In 1977, I was twelve years old and a sixth-grader at Drew Middle School. That was the year my father, who drove a Budweiser delivery truck, would wake me at 5:00, leaving me to sit on my bed, half dressed and half asleep, goose flesh erupting across my skin like Braille. That was the year "Come Sail Away" played endlessly on the radio. The year of Star Wars and Egyptian President Anwar Sadat's visit to Jerusalem where he and Menachem Begin would take tentative steps toward peace. The year we learned about Plains, Georgia in social studies and grew peanuts in science, all because the South had risen again in the form of Jimmy Carter.

But, most important to this story, that was the year I lost my mother. I say "lost" deliberately, because it didn't have to be that way. I know that sounds strange, but it's the truth.

Let me start at the beginning, with that cool October of 1977 and the girl I knew as Lucy Fleur.

I met Lucy on a leaden autumn day that seemed heavy with meaning. At the time, I thought it had something to do with my mother who was in a coma after a seven-car pileup on Interstate 95 left her with a devastating head injury. I should tell you now that my mother wasn't just a mother to me. She was my best friend. My confidante. Whenever I talked, she listened as if my thoughts were the most important in the world. One time I told her I wanted to be the first person to walk on Mars, and the next day I found a book about the red planet lying on my Washington Redskins comforter. I can still see us together, huddled in my bed, looking at that book. There was one painting that showed an artist's interpretation of the first Martian colonists: two astronauts in lightweight suits silhouetted against a rust-colored landscape. "That's you," Mom would say, pointing to the figure in the foreground. "That's my boy, making history on Mars."

On that day, the day that started it all, I would have given anything to sit with my mom and daydream about my heroic feats on another planet. But she lay in a hospital bed across town, as silent and still as a stone. I wondered if she might die and even pictured myself being called to the office, where Principal Myers would say, "I'm sorry to tell you this, Travis, but your mother passed away this morning." Except Principal Myers never called me, and I was left to sit in class, wondering why the day seemed off-kilter, as if the foundation to the world had cracked slightly. Even Miss Rickels, a lefty who made back-slanting check marks on our papers, couldn't conjure up a smile to accompany her fashionable Dorothy Hamill haircut. She sat on the corner of her desk, arms crossed over her chest, and spoke to the class about the upcoming spelling bee as if she were remembering the rules from a dream.

In honor of the school-wide event, Miss Rickels had decorated the classroom with a banner, tacked above the chalkboard, that declared: Words Add Color to Our Language. There was a border of construction-paper leaves with each leaf displaying a vocabulary word on its orange, yellow or brown surface. The list was like nothing I had ever seen before: masticate, circumvent, diaspora, aileron, taciturn, obsequious, retrocede.

The door to the classroom had been propped open beneath incandescent, and that's exactly how the world turned when Mr. Shoemaker, the school's guidance counselor, ushered the girl with blonde hair, blue eyes and freckles into our lives.

"Good morning, Miss Rickels," said Mr. Shoemaker. "It seems we have a new student joining your class." Because he smelled funny, the kids called him Poomaker behind his back, but if the new girl noticed anything unusual, she didn't let on.

Miss Rickels appeared completely revitalized as she sprang to her feet. "Mr. Shoemaker, would you like to introduce her?"

Mr. Shoemaker led the girl, who wore jeans and a long-sleeved Ocean Pacific shirt, to the front of the room. "Boys and girls, this is Lucy Fleur. She's new to the area, so I trust you'll make her feel welcome."

Lucy beamed at the class, all 26 of us, spread across five rows of six desks, a sea of amazed faces. The girls were charmed, the boys in love.

And then Lucy spoke: "Hello, everyone. I'm very happy to be here."

The beauty of that voice! She sounded just like Olivia Newton John. She looked like her, too. A chorus of heavenly music,"Have you ever been mellow? Have you even tried?", filled my head.

