_____ 1. maniac a. car that runs on electricity from overhead poles. _____ 2. legacy b. to lift up. _____ 3. trolley c. crazy person. _____ 4. Please Note: the book Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli is required and not included with this study guide. Maniac Magee - Literature Kit Gr. - PDF Download. If you changed the setting of Maniac Magee to another time and place, would the story soundofheaven.info
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They say Maniac Magee was born in a dump They say his stomach was a cereal box East side; and if you're looking for Maniac Magee's legacy, or monument. MANIAC MAGEE JERRY SPINELLI WINNER OF THE NEWBERY MEDAL Before the Story They say Maniac Magee was born in a dump They say his stomach. TABLE OF CONTENTS Maniac Magee. Introduction. 6. Unit Objectives. 8. Unit Outline. 9. Reading Assignment Sheet. Study Questions. Quiz/Study.
But it was something they heard that made him stick in their minds all these years. This was one of the things they did for fun. Maniac blinked and stepped back. We'll give you a head start. From then on, the baths usually took place at night. In exactly fifteen minutes, he woke up and started back in.
Never again to return to school. The question is: What took him so long! And what did he do along the way! Sure, two hundred miles is a long way, especially on foot, but the year that it took him to cover it was about fifty-one weeks more than he needed - figuring the way he could run, even then. The legend doesn't have the answer. That's why this period is known as The Lost Year. And another question: Why did he stay here!
Why Two Mills! Of course, there's the obvious answer that sitting right across the Schuylkill is Bridgeport, where he was born. Yet there are other theories. Some say he just got tired of running. Some say it was the butterscotch Krimpets. And some say he only intended to pause here but that he stayed because he was so happy to make a friend.
If you listen to everybody who claims to have seen Jeffrey-Maniac Magee that first day, there must have been ten thousand people and a parade of fire trucks waiting for him at the town limits. Don't believe it. A couple of people truly remember, and here's what they saw: But it was something they heard that made him stick in their minds all these years.
As he passed them, he said, "Hi. They stopped, they blinked, they turned, they stared after him, they wondered: Do I know that kid?
Because people just didn't say that to strangers, out of the blue. And it happened because of a mistake. It was around eight in the morning, and Amanda was heading for grade school, like hundreds of other kids all over town.
What made Amanda different was that she was carrying a suitcase, and that's what caught Maniac's eye. He figured she was like him, running away, so he stopped and said, "Hi. Who was this white stranger kid! And what was he doing in the East End, where almost all the kids were black! And why was he saying that! But Amanda Beale was also friendly. So she stopped and said "Hi" back. Jeffrey pointed at the suitcase. Amanda frowned, then thought, then laughed.
She laughed so hard she began to lose her balance, so she set the suitcase down and sat on it so she could laugh more safely.
When at last she could speak, she said, "I'm not running away. I'm going to school. She got off the suitcase and opened it up right there on the sidewalk.
Jeffrey gasped. Both sides of the suitcase crammed with them. Dozens more than anyone would ever need for homework. Jeffrey fell to his knees. He and Amanda and the suitcase were like a rock in a stream; the school-goers just flowed to the left and right around them. He turned his head this way and that to read the titles. He lifted the books on top to see the ones beneath.
There were fiction books and nonfiction books, who- did-it books and let' s-be-friends books and what-is-it books and how-to books and how-nor-to books and just-regular-kid books. On the bottom was a single volume from an encyclopedia. It was the letter A.
Somebody called, "Gonna be late for school, girl? The street was almost deserted. She slammed the suitcase shut and started hauling it along. Jeffrey took the suitcase from her. She hesitated; then she snatched it back. West End? She stared at him, at the flap-soled sneakers. Back in those days the town was pretty much divided.
The East End was blacks, the West End was whites. Over there! That Bridgeport? So where do you live? Jeffrey dropped back for a second, then caught up with her. She told him about her little brother and sister at home, who loved to crayon every piece of paper they could find, whether or not it already had type all over it. And about the dog, Bow Wow, who chewed everything he could get his teeth on. And that, she said, was why she carried her whole library to and from school every day.
