to our assigned seats. My stomach churned when I saw how packed the auditorium was. Worse, a camera crew had set up behind the seats. I should have remembered: the Winterton Bee qualifiers always air on the local channel, one of the few we got on our motel TV.

“During tonight’s event,” Kyle explained, “each family will work together to spell their assigned words correctly. If you haven’t chosen a representative, please do so now.”

The families around us huddled close. Mom leaned across me. “Not it.”

I jerked my head at Gordon. “His fault. His job.”

My brother grinned. “I’ve got this.”

“Let’s have our representatives stand.” Kyle’s voice echoed through the room.

Gordon jumped to his feet and waved to the crowd along with Ms. Wu and eight other adults. My stomach dropped— Gordon was the only kid.

A couple families eyed us, looking smug, but I focused on not reacting.

“The Jackson family, you will be our first spellers tonight, and we’ll proceed in the order you were announced.”

Janet Sumner Johnson

The Jacksons marched to the front, the teenager slouching while the parents bounced in excitement.

“After I say your word, you’ll have two minutes to confer. This includes any requests for the definition, origin, or sample sentence. When the time ends, your representative—Jodi, I believe?—must spell the word. Are you ready?”

Jodi leaned toward the microphone. “Yes.”

“Wonderful! Your word is indict.”

The Jacksons had only huddled together a second before Jodi stepped forward. “Indict. I-N-D-I-C-T. Indict.”

“That is correct! Next, the Nguyens.”

The first round went quickly.

Fraught.

Amulet.

Crumpet.

Valiant.

No one missed on such easy words.

“Biopsy. I know that one!” Mom rattled it off and Gordon spelled it into the microphone.

The second round caught four families off guard.The Moores spelled chassis with an ey at the end, which the Morenos corrected.The Garcias forgot the u in camouflage. And to everyone’s shock, the Kims missed the word, too, replacing the ou with an a. When the other Smiths spelled exaggerate with only one g, we had an easy fix, but Mom still looked sick.

I slipped my hand into hers and squeezed. She didn’t let go, not even when we sat back down.

With only six families left, the third round went fast. The Jacksons spelled pulchritude with an a, though the Nguyens had no trouble fixing it. The Wus got obfuscate, and then—another surprise—both the Morenos and the Rices missed rhabdoid.

“I’m so sorry,” Kyle said. “That is incorrect. Please follow Anne backstage and thank you so much for joining us this evening and donating to help Mayfield’s foster children. The Rice family, everybody!”

The crowd applauded as they exited.

Kyle waved us up again. “Let’s see if the Smith family fares any better. Your word is rhabdoid.”

Spelling a word two other families had missed felt like cheating to me until Gordon pulled us into a huddle. “I would have spelled it like the Morenos. R-A-B-D-O-I-D. Do either of you know?”

Mom bit her lip. “I would have added the y like the Rices.”

“It has an h,” I said. “R-H-A-B-D-O-I-D.”

“You’re sure?” Gordon asked.

“Positive.”

With a nod, he stepped to the microphone. “Rhabdoid. R-H-A-B-D-O-I-D. Rhabdoid.”

“That’s correct! Well done.”

Mom hugged me as we returned to our seats.

“Only three families left!” Kyle sounded downright cheerful about it. “The Nguyen family, you’re up. Your word is rutabaga.”

The Nguyens huddled up, and for the first time, didn’t break right away. The seconds ticked down. Everyone in the audience seemed to lean forward in anticipation.

“And time’s up. Roger, do you have an answer for us?”

Mr. Nguyen eyed his family, then stepped to the microphone. “Rutabaga. R-O-O-T-A-B-E-G-A. Rutabaga.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! That is incorrect. Please follow Logan backstage. The Nguyen family, everybody!”

There was a smattering of applause, and then the Wus were up. They huddled for only a moment before Ms. Wu stepped to the microphone. “Rutabaga. R-U-T-A-B-E-G-A. Rutabaga.”

Kyle shook his head. “That is incorrect. I’m sorry. With only one family left, we’re going to have you sit back down while the Smiths spell the same word. If they do so successfully, they must correctly spell one more, or both you and the Nguyens will be back in the race for another round. Smith family, are you ready?”

Sweat trickled down my back as we walked to the microphone.