"Welcome, Lucy," Miss Rickels said when she realized that the rest of us were going to sit gape-mouthed like a bunch of dead trout. "I think we have a seat for you in the second row, beside Travis Everheart. Travis, would you raise your hand please?"

Lucy was going to sit beside me! Of all the millions of people in the world, how was I lucky enough to have an angel from Heaven sitting beside me? But before I could even get my hand in the air, someone finally found his voice.

"You sound funny. Where are you from?" It was Ricky Spence, a notorious troublemaker who never did his homework.

"Down Under," Lucy said.

"Down under what?" Ricky shot back.

A few kids snickered. Paul Watson nudged Ricky's shoulder and said, "That's Australia, you nitwit."

More snickering until Miss Rickels stepped forward. "That's enough, class. I'm sure Lucy would love to answer a few questions about where she's from."

Arms shot up across the room.

"In social studies," Miss Rickels added, causing a collective moan to erupt from the students. "Right now, we've got to finish reviewing the rules of the spelling bee. Travis, would you please show Lucy her seat?"

I raised my hand. Lucy saw it and came sashaying down the aisle.

Mr. Shoemaker retreated into the hallway, though I hardly noticed. Lucy slipped into the seat beside mine in a graceful, fluid motion, bringing with her the smell of fresh air, sweet autumn leaves and just the vaguest hint of wood smoke.

And then, good God, she turned toward me and smiled.

At recess that day, the boys gathered to play Battle Ball, a kind of dodge ball where "out" players went behind the opposing team and, assuming the ball made it through to them, enjoyed an opportunity to get back "in." But the game never got started. We stood on the blacktopped playground in a loose knot, feeling lazy without knowing why.

"Do you really think she's from Australia?" Ricky Spence asked.

"She said so, didn't she?" Paul Watson observed.

Ricky smirked. "I could say I was from the moon. That doesn't make it true."

"What about her accent, though?" Albert Jackson asked. He had the red utility ball, which he kept trying to spin on his left index finger, the way the Harlem Globetrotters did.

"Yeah," I said, "that accent was awesome."

"Listen to Everfart here," Ricky teased. "I think he's in love."

I felt color stain my neck and cheeks. "I am not."

"Good," Ricky said, "because she's mine."

"Maybe you should compete in the spelling bee," Howard Greer said to Ricky, "and impress her with your intelligence."

"Maybe you should kiss my ass, Howie. I would rather spend seven minutes in heaven with fatso Angela Youst than compete in a stupid spelling bee."

Howard looked at me. "What about you, Travis?"

I thought about how I always spelled Tuesday with the U and the E transposed. "Not me, man. I'm lucky I can spell my own name."

"I'm going to do it," Albert said in the middle of another futile attempt to spin the ball on his fingertip.

Howard rolled his eyes.

"What? I'm qualified. Q-u-a-l-i-f-i-e-d. See?"

"That's good, Albert," Ricky said. "Can you spell 'stupid'?"

"Hey," Albert whined, then fumbled the red utility ball. It rolled across the playground and didn't stop until it was intercepted by Lucy Fleur's Keds-clad foot. For a moment, she stood with her white shoe perched on top of the red sphere, looking a little bit like a circus performer, then she scooped the ball up and walked toward us.

"Here you are, Travis," she said, handing the ball over.

I took it halfheartedly, like it made me a target for something I might not want.

"Thanks," I stammered.

"No worries," she said in that marvelous accent. Her blue eyes swept the group, came back to mine. "I'd like to have a chat with you, if you don't mind."

"Me?" I asked.

"Yes, you. After school today, in the library."

I looked around for some help, but the others were equally dumbfounded. Even Ricky Spence, who was clearly miffed that Lucy had shown interest in someone besides him, seemed at a loss for words. Finally I said, "Okay."

"Good. Then I'll see you this afternoon. Alone. Your friends will have to do without you for a bit."

Lucy turned and walked away, parting groups of roughhousing boys and chattering girls until she disappeared around the corner of the school.

