Muggie Maggie by Beverly Cleary Page A

change into his jogging clothes.
    When dinner was on the table and the family, exercised, happy, and hungry, was seated, Maggie chose the right moment to break her big news. “We start cursive this week,” she said with a gusty sigh that was supposed to impress her parents with the hard work that lay ahead.
    Instead, they laughed. Maggie was annoyed. Cursive was serious . She tossed her hair, which was perfect for tossing, waving, and curling to her shoulders, the sort of hair that made women say, “What wouldn’t you give for hair like that?” or, in sad voices, “I used to have hair that color.”
    â€œDon’t look so gloomy,” said Maggie’s father. “You’ll survive.”
    How did he know? Maggie scowled, still hurting from being laughed at, and said, “Cursive is dumb. It’s all wrinkled and stuck together, and I can’t see why I am supposed to do it.” This was a new thought that popped into her mind that moment.
    â€œBecause everyone writes cursive,” said Mrs. Schultz. “Or almost everybody.”
    â€œBut I can write print, or I can use the computer,” said Maggie, arguing mostly just to be arguing.
    â€œI’m sure you’ll enjoy cursive once you start,” said Mrs. Schultz in that brisk, positive way that always made Maggie feel contrary.
    I will not enjoy it, thought Maggie, and she said, “All those loops and squiggles. I don’t think I’ll do it.”
    â€œOf course you will,” said her father. “That’s why you go to school.”
    This made Maggie even more contrary. “I’m not going to write cursive, and nobody can make me. So there.”

    â€œHo-ho,” said her mother so cheerfully that Maggie felt three times as contrary.
    Mr. Schultz’s smile flattened into a straight line. “Just get busy, do what your teacher says, and learn it.”
    The way her father spoke pushed Maggie further into contrariness. She stabbed her fork into her baked potato so the handle stood up straight, then she broke off a piece of her beef patty with her fingers and fed it to Kisser.
    â€œMaggie, please ,” said her mother. “Your father has had a hard day, and I haven’t had such a great day myself.” After teaching her exercise classes in the morning, Mrs. Schultz spent her afternoons running errands for her family: dry cleaner, bank, gas station, market, post office.
    Maggie pulled her fork out of her baked potato. Kisser licked his chops and looked up at her with hope in his brown eyes, his tail wagging. “Kisser is lucky,” she said. “He doesn’t have to learn cursive.” When her dog heard his name, he stood up and placed his front paws on her lap.
    â€œNow you’re being silly, Maggie,” said her father. “Down, Kisser, you old nuisance.”
    Maggie was indignant. “Kisser is not a nuisance. Kisser is a loving dog,” she informed her father.
    â€œDon’t try to change the subject.” Mr. Schultz, irritated with Maggie, smiled at his wife, who was pouring him a cup of coffee.
    â€œBooks are not written in cursive,” Maggie pointed out. “I can read chapter books, and not everyone in my class is good at that.”
    Mr. Schultz sipped his coffee. “True,” he admitted, “but many things are written in cursive. Memos, many letters, grocery lists, checks, lots of things.”
    â€œI can write letters in printing, and I never write those other things,” argued Maggie, “so I am not going to learn cursive .” She tossed her hair and asked to be excused.
    Kisser felt that he, too, was excused. He trotted after Maggie and jumped up on her bed. As she hugged him, Maggie overheard her mother say, “I don’t know what gets into Maggie. Most of the time she behaves herself, and then suddenly she doesn’t.”
    â€œContrary kid,” said her father.

Chapter 2
    T he next day,