Muggie Maggie (2 page)

T
he next day, after the third-grade monitors had led the flag salute, changed the date on the calendar, fed the hamster, and done all the housekeeping chores that third-grade monitors do in the morning, Mrs. Leeper faced her class and said, “Today is going to be a happy day.”

The third grade looked hopeful.

“Today we take a big step in growing up,” said Mrs. Leeper. “We are going to learn cursive handwriting. We are going to learn to make our letters flow together.” Mrs. Leeper made
flow
sound like a long, long word as she waved her hand in a graceful flowing motion.

She calls that exciting, thought Maggie, slumping in her chair.

“How many of you have ridden on a roller coaster?” asked Mrs. Leeper. Half the members of the class raised their hands. Mrs. Leeper wrote on the chalkboard:

“Many letters start up slowly, just like a roller coaster, and then drop down,” she said, and she traced over the first stroke of each letter with colored chalk. Then she went on to demonstrate how the roller coaster climbed almost straight up:

After the paper monitor passed out paper, the class practiced, not whole letters but roller-coaster strokes:

Maggie did as she was told until she grew bored and began to draw one long roller-coaster line that rose and fell, turned and twisted, and rose again. So many of the class needed help with their strokes that Mrs. Leeper did not get around to Maggie.

The next day, after strokes, the class practiced whole letters, some with loops that went up, some with loops that went down. This was difficult. The third grade frowned, worried, struggled, and asked Mrs. Leeper whether they were doing it right. Then they learned to connect letters with straight lines. Maggie went on drawing roller coasters until Mrs. Leeper noticed.

“Why, Maggie,” she said, “why haven't you been working on your loops and lines?”

“I am working,” said Maggie, “on roller coasters.”

Mrs. Leeper looked thoughtfully at Maggie, who tried to look happy. “Roller coasters are not cursive,” said the teacher.

“I know,” agreed Maggie, “but I don't need cursive. I use our computer.”

“Maggie, I think you had better stay after school so we can have a little talk,” said Mrs. Leeper.

“I have to catch my bus,” said Maggie with her sweetest smile.

That afternoon, Maggie examined cursive writing wherever she found it. “Why does your writing on the grocery list lean over backward?” she asked her mother. “Mrs. Leeper says letters should lean forward as if they were walking against the wind.”

“I'm left-handed, and my teachers didn't show me how to turn my paper,” answered Mrs. Schultz.

“And what are those little circles floating around?” asked Maggie.

Her mother laughed. “When I was in junior high, girls often made circles instead of dots over their
i
's. We thought it was artistic or something. I don't really remember.”

That evening, Maggie stood at her father's side as he wrote a letter on the computer. When he pulled the paper out of the printer, he picked up a pen and wrote at the bottom:

“What does that say?” asked Maggie.

“That's how I sign my name,” said her father. “Sydney Schultz.”

“You didn't close your loops,” Maggie pointed out. “You are supposed to close loops on letters that have pieces that hang down.” She had learned a thing or two in spite of herself.

“Oops,” said Mr. Schultz, and he closed his loops.

M
aggie began to enjoy cursive time. She experimented with letters leaning over backward and decorated with little circles, the way her mother dotted her
i
's. She wrote messy
g
's with long straight tails, the way her father made his
y
's.

“Why, Maggie,” said Mrs. Leeper. “I find your cursive very untidy.”

“I'm writing like a grown-up,” Maggie explained.

The result was Mrs. Leeper's asking Maggie's mother to come to school for a conference. That day, Mrs. Schultz had to fill the gas tank of the car, go to the bank, buy paper for the computer, and take Kisser to the veterinarian for his shot—all this after teaching exercise classes in the morning. She was not smiling when she reached school, still wearing her warm-up suit. She handed Kisser's leash to Maggie so she could take care of him during her conference with Mrs. Leeper.

Kisser was so happy to see a playground full of children that he wanted to jump up on everyone. Maggie had to hold on to his leash with both hands when her friends gathered around to ask why Mrs. Schultz was talking to the teacher.

Jo Ann answered for Maggie. “Maybe Mrs. Leeper wants her to be room mother or something.”

“I bet,” said Kirby on his way to the bus.

“What did she say?” demanded Maggie when her mother returned and everyone had boarded buses. “What did Mrs. Leeper say about me?”

“Down, Kisser!” Mrs. Schultz sounded cross. “Mrs. Leeper said you are a reluctant cursive writer who has not reached cursive-writing readiness, and perhaps you are too immature to write it.”

Maggie was indignant. “I am not!” she said. “I am Gifted and Talented.” Some people were Gifted and Talented, and some people weren't. At least, that was what teachers thought. Maybe no one had told Mrs. Leeper how Gifted and Talented she was. Maggie's mother drove home without saying one single word. Maggie hugged Kisser, who was so grateful that he licked her face, which she found comforting. Someone loved her.

For several days, just for fun, Maggie drew fancy letters at cursive time, and then Mrs. Leeper told her that Mr. Galloway, the principal, wanted to see her in his office. On her way, Maggie, filled with dread, dawdled as long as she felt she could get away with it.

“Hello there, Maggie,” said Mr. Galloway. “Sit down and let's have a little talk.”

Maggie sat. She never enjoyed what grown-ups called “a little talk.”

Mr. Galloway smiled, leaned back in his chair, and placed his fingertips together like an
A
, with his thumbs for the crossbar. A printed
A
, of course. “Maggie, Mrs. Leeper tells me you are not writing cursive. Can you tell me why?”

Maggie swung her legs, stared at a picture of George Washington on the wall, nibbled a hangnail. Mr. Galloway waited. Finally, Maggie had to say something. “I don't want to.”

“I see.” Mr. Galloway spoke as if Maggie had said something very important that required serious thought, lots of it.

“And why don't you want to?” asked the principal after a long silence, during which Maggie studied the way he combed his hair over his bald spot.

“I just don't want to,” said Maggie. “I use a computer.”

Mr. Galloway nodded as if he understood. “That's all, Maggie,” he said. “Thank you for coming in.”

That evening, Mrs. Leeper telephoned Maggie's mother to say that the principal had reported Maggie was not motivated to write cursive. “That means you don't want to,” Mrs. Schultz explained to Maggie.

“That's what I told him,” said Maggie, who couldn't see what all the fuss was about.

“Maggie!” cried her mother. “What are we going to do with you?”

“I'll motivate you, young lady,” said Mr. Schultz. “No more computer for you. You stay strictly away from it.”

Mrs. Schultz had more to say. “Tomorrow, Maggie is to see the school psychologist.” She looked worried, Mr. Schultz looked grim, and Maggie was frightened. A psychologist sounded scary. Kisser understood. He licked Maggie's hand to make her feel better.

As it turned out, Maggie loved the psychologist, who talked in a quiet voice and let her play with some toys while he asked gentle questions about her family, her dog, her teachers—nothing important. He asked about her times tables, and almost as an afterthought, he inquired, “How do you like cursive writing?”

“Okay,” answered Maggie, because he was a grown-up.

A couple of days later, Maggie's mother said, “The school psychologist wrote us a letter.”

Maggie's feelings were hurt. He had seemed like such a nice man. She had learned to be suspicious of letters from school. This was not the first.

Mrs. Schultz continued. “He says it will be interesting to see how long it will take you to decide to write cursive.”

“Oh,” said Maggie.

“How long do you think that will be?” asked Mrs. Schultz.

“Maybe forever,” said Maggie, beginning to wish she had never started the whole thing.