"Jesus Christ," Howard said. "You're the luckiest guy on the planet."

"I guess so," I agreed.

That afternoon, I found Lucy sitting in the library's reference section. Several books lay scattered on the table, and she was flipping through one of them as if she were only remotely interested in its contents. When I joined her, she looked up and smiled.

"Have a seat, Travis. I want to show you something."

I looked at the book she was holding. It was called Beneath and Between: A Visual Guide to Hell and Purgatory. One spread showed two paintings from the 15th century, both of them depicting souls being dragged to Hell by horrible-looking demons.

I glanced at her expectantly.

"Look more closely," she said.

I leaned forward, studying the nightmarish images and almost jumped out of my seat when the scene on the left flickered, then came to life completely. Winged beasts, carrying souls in their talons, sailed across an ocher sky, descended to a rock-lined pit, dropped off their cargo and wheeled back for another load. In the pit, damned men and women writhed in agony and fear. One poor man tried to shrug off a parrot-beaked demon, but the thing pinned the man down and raked a three-pronged fork across his abdomen, spilling out guts in a huge wave of color and liquid. Another woman, unable to cope with her plight, clawed her own eyes out, though she still seemed to sense the approach of a creature with the head of a rat and body of a lizard.

I felt the blood drain from my face. "H-How'd you do that?" I stammered.

"Easy, mate," Lucy said. "Look again."

I didn't want to obey, but felt unable to control my own actions. I saw the second image animate. This one depicted a more typical version of Hell, with fire and brimstone and souls burning forever. A cascade of sinners tumbled down into the flames, except for those who were skewered by demons on implements of torture.

I slammed the book shut and pushed away from the table. I turned my pale face toward Lucy's.

"Who are you?" I gasped.

Lucy flashed a toothy grin. "Haven't you guessed yet, Travis? I'm your best mate in the whole world."

This made me think of Howard, Albert and Paul. I wished I had gone with them to Paul's house, where we were supposed to listen to the new Queen album. Albert would want to listen to "We Will Rock You/We Are The Champions" over and over, but anything, even listening to one song a dozen times, was better than being with this girl who could bring such ugliness to life. Had I really thought she was the most magnificent creature I had ever seen?

She sensed what I was thinking and said, "I suppose you don't think I'm so cute anymore. Well, no worries there. I didn't want your affection in the first place."

I had finally heard enough. I stood and began to walk away, but she stopped me with one sentence.

"I can bring her back you know."

"What?"

"I can bring back your mother." She paused. "But only if I get something in return."

I asked, even though I already suspected the answer. "What do you want?"

"Why you, of course. Or, more precisely, your soul."

I thought of the two visions of Hell shown to me. How would it feel to burn for eternity? Or get eviscerated? Or claw my own eyes out?

Again, Lucy knew what I was thinking. "The pain of eternal damnation is overrated. It's really not that bad. A small price, I would say, to enjoy a long life with your mother."

"How long?" I asked.

"Long enough."

I tried to take it all in. Finally, I asked, "So, what, I just agree and the deal is sealed?"

Lucy shook her head. "Unfortunately it's not that easy. A formal agreement is required, but it's a little more complicated than signing a piece of paper. I have to know you're committed to the cause."

"What would I have to do?"

"Win the spelling bee."

I shook my head.

"Become the class champion, and you can have your mother back. That's the deal. No negotiation."

"I can't do that," I protested. "I can hardly spell my own name."

"Then I suggest you start practicing." She spread her arms to indicate the other books that had been placed next to her visual guide of Hell. One was called the New York Public Library Desk Reference. Beside it lay a traditional dictionary and one of synonyms and antonyms, a thesaurus, a few volumes of Collier's Encyclopedia and something called Nasty Little Words Everyone Should Know. I suddenly felt in over my head.

"This will never work," I sighed.

"Ye have little faith," Lucy replied and beamed at the irony of her words.

