Muggie Maggie (3 page)

M
aggie had grown bored with not writing cursive, but by now the whole third grade was interested in her revolt. Each day, they watched to see whether she gave in. Her friends talked about it at lunchtime. In the hall, she overheard a fourth grader say, “There goes that girl who won't write cursive.” Many people thought she was brave; others thought she was acting stupid. Obviously, Maggie could not back down now. She had to protect her pride.

Courtney and Kelly, best friends who sat opposite one another, did not approve of Maggie.

Courtney said, “Only first and second graders print.”

Kelly said, “I think you are acting dumb, Maggie.”

Jo Ann whispered from the next table. “If you are having trouble, maybe I can help you on Saturday.”

“I'm
not
having trouble,” Maggie whispered back. “I just don't want to do it.” Then she worried. What if others thought Gifted and Talented Maggie couldn't write cursive if she wanted to?

Mrs. Leeper handed out individual papers with each person's name, first and last, written in perfect cursive at the top. “Today we practice our signatures,” she said, and she looked at Maggie. “Even if we write letters on computers, we must sign them in our own handwriting.”

Maggie studied her neatly written name. If she wrote “Maggie Schultz” and not one letter more, would this be giving in? Not really, she decided, not if she wrote like a grown-up.

While Kirby—a boy who always did what he was told, more or less—gripped his pencil, pressing down so hard he broke the point and had to go to the pencil sharpener, and Courtney and Kelly wrote with pencils whispering daintily across their papers, Maggie wrote her name the way her father wrote his:

On the next line, she wrote with her left hand, which was difficult:

Kirby worked so hard that he needed a rest. He pushed the table into Maggie's stomach. Maggie pushed it back.

“Mrs. Leeper!” said Courtney. “Kirby and Maggie are wrecking our cursive.”

“They do it all the time,” said Kelly.

This brought Mrs. Leeper to their table. “See, Mrs. Leeper,” said Courtney, pointing. “That is where Kirby pushed the table.”

“And this is where Maggie pushed it back,” said Kelly.

“I'm sure they won't do it again.” Mrs. Leeper tried to look happy as she paused beside Maggie.

Maggie quickly curved her arm around her paper and bowed her head as if she was working very, very hard.

Mrs. Leeper, who often told the class she had eyes in the back of her head, had already seen Maggie's work, if one could really call it work. “Maggie, why are you writing with your left hand when you are right-handed?” she wanted to know.

“That's the way my mother writes,” explained Maggie.

Mrs. Leeper removed the pencil from Maggie's left hand and placed it in her right. “And where are the loops on your
g
's that we talked about? Your
l
and
t
are leaning over backward. We don't want our telephone poles to tip over, do we?”

“I guess not,” said Maggie.

“Take your paper home and do it over,” said Mrs. Leeper, “and we must close our
a
. Your name is not Muggie.”

Maggie knew she was done for.

“Muggie Maggie,” whispered Kirby, as Maggie had expected.

“You keep quiet.” Maggie pushed the table into his stomach.

“Mrs. Leeper!” cried Courtney and Kelly at the same time.

“I thought we were going to have a happy teacher today,” said Mrs. Leeper. “Let's be good citizens.”

Maggie was sure she would not have a happy recess, and she did not. Everyone shouted “Muggie Maggie! Muggie Maggie!” Kirby started it, of course. He was not a good citizen.

L
ater that week, Mr. Schultz brought Maggie a present from Ms. Madden, a ball-point pen that wrote in either red or blue ink.

“Just what I've always wanted.” Maggie was filled with love for Ms. Madden, the one grown-up who, Maggie felt, did not pick on her.

“Can I thank her on the computer?” asked Maggie, testing her father.

“You may not. The computer is off limits.” Mr. Schultz was annoyingly cheerful. “Use your new pen.”

Maggie was not surprised. Her father always meant what he said. She went to her room and, with Kisser resting his nose on her foot, went to work. Her printing was not as neat as it once had been because she was out of practice. She wrote one letter in blue, the next in red, over and over:

After a moment's thought, she added:

There. Maggie, pleased with her work, folded the letter, sealed it in an envelope, printed
on the front, and slipped it into her father's briefcase, with the virtuous feeling of having done what was expected of her.

The next evening, Mr. Schultz brought home an envelope for Maggie, who tore it open. The note, as she had expected, was from Ms. Madden and was neatly typed, except for one consonant. It read:

Dear Maggie,

If you are really

(or did you mean sloppy?)

Why didn't you copy

your letter over?

Love,

Maggie's eyes filled with tears, she felt so ashamed. Now even Ms. Madden, along with everyone else, was picking on her.

Mrs. Schultz, seeing Maggie's tears, asked to read the note. Then she said gently, “Well Angelface, why didn't you do your letter over?”

Maggie sniffed. “I thought Ms. Madden would understand.”

Maggie's father took his turn at reading the embarrassing note. “Of course Ms. Madden wouldn't understand,” he said. “Ms. Madden is a secretary who is always neat and accurate.”

“Well, I don't want to be a secretary,” said Maggie, thinking of several neat, accurate girls in the third grade. “I'm going to be an astronaut or a meter maid.”

“Good for you, Goldilocks,” said her father, and he rumpled her hair.