Muggie Maggie Page 2

  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.

  Chapter 5

  Later 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.

  Chapter 6

  One morning, Maggie noticed Mrs. Leeper whispering with other teachers in the hall. They glanced at Maggie, who scrunched down, trying to look invisible so they wouldn’t talk about her.

  When class started, Mrs. Leeper said, “Boys and girls, let’s have a happy teacher today.” She said that so often, no one paid any attention. Then she pointed to words she had written on the chalkboard:

  The words made the class laugh, but Maggie did not see anything funny. Mrs. Leeper said, “Maggie, can you tell us what is wrong with these words?”

  That was the moment when Maggie discovered she could not read cursive. She shook her head while others, eager to point out errors, waved their hands.

  Later in the day, Mrs. Leeper announced, “Class, we need a message monitor. Who wants to be our message monitor?”

  Even though she did not expect to be chosen because she was not a person who made Mrs. Leeper happy, Maggie raised her hand. So did the rest of the class, except Kirby, who never wanted to be a monitor for anything and who, at the moment, was under the table.

  “Maggie, you may be our message monitor,” said Mrs. Leeper.

  “She means Muggie,” whispered Kirby, coming up from under the table, where he had been figuring out how the legs were fastened to the top.

  “Me?” said Maggie.

  “Yes, you,” said Mrs. Leeper with a happy smile. “And here is a note for you to take to Mr. Galloway.” She handed Maggie an envelope. “Please wait for an answer.”

  Maggie lost no time in escaping to the freedom of the hall, where no one supervised her. The envelope was not sealed. Peeking was cheating, Maggie told herself. Bravely and honestly, Maggie carried the note halfway to the principal’s office. Then she stopped and thought, One peek won’t hurt, not if it’s quick. If the envelope was not sealed, it must be all right to look inside.

  She might have guessed—cursive writing. Maggie could not figure out the note, which read:

  Maggie recognized the question mark and decided Mrs. Leeper was probably asking for more work sheets or something equally boring.

  “Hello there, Maggie,” said the principal when she held out the note. While Maggie waited, Mr. Galloway wrote a short answer, which he put in the same envelope. He crossed out his name and wrote Mrs. Leeper’s name in its place. The school could not afford to waste envelopes.

  “Take this to your teacher,” he said with a big smile. “And thank you, Maggie.”

  I won’t look, I won’t look, M
aggie told herself. What would be the use when the note was written in cursive? Maggie walked more and more slowly. Was it wrong to look at something she could not read? Of course not, Maggie decided, and she slipped the note out of the envelope.

  Mr. Galloway’s cursive was not as neat as Mrs. Leeper’s, which did not seem right to Maggie. A principal’s writing should be better than a teacher’s.

  Maggie studied Mr. Galloway’s loops and curves until one word jumped out at her:

  Maggie. She was shocked. What was Mr. Galloway saying about her? Maggie felt her cheeks turn red. Quickly, she replaced the note and hurried to her classroom as if she was carrying something hot. Mrs. Leeper gave her a sharp look and said, “Thank you, Maggie,” before she read what the principal had written. Then she smiled, once more a happy teacher.

  Suddenly, Maggie found cursive interesting. How could she read people’s letters if she could not read cursive? She couldn’t. Maggie, Gifted and Talented Maggie, felt defeat.

  Chapter 7

  For the next few days Maggie was a busy message monitor because Mrs. Leeper sent her hurrying to one room after another. She was even sent to the library. The envelope grew shabby. Most messages contained her name; others did not. Maggie snatched moments in the hall to try to figure out words, but all she learned was that some teachers were careless about joining letters without lifting pencil from paper.

  “How come you’re delivering so many messages?” asked Kirby.

  “Because she can’t read cursive,” said Courtney.

  “And Mrs. Leeper knows she can’t snoop,” said Kelly.

  “Mrs. Leeper wants me to deliver them,” said Maggie. “It makes her happy.”

  “I bet,” said Kirby.

  On her way to the first-grade room, Maggie discovered that all of Mrs. Leeper’s notes looked exactly alike, which was funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha. Feeling big and important in front of first graders, Maggie wondered about this as she listened to the little children play with the Velcro fasteners on their shoes. Rip-rip-rip. This teacher’s answer to Mrs. Leeper did not contain her name, so Maggie was not much interested. It read:

  In the sixth-grade room, Maggie felt as if she had shrunk because all the sixth graders stared at her while the teacher, a tall man with a ferocious beard, read the note.

  “There’s the cootie,” she heard a boy whisper.

  Maggie tossed her hair. The class tittered. Maggie wondered whether the boys called their teacher’s beard a cootie motel.

  The man glanced at Maggie, grinned, and wrote a note on the back of an old spelling test. Then he crossed out his name on the ragged envelope, replaced it with Mrs. Leeper’s name in one of the few spaces left, and handed it to Maggie, who was grateful to escape to the hall.

  When she peeked, Maggie found her own name, just as she had in other notes, but this time she found it twice. The note read:

  Maggie, desperate to read, discovered this teacher was careless about joining letters. If she had time, maybe she could puzzle them out, but she knew that she was expected back in her own classroom. Sending someone to find her would not make Mrs. Leeper happy.

  Friday evening, Jo Ann telephoned to ask Maggie to spend the night at her house.

  Maggie said she couldn’t. Jo Ann wanted to know why. Maggie said she had to help her father.

  “I thought he did some kind of office work,” said Jo Ann.