“Please spell rutabaga.”

We huddled and Gordon grinned at us. “I know this one. It has three a’s. R-U-T-A-B-A-G-A.”

When I gave a thumbs-up, he confidently stepped forward. “Rutabaga. R-U-T-A-B-A-G-A. Rutabaga.”

“Correct. Congratulations! If your family can spell one more word correctly, you’ll be the winners of both the cash prize and the Winterton Family Spelling Bee slot. Your word is hemorrhage.”

Back in the huddle Mom gripped my arm so tightly, I had to pry off her hand. “I studied this, but I’m too nervous to remember.”

Gordon bit his lip. “I think it has two h’s?”

I rolled my eyes. “For someone who’s had four extra weeks to study, you should know. It’s H-E-M-O-R-H-A-G-E.”

Gordon caught his breath. “No wait! There are two r’s. Now I remember.”

“There are two h’s and one r,” I insisted. “We went over it on Saturday.”

“But Ms. Wu said . . .”

I glared him down. “Who got rhabdoid right?”

Gordon looked at Mom, who shrugged. “She hasn’t missed yet.”

“H-E-M-O-R-H-A-G-E,” I said again. “Trust me.”

“And your two minutes are up! Gordon, do you have a spelling for us?”

Letting out his breath, Gordon stepped to the microphone.

“Hemorrhage. H-E-M-O-R”—he threw me a look before continuing—“R-H-A-G-E. Hemorrhage.”

Heat exploded through me. Why? Why would he do that? We had this whole thing in the bag! He hadn’t trusted me since I refused to meet the Wintertons, and now, because of that, he’d thrown away our chance.

I steeled myself for the bad news.

“Congratulations! That is correct.”

Kyle Webb kept talking, but I didn’t hear a word. Mom’s hand was on my shoulder. Gordon pumped his fist in the air, jumping up and down. Everything was moving in slow motion as Anne nudged us off stage.

I’d been certain. I’d ignored Gordon’s protests. Demanded he do what I say. And I’d been wrong.

I’d let the Wintertons make me doubt my brother.

Before I could apologize, a man in a suit approached us, and held out a clipboard to Mom. “Congratulations, Ms. Smith. Please sign this paperwork stating your family’s intention to attend the Winterton Family Spelling Bee, and we’ll release your check.”

Mom shook her head. “Thank you, but we won’t be participating in the finals. We’re happy with just our winnings.”

The man frowned. “If you don’t attend, you don’t get the money. That’s stated very clearly in the contest rules for the qualifier.”

“I don’t understand,” Mom said.

Gordon jumped between them. “So uh, did I forget to mention that rule?”

I pushed past Mom. “You lied to us?”

His cheeks flushed pink. “It wasn’t a lie. I just forgot to mention it.”

My apology plans crumbled. “Forgot, my eye! That’s a load of—”

“Hope.” Mom held up a hand, then turned to Gordon. “Still, she’s not wrong. I’m not happy, young man.”

Gordon stared at the ground. “I’m sorry. But you said yourself we need the money.”

I held my breath, waiting for her answer.

Mom caught my eye. Her shoulders sank. “I’m not thrilled, either, Hope, but we’re out of options. Please. Will you do this for me?”

My stomach churned. Jennifer had just shown me everything I needed to know about the Wintertons.That they thought they were better than everyone else. That it didn’t matter how they treated others as long as they got what they wanted.

But we needed that money.

Gordon watched me, not quite holding back a grin.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” I said. “If you’ll be my science partner.”

The smile dropped from Gordon’s face. “Nico and I already made plans.”

Janet Sumner Johnson

I shrugged. “Your choice, but you know how stubborn I am.” “Stubborn as a mule.” Mom’s mouth twitched.

Gordon tried to stare me down, but he finally cracked. “Fine. But I’m in charge.”

I nodded, and in a quick motion, Mom snatched the clipboard from the suit and signed it. “We are not done talking about this, Gordon.”

The man took back the form, then pressed a thick folder into Mom’s hands. “This has everything you’ll need to prepare. Pick-up dates, what to pack, information about Winterton Enterprises . . .” His handheld radio crackled, and he hurried away without so much as a nod.

I groaned. There was no going back.

At least I’d get to dump Jennifer as my science partner.