Ten-year-old Maisie didn’t want to go to the private girls’ school. She was perfectly happy at Country Day, but when she became ill and missed a whole year of school, her mother enrolled her in the dreaded Academy.
Maisie’s days are filled with woe. She can’t even curtsy for the nuns correctly. The girls are not particularly friendly, except perhaps for Dotty, and Maisie’s mistakes earn her a reputation of being awkward and not at all one of Mother Friedan’s favorites.
Even her ability to play the piano does not earn Maisie respect, but doggedly she carries on, playing the piano for Primes, the French honors assembly.
While Maisie loves animals, she does not believe people would like to be animals. And when Lydia stomps like a moose, Polly slinks like a panther, and Susan swishes her long hair like a Shetland pony, Maisie gets an idea. However, before she can put her idea into action, animals come for a surprise visit. The events that follow turn Maisie into a ringmaster, and Mother Friedan’s girls into circus animals.
Maisie becomes popular in spite of a brutish bunch of boarders and a naughty no-nonsense nun when she discovers her own powers and another world on the other side.
Journalist and author of three juvenile historical novels, FROM THE ASHES, COLORS OF WAR and HOME IS THE TURTLE, Pat Ramsey Beckman has now written a fantasy with the sixth grade students of St. Francis Catholic School, Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.
A more ambitious project than her previous work with grade schools in New Jersey, where she held writing workshops on historical fiction, the ANIMAL ACADEMY has introduced a new genre to her endeavors.
Since childhood in Philadelphia where the smell of printer’s ink and the clatter of Underwood typewriters in the pressroom of the Evening Bulletin first fired her imagination, Pat Beckman has been writing everything from newspaper articles, magazine stories and finally books for children.
Since moving to South Carolina with her husband, she continues sharing her love of history and writing, with her children, grandchildren, and students in neighborhood schools.
I expect to have a good time at recess. Everybody is grabbing hockey sticks from the locker room at the end of the corridor. A silky girl named Susan swishes her long hair over her shoulder and glares at me, and a jittery girl named Dotty hands me a hockey stick. We race outside, shoving, poking, pushing, and knocking each other down.
The field is wet, the grass longer than it should be, and my shoes turn green with grass stains. Now I see Lydia hunching in the wire goal with a mask on her big face. There’s Polly and Cecile doing this thing in the middle of the field, cracking hockey sticks together. Somebody shouts, "STICKS!"
The ball travels down the field. It comes right for me. "Hit it, kid," Dotty hollers. I don’t even know which side I’m on; how can I hit it when I don’t know which end of the field I’m going to? I hit it and it runs two feet in front of me and stops.
Mother Friedan whips her long skirts between her legs, ties them around her waist like a diaper, yanks my hockey stick out of my hand and chases the ball down the field. Everyone "Hoorays." My mouth drops open.
I’m sweaty now; big half moons on my blouse under my arms. I don’t remember ever sweating like this before. "Why are you breathing so hard?’ asks Mother Friedan, "You haven’t done anything."
Silky Susan glares at me again. But Dotty pats my arm and lightly springs on tiptoes off the field. We all leave the field for the locker room to change for dinner (dinner being the middle meal).
I’m hungry until I get to the dining room and see the turnips. They’re orange, and smashed, and lumpy like my Mom’s potatoes.
After prayer we all sit down at the long dining table. Big Lydia plops a spoonful of the dreadful orange stuff from her plate onto mine. I gag and choke and try to push the turnips under my broccoli. Another spoonful lands on my plate. "Here, have some more," says a voice, (I don’t even look). I can’t continue to hide them under my broccoli, so I close off the thing in back of my throat, and hope I can’t taste. I swallow until the turnips are gone, and I feel like my face is green. I can’t move fast enough when I leave the table and run to the lavatory. Even the food is bitter. .
We sneak across the turnip fields, over the softball diamond, along an avenue of maples, past the stables, to a row of old frame buildings. I really don’t know what’s in those dank buildings, but I don’t have to know because she’s found a hiding place for us -- a ragged, tattered barn leaning on rickety doors like a drunken sailor. Gaping holes in its sides throw patches of sun onto the floor as I step inside and hear Cat Lady gasp, "This is the place; they’ll never find us here."
Inside, my first eyes can’t see through the dark. Now I make out Mother Friedan’s black-stocking leg and sensible shoe trailing behind her as she scales the ladder. I run to catch up. But I see the rope, and I know I can’t climb it; I’ve always been afraid of heights. I run to hide in the hay. "I can’t go up there," I whimper.
She sees me, "You have to!" she says.
"I can’t." I say and she pulls my arm.
Before I know it I’m on the first rung of the rope behind Mother Friedan, swinging back and forth and squeezing one foot on top of the other to keep my balance. I’m holding onto the next rope rung with all my might. She pulls me up to the next one and all I can see is Dotty’s leg and green hay falling off the railing-less loft.
"I’ll get dizzy up there. I’ll fall off!" I’m trapped. Swirling stars rush through my brain as I climb up after Susan the Shetland Pony and slide on my stomach across the splintery boards. My legs turn to spaghetti; my knees shake like a bowl full of jello.
"This is not far enough." I hear Cat Lady say; "they’ll surely find us here. Climb up to the next floor."
I made it this far; I can’t go any farther.
"I know what you’re thinking, Maisie, but forget it. You’re going to the next floor if I have to drag you there myself. We have to WIN!!"
So that’s it, she has to win. I pull my leaden legs across the boards and look down. There are pitchforks, wagons and barrels down there. Now I lunge for Mother Friedan’s black skirt before my foot slips through a crack. I grip the black material like death and close my eyes. I feel bodies pushing under me. If I fall, maybe I’ll fall on them. That’s comforting! Sure.
She keeps dragging me up, clammy sweat trickling into my eyes, but my body is cold as ice. I can’t see. I guess I’m on the top loft; dark bodies are panting hot breath all around me. Nobody speaks. I close my eyes and time seems to stand still in the secret silence. When I open my eyes, the day has turned to dusk, and I’m alone. I shiver with the thought that they left me here in this dark place.
Suddenly Dotty the Kitten appears out of nowhere. "We won," she says, and helps me climb down the ladder. But all I can think about are the animals as we walk back to study hall.