Later, as I lay in bed and my father stood in the doorway of my room, I asked, "Do you believe in Hell?"

He came over to the bed and sat down in a wedge of light that spilled from the hallway. "Why would you ask a question like that?"

"Just thinking, that's all."

He studied me for a moment, then said, "Well, I might not have believed before your mother's accident, but now I would have to say, yes, I do believe there's a Hell. You and I are living in it right now."

"Do you think there's a place where sinners go after they die?" I asked.

"You mean with a pit of fire and the Devil carrying a pitchfork?"

I nodded.

"No, I guess I don't believe in that. Hell for me is losing your mom. Or, worse, losing you."

I thought of the deal Lucy had presented to me earlier. What would my father think if I told him I knew how to bring Mom back to us? Would he think I was crazy? In need of a therapist to help me deal with the apparent hopelessness of my mother's condition?

After a few seconds, I said, "I think I'm going to compete in the spelling bee this year."

"I thought you didn't like spelling," Dad said.

"I don't much."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't be much help. Your mom was the smart one when it came to stuff like that."

I knew Dad was self-conscious about not finishing high school. Mom, on the other hand, had taken evening classes to earn a two-year degree from Northern Virginia Community College which had helped her get a promotion in the government position she held at Fort Belvoir. She had hoped to transfer to George Mason University until the wreck on I-95 cut that dream short.

I said, "It might sound cocky, but I'm going to try to win the spelling bee this year. For Mom, I mean. I think it would make her happy."

My father put his hand on my shoulder. "I think she would be happy whether you won or not. You just do your best and your mom and I will be the proudest parents ever. Okay?"

I nodded.

"Okay, good night."

"Good night, Dad."

I lay awake for a long time, trying to convince myself that my father was right. There was no Heaven or Hell except what we experienced here on Earth. I fell asleep thinking about Lucy Fleur's moving pictures. A nightmare engulfed me--something evil, hidden beneath a thin veneer of light, threatened to gobble me whole.

At school the next day I printed my name on the spelling bee sign-up sheet. Miss Rickels saw me and asked, "Who lit a fire under you, Travis Everheart?"

I smiled back, then glanced over at Lucy.

She winked slyly.

By Wednesday afternoon, I'd discovered a method to the madness of spelling. It seemed I had a gift for finding memory tools hidden inside even the most difficult words. For example, I realized I would get misspell right every time by remembering: "Miss Pell can't spell," which contained the word in question, properly spelled. The technique worked on almost any word. "Two O's apart, two C's together, a single S as light as a feather" got me Occasion, "Chew on this: an E and an S" got me Eschew, and "Vermi the Lion never stops tryin'" got me vermilion. When I combined these memory tools with others I had already learned, such as "I before E except after C and sometimes Y," I began to believe I could spell any word in the English language.

On Thursday night, Dad took me through my paces. When I spelled cantankerous, along with conciliatory, fallacy and reverberate, correctly Dad seemed genuinely impressed. He peered over his reading glasses, the Webster's Dictionary in his lap and said, "I'm proud of you. Damn proud."

I felt guilty because I couldn't help but think that soon it would be Mom and me, just like old times. We would pull out my dog-eared book on Mars and dream about my first steps in the oxidized dust of a foreign world.

Nobody believed it when I made it to the final round. Albert Jackson, who lost on despicable, looked at me and said angrily, "I thought you couldn't spell." Even Miss Rickels, who stood behind her podium, calling out words as contestants toed a masking tape line she had placed at the front of the class, regarded me rather dubiously every time I answered correctly.

Lucy, on the other hand, looked gleeful. She watched with hungry anticipation as I survived two rounds, then five, then twelve. When Wanda Tersack and I were the only two contestants left, Lucy flashed a tightlipped smile, held up a finger and mouthed, "One more, Travis. One more."