  “He does,” said Maggie, thinking fast. “I know how to use our computer.” She had not lied, not exactly, but she felt guilty.

  That weekend, Maggie studied every bit of cursive writing she could find: her mother’s tipping-over-backward grocery list, Ms. Madden’s neat handwritten notes mixed in with papers her father brought home from the office, anything. She did not try to read her father’s writing. She knew it was hopeless.

  Maggie spent most of her time in her room with her door closed. With Kisser’s nose resting on her foot and some old work papers in front of her, she frantically practiced cursive, including the difficult capitals:

  “What are you doing, Maggie?” asked her mother through the door.

  “Nothing,” answered Maggie, aware that her mother felt children were entitled to privacy and would not open the door. Letting her parents know she had changed her mind would make Maggie feel ashamed, like admitting she had been wrong.

  Maggie worked hard, and by Sunday evening she agreed with what Mrs. Leeper had been saying all along: Many cursive letters are shaped like printed letters. She knew she could read cursive as long as it was neat. She practiced her signature with her letters leaning into the wind:

  When she had finished, Maggie’s face was flushed, her hair more tousled than usual, but she could write cursive. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but anyone past the second grade could read it. She went to her father, who was working at the computer. “Daddy, listen to me,” she said, and her voice was stern.

  Mr. Schultz turned from the keyboard. “Okay, Maggie, what’s up?”

  “In writing, neatness counts,” Maggie informed him.

  “I expect it does,” he agreed.

  “Then you should learn to close your loops and put the right number of peaks on your u’s and write neatly,” said Maggie.

  “Funny, Ms. Madden says the same thing,” said Mr. Schultz. “I’ll try. Cross my heart.”

  Maggie was not sure she believed him. Next, Maggie went to her mother and announced, “You should make your writing lean the other way like it’s supposed to and stop putting silly circles over your i’s.”

  Mrs. Schultz smiled and pushed Maggie’s hair back from her flushed face. “I don’t know about that, Angelface,” she said. “Everyone says my handwriting is distinguished.”

  Maggie was tired and cross. “Well, it’s wrong,” she said, and she sighed so hard that Kisser looked anxious. Grown-ups were so hard to reform—maybe impossible.

  Chapter 8

  On Monday, Maggie looked at the words Mrs. Leeper had written on the chalkboard and discovered she was reading them because she couldn’t help it. Mrs. Leeper had written:

  Maggie was eager to carry the next message. She did not have to wait long for Mrs. Leeper to write a note for the principal. As soon as she closed the door—quietly, no slamming—Maggie slipped out the note that was written on the back of an old arithmetic paper and read the neatly formed words:

  Maggie was shocked. Maggie was angry.

  Mrs. Leeper had guessed she would peek. Maybe she had guessed all along, and now that Maggie could read cursive, she was saying mean things about her. But worst of all, Mrs. Leeper was waiting for an answer.

  Maggie wanted to crumple the note, but if she did that, Mrs. Leeper would want to know why Mr. Galloway had not sent a reply. She returned the note to its tattered envelope, dragged her feet into the principal’s office, and thrust it at him. She stood staring at the floor while he read it.

  “Um-hm,” he murmured, and Maggie heard his pen move across paper. “There you go, Maggie,” he said as he handed the remains of the envelope back to her. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Maggie, and she got out of his office as fast as she could without running.

  I won’t peek, I won’t peek, she told herself, but of course, she finally had to peek. What normal third grader wouldn’t want to know what the principal had to say in time of crisis? This note said:

  Figuring out the long word before her name took a while, and then—well! First of all, Maggie was astonished that Mr. Galloway would call a teacher by her first name. Then Maggie was indignant. Mrs. Leeper hadn’t done a thing. Maggie had done all the work, and now her teacher was getting all the credit.

  Maggie dreaded returning to her classroom. She plodded along, trying to figure out how she could avoid it. She couldn’t, not even if she took time to go to the bathroom. Sooner or later she had to face her teacher.

  With red cheeks, she handed her teacher the remains of the envelope and was about to hurry to her seat when Mrs. Leeper caught her han
d, pulled Maggie to her, gave her a big hug, and said, “I don’t think we need a message monitor anymore. Anyway, the envelope is worn out.” She tossed it, along with the note, into the wastebasket and said, “This is a happy day, Maggie.”

  Maggie was both pleased and confused. She had expected Mrs. Leeper to say something about cursive, but the teacher had not. She had not even said, “It’s about time,” or “I knew you could do it.” She just smiled at Maggie, who finally felt she could smile back.

  “You know something, Mrs. Leeper?” Maggie said shyly. “Your cursive is neater than any other teacher’s cursive.”

  Mrs. Leeper laughed. “It has to be. I’m the one who teaches it.”

  Maggie walked slowly to her seat. She could now make her letters flow together, and she had made her teacher happy, but maybe when she grew up and did not have to please grown-ups all the time, she might decide not to write cursive. She could print anytime she wanted. She had plenty of time to think it over.

  “Muggie Maggie,” said Kirby. “Teacher’s pet.”

  Maggie decided against pushing the table into his stomach.

  Instead, she sat down and wrote a note in cursive, which she shoved across the table:

  About the Author

  Beverly Cleary is one of America’s most popular authors. Born in McMinnville, Oregon, she lived on a farm in Yamhill until she was six and then moved to Portland. After college, as the children’s librarian in Yakima, Washington, she was challenged to find stories for non-readers. She wrote her first book, HENRY HUGGINS, in response to a boy’s question, “Where are the books about kids like us?”