First bell was ringing; the school was still a block away. Amanda ran. Jeffrey ran. To borrow. What's your name? Any one. Your shortest one. Forget it. What kind of kid was this, anyway! All grungy. Ripped shirt. Why didn't he go back to Bridgeport or the West End, where he belonged?
Bother some white girl up there! And why was she still standing here' 1 "So what if I loaned you one, huh! How am I gonna get it back? If it's the last thing I do.
What's your address? But you can't come there. You can't even be here. Amanda screamed, whirled, ran. She tore a book from the suitcase, hurled it at him - "Here! The book came flapping like a wounded duck and fell at Jeffrey's feet. It was a story of the Children's Crusade. Jeffrey picked it up, and Amanda Beale was late to school for the only time in her life.
The first came at one of the high school fields, during eleventh-grade gym class. Most of the students were playing soccer. But about a dozen were playing football, because they were on the varsity, and the gym teacher happened to be the football coach. The star quarterback, Brian Denehy, wound up and threw a sixty-yarder to his favorite receiver, James "Hands" Down, who was streaking a fly pattern down the sideline.
But the ball never quite reached Hands. Just as he was about to cradle it in his big brown loving mitts, it vanished. By the time he recovered from the shock, a little kid was weaving upfield through the varsity football players.
Nobody laid a paw on him. When the kid got down to the soccer field, he turned and punted the ball. It sailed back over the up-looking gym- classers, spiraling more perfectly than anything Brian Denehy had ever thrown, and landed in the outstretched hands of still stunned Hands Down. Then the kid ran off. There was one other thing, something that all of them saw but no one believed until they compared notes after school that day: He had to, because in his other hand was a book.
At Oriole Street, to be exact. At the backyard of Oriole, to be exacter. This, of course, was the infamous address of Finsterwald.
Kids stayed away from Finsterwald's the way old people stay away from Saturday afternoon matinees at a two-dollar movie. And what would happen to a kid who didn't stay away! That was a question best left unanswered. Suffice it to say that occasionally, even today, if some poor, raggedy, nicotine- stained wretch is seen shuffling through town, word will spread that this once was a bright, happy, normal child who had the misfortune of blundering onto Finsterwald's property.
That's why, if you valued your life, you never chased a ball into Finsterwald's backyard. Finsterwald's back- yard was a graveyard of tennis balls and baseballs and footballs and Frisbees and model airplanes and one- way boomerangs. That's why his front steps were the only un-sat-on front steps in town. And why no paper kid would ever deliver there.
And why no kid on a snow day would ever shovel that sidewalk, not for a zillion dollars. So, it was late afternoon, and screams were coming from Finsterwald's. The screamer was a boy whose name is lost to us, for after this day he disappears from the pages of history. We believe he was about ten years old. Let's call him Arnold Jones. Arnold Jones was being hoisted in the air above Finsterwald's backyard fence.
The hoisters were three or four high school kids. This was one of the things they did for fun. Arnold Jones had apparently for- gotten one of the cardinal rules of survival in the West End: Never let yourself be near Finsterwald's and high school kids at the same time. So, there's Arnold Jones, held up by all these hands, flopping and kicking and shrieking like some poor Aztec human sacrifice about to be tossed off a pyramid. The high-schoolers dump him into the yard.
And now they back off, no longer laughing, just watching, watching the back door of the house, the windows, the dark green shades.
As for Arnold Jones, he clams up the instant he hits the ground. He's on his knees now, all hushed and puckered. His eyes goggle at the back door, at the door knob. He's paralyzed, a mouse in front of the yawning maw of a python.
Now, after a minute or two of breathless silence, one of the high-schoolers thinks he hears something. He whispers: A faint, tiny noise. A rattling. A chittering. A chattering. And getting louder — yes — chattering teeth. Arnold Jones's teeth. They're chattering like snare drums. And now, as if his mouth isn't big enough to hold the chatter, the rest of his body loins in. First it's a buzz- like trembling, then the shakes, and finally it's as if every bone inside him is clamoring to get out.
A high- schooler squawks: Years later, the high-schoolers' accounts differ. One says the kid from nowhere hopped the fence, hopped it without ever laying a hand on it to boost himself over.
Another says the kid just opened the back gate and strolled on in. Another swears it was a mirage, some sort of hallucination, possibly caused by evil emanations surrounding Oriole Street.
