Chapter Eight
“I don’t know where you learned your penmanship, Devaki.” Mrs. Hazel Morton held a sheet of paper between her fingertips, giving it a look of supreme disdain, “but it is, by far, the worst I’ve seen this year.” She dropped the paper on my desk and walked back toward the front of the classroom.
“What is penship?” I whispered across the aisle to Liz.
Before she could answer, Mrs. Morton wheeled around, giving me her gray eagle-eye glare. “The word is ‘penmanship,’ and it means handwriting. You do understand ‘handwriting,’ I presume?” She placed her fists on her hips.
I nodded and reached for the sheet of paper, which was my writing assignment from the previous day.
When Mrs. Morton turned away, I mouthed to Liz, “Handwriting?”
Liz grabbed her pencil and made a
