Chapter 4: Spelling, Spanish, and Poetry Slams

“At such a young age, to have mastered multiplication and broken through to third grade—truly a once-in-a-century genius with limitless potential!” the crowd exclaimed.

Someone in the back whistled low, and I caught a couple of kids texting furiously—probably spreading the news across every group chat in the state.

Listening to the praise around me, my mind was full of question marks.

Was I missing some grand secret? Was there a reason everyone here treated math facts like rare superpowers?

Haven’t you all learned the multiplication table?

In my old world, this would be the kind of thing you drilled into your head by second grade with ice cream bribes from your teacher.

Just as I was silently complaining, our oldest senior adjusted his breath and fired off a barrage:

“3×4, 5×8, 7×9?”

He unleashed the questions rapid-fire, the magical equivalent of a three-point shot from the half-court line. The air shimmered with energy, slicing toward Caleb.

Three even sharper wind blades shot toward Caleb.

Each one looked sharper than the last, buzzing with potential—like the hum of a pencil sharpener right before a big exam.

Caleb, unfazed, raised his hand and replied:

“Twelve, forty, sixty-three.”

He recited the answers with a cool confidence, as if he was reciting his home address or ordering at a drive-thru.

The three wind blades vanished one after another.

The air stilled again, the only evidence of magic left in the wide eyes of the crowd.

Our oldest senior was panting now, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, looking like a coach down by twenty at halftime.

Caleb calmly took a step forward, eyes focused, forming a hand sign.

His fingers traced invisible patterns, like a pianist warming up for a big recital.

“What is 4×8÷2−9?”

He launched the question with the precision of a Jeopardy! champion. The crowd leaned in, holding their collective breath.

A powerful blast of energy slashed at our oldest senior.

It roared across the stage—visible, pulsing, and packed with intent. The lights above flickered, adding to the drama.

His face turned pale—he clearly couldn’t solve it in time. In a panic, he could only defend, but the energy broke through easily.

He tried to throw up a shield, muttering under his breath, but the attack cut right through—like a hot knife through butter.

Our oldest senior let out a grunt, thrown back in embarrassment, his body covered in countless magical wounds.

He crashed into the side of the stage, glasses askew, clutching at his side. I winced in sympathy, feeling every ounce of his embarrassment.

The crowd erupted:

“It’s mixed multiplication and division!”

“Caleb’s already reached fourth-grade level?”

“Such a young fourth-grade expert—terrifying!”

The excitement was infectious, the kind of energy you’d find at a championship basketball game or spelling bee finals.

Me: ...

I glanced around, hoping someone would explain the logic here, but everyone just kept clapping and whooping.

So, all you magicians… didn’t even graduate elementary school?

Was this the Twilight Zone, or was everyone here just extremely passionate about the Common Core?

There was no time to mourn our oldest senior’s defeat—next up was second senior sister.

She stood tall, chin raised, determined to prove herself. Her hands trembled just a bit, but she shook them out, ready to fight.

Her opponent: a girl from Blue Ridge Academy.

The Blue Ridge girl wore her hair in a high ponytail, sporting a varsity jacket and sneakers. There was a glint in her eye that said she’d spent more hours in the library than the cafeteria.

The two immediately launched into a fierce exchange. Addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division collided back and forth—sparks flew on stage, and for a while, they were evenly matched.

Equations darted through the air like fireflies at dusk, and each correct answer made the crowd ooh and ahh. It was a mathlete’s dream come true.

After second senior sister once again countered her opponent’s attack, the girl stepped back, took a deep breath, and began chanting under her breath.

You could see her lips moving, her focus absolute—like a debate kid prepping for the final round.

The next moment, to my utter shock, the girl suddenly declared: “Hello, how are you.”

The words echoed, twisting and shimmering as letters materialized above her palm, swirling like confetti on New Year’s Eve.

A pile of strange-looking letters appeared out of thin air, hurtling toward second senior sister.

The letters glowed, pulsing in a rhythm I didn’t recognize—a blend of English and something else, maybe a little Spanish flair.

Second senior sister froze, barely managing to respond:

“I love pizza, thank you, and you.”

She blurted it out like a kid at show-and-tell, the crowd chuckling in amusement.

“I love pizza, too.”

Her opponent grinned, not missing a beat, clearly enjoying the exchange.

It took me a second to realize—they were speaking Spanish.

My brain flipped through old high school flashcards—suddenly, language class was more than just a GPA booster.

The girl’s first attack failed, so she immediately unleashed another line:

“What’s your name?”

Her voice was clearer this time, rolling out the question with practiced ease. The letters shimmered brighter, morphing into Spanish words like a digital translation app gone wild.

This time, her pronunciation was fairly standard. The strange letters glowed, transforming into a string of Spanish words.

A rope of words looped around my senior sister, glowing and tightening with every second.

Second senior sister seemed not to understand, and the string of words bound her like shackles. The girl seized the chance and easily defeated her.

It was over before I could even call out a warning. My heart sank as my sister dropped to her knees, the ropes fading away with her defeat.

“She can wield language spells so skillfully—Blue Ridge Academy truly has talented successors.”

The crowd buzzed with excitement. Some whispered about signing up for extra AP Spanish classes. The principal of Blue Ridge high-fived a passing student.

Listening to the crowd, I could only hold my forehead. This magic world is… unexpectedly international. You can even cultivate Spanish?

Maybe next year they’d be dueling in French or Mandarin. Anything’s possible when language is literally a superpower.