Real or not, they all saw the same kid: They saw him walk right up to Arnold, and they saw Arnold look up at him and faint dead away. Such a bad case of the finsterwallies did Arnold have that his body kept shaking for half a minute after he conked out. Violent trembling of the body, especially in the extremities arms and legs The phantom Samaritan stuck the book between his teeth, crouched down, hoisted Arnold Jones's limp carcass over his shoulder, and hauled him our of there like a sack of flour.
Unfortunately, he chose to put Arnold down at the one spot in town as bad as Finsterwald's backyard — namely, Finsterwald's front steps. When Arnold came to and discovered this, he took off like a horsefly from a swatter. As the stupefied high-schoolers were leaving the scene, they looked back.
They saw the kid, cool times ten, stretch out on the forbidden steps and open his book to read. Valerie Pickwell twanged open her back screen door, stood on the step, and whistled. As whistles go, Mrs. Pickwell's was one of the all-time greats. It reeled in every Pickwell kid for dinner every night. Never was a Pickwell kid ever late for dinner.
It's a record that will probably stand forever. The whistle wasn't loud. It wasn't screechy. It was a simple two-note job — one high note, one low. To an outsider, it wouldn't sound all that special. But to the ears of a Pickwell kid, it was magic. Somehow it had the ability to slip through the slush of five o'clock noises to reach its targets. So, from the dump, from the creek, from the tracks, from Red Hill — in ran the Pickwell kids for dinner, all ten of them.
Add to that the parents, baby Didi, Grandmother and Grandfather Pickwell, Great- grandfather Pickwell, and a down-and-out taxi driver whom Mr.
Pickwell was helping out the Pickwells were always helping out somebody - ail that, and you had what Mrs. Pickwell called her "small nation. Dinner was spaghetti. In fact, every third night dinner was spaghetti. When dinner was over and they were all bringing their dirty dishes to the kitchen, Dominic Pickwell said to Duke Pickwell, "Who's that kid!
I thought Donald knew him. Duke checked back in the dining room. They scanned the railroad tracks. There he was, passing Red Hill, a book in his hand. He was running, passing the spear field now, and the Pickwell kids had to blink and squint and shade their eyes to make sure they were seeing right - because the kid wasn't running the cinders alongside the tracks, or the wooden ties.
No, he was running - running — where the Pickwells themselves, where every other kid, had only ever walked — on the steel rail itself! A Little League game had just ended. McNab was a giant. He stood five feet eight and was said to weigh over a hundred and seventy pounds. He had to bring his birth certificate in to the League director to prove he was only twelve. And still most people didn't believe it.
The point is, the rest of the league was no match for McNab. It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd been a right-fielder, but he was a pitcher. And there was only one pitch he ever threw: Most of the batters never saw it; they just heard it whizzing past their noses. You could see their knees shaking from the stands. One poor kid stood there long enough to hear strike one go past, then threw up all over home plate. It was still pretty light out, because when there are a lot of strikeouts, a game goes fast.
And McNab was still on the mound, even though the official game was over. He figured he'd made baseball history, and he wanted to stretch it out as long as he could. There were still about ten players around, Red Soxers and Green Soxers, and McNab was making them march up to the plate and take their swings.
There was no catcher. The ball lust zoomed to the backstop. When a kid struck out, he went back to the end of the line.
McNab was loving it. After each whiff, he laughed and bellowed the strikeout total. Twenty- seven! Twenty- eight! He had the blood lust. The victims were hunched and trembling, walking the gangplank. And then somebody new stepped up to the plate. Just a punky, runty little kid, no Red Sox or Green Sox uniform. Kind of scraggly. With a book, which he laid down on home plate. He scratched out a footing in the batter's box, cocked the bat on his shoulder, and stared at McNab. McNab croaked from the mound, "Get outta there, runt.
This is a Little League record. You ain't in Little League. Was he chickening out! He was lifting a red cap from the next batter in line. He put it on. He was back in the box. McNab almost fell off the mound, he was laughing so hard. Number thirty-six coming up. The kid swung. The batters in line automatically turned their eyes to the backstop, where the ball should be — but it wasn't there