And then the strangest thing happened. I saw my mother in the fourth row, second seat wearing the yellow sundress with blue flowers that she loved so much. My mother, biting her lower lip the way she did whenever she got nervous, tears filling her eyes, waiting for me to receive the next word, waiting for me to bring her back to life so we could be together again. Except she didn't look happy at all. If anything, she looked terrified. When I acknowledged her with an uncertain smile, she spoke to me without opening her mouth. "Don't do this, Travis. Please. I'll be with you forever, but not if you go through with this. Please, Travis, listen to me."

The classroom blurred before me, and I stepped back from the toe line. I put one hand to my eyes; the other I held out to keep from falling. When the world seemed to settle, I glanced back to where my mother had been sitting, but saw nothing but an empty desk chair. I avoided looking at Lucy.

"Travis, are you okay?" Miss Rickels asked.

I swallowed hard. "Yes."

"You're sure?"

I nodded.

"Your next word is incendiary."

The class inhaled collectively, but this was a word I knew. I had studied it in the dictionary the night before. It was tricky because it sounded like it should have sin in it, like doing something God wouldn't like, except the sinin incendiary was spelled with a c-e-n, like the beginning of century or centennial. To help me remember, I came up with the phrase, "In the sin diary," which required that I change the s-i-nto c-e-n and drop the "the." Easy. I could win and, in doing so, win back my mother.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I knew this was a point of no return.

"Travis," Miss Rickels prompted. "I need your answer."

I opened my mouth, but the image of my mother, looking so scared, stole my voice away. My mouth fell shut, making my teeth click.

Lucy slid to the end of her seat and watched me with mounting distrust. I could feel her body heat washing over me in waves.

"Travis?" Miss Rickels asked again.

"Yes, I have an answer." I cleared my throat. "I-n-s-i-n-d-i-a-r-y."

"No, Travis," Miss Rickels said with obvious disappointment. "It should be i-n-c-e-n-d-i-a-r-y."

Everyone groaned. Except for Lucy. She walked toward me, breathing hard. "You better watch yourself, Travis Everheart. Some day, I'll get another chance, and when I do, you won't get away so easily."

She bolted through the door and stalked out into the hallway. As far as I know, Drew Middle School never saw Lucy Fleur again.

That was the fall of 1977. The fall of "Come Sail Away" and Star Wars. The fall Wanda Tersack won the spelling bee with "epithelium". The fall my mother passed away on an overcast morning two weeks before Thanksgiving.

Today I have a beautiful wife and a son of my own. We live in the Fort Lauderdale area so I can be close to my father who retired here to escape cold Northeastern winters. A day doesn't go by when I don't think about that long-ago spelling bee and my mother's apparition. I now realize she was the angel to my devil, the force of goodness to counterbalance Lucy's evil. Cartoons show such battles being conducted on opposite shoulders of the protagonist. Mine took place in a middle school classroom with a Styrofoam solar system hanging from the ceiling and peanut plants growing on the window sill.

I'm still haunted by Lucy's final threat. I know she's waiting for me. In another form, perhaps, but one equally enticing. One that will try to tempt me to commit adultery or to strive for a position or possession that belongs to another. Maybe she won't come after me directly, but will go after my wife or Colin, my precious little boy.

Maybe she will try to tempt me using their forms. How would I know it wasn't really them until it was too late?

It's too horrible to imagine. What keeps me going is the memory of my mother's words, "I'll be with you forever," and the thought of us together in a world of twilit evenings, where Mars hangs in the sky like a salmon-colored moon. I have a mantra, a verbal talisman I say to keep my mother's hope alive and Lucy's threat at bay. It contains four simple words, but I say them every night as I put Colin to bed. I say them as a prayer or as an incantation.

I say, "In the sin diary, in the sin diary, in the sin diary."

William R. Harris grew up in Northern Virginia, not too far from the setting of this story. Although the Devil never made an appearance, there was still plenty of hell to be found in the hallways of Drew Middle School, where bullies roamed and cliques played out their games of acceptance and rejection. The other hell of this story--the 1970's--has been as accurately portrayed as possible.