Cursive and Hell

She sat at her desk working quietly like most of her classmates, with the exception of those two pesky boys in the back. But she paid them no mind. In fact, nothing penetrated her concentration. She didn’t pause to look at the room’s yellow walls, which usually held the promise of an irresistible daydream. The distinct but unappetizing smells of the cafeteria came wafting toward her, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew today was meatloaf day. Still, she kept working. Even when her friend Cleopatra walked to the front of the classroom to talk to Mrs. Bartholomew, she did not stop.

Her focus was on the crisp lined paper in front of her, which was slowly being filled with silvery shapes made by her trusty pencil. She rested for a moment and studied her handiwork. The elegant curling letters looked more beautiful than any she remembered because she had created them. Cursive. She had wanted to know the graceful skill since she had learned to write, and now she did! Her heart swelled with pride.

“Lisa,” Mrs. Bartholomew’s soft voice made Lisa’s head jerk upwards to meet her very blue eyes. “Come with me, please,” she said, and Lisa followed her dutifully.

She had never been called to the front of the class, so it made sense that her palms had started to sweat. Her cursive must be quite good to be gaining this kind of recognition. As she walked behind Mrs. Bartholomew, she couldn’t help but notice her red and white polka dotted skirt was twisted so that the slit, which was supposed to be centered, opened to reveal her right calf.

Mrs. Bartholomew sat down slowly in her heavy, gray rolling chair, and now they were eye to eye. She looked at Lisa steadily. Then, without taking her eyes away, she said, “Class, may I have your attention?”

There was a rustling sound as pencils were released and chairs were shifted. Lisa took a breath.

“Lisa,” Mrs. Bartholomew’s gentle voice calmed her a bit. “Are you Jewish?”

Lisa felt her brow furrow. The question wasn’t difficult. But what did her religion have to do with her handwriting?

“Yes,” she replied softly. “I’m Jewish.”

“Lisa,” Mrs. Bartholomew said again, and Lisa wondered if Mrs. B would say her name at the start of her every sentence. “Do you believe in God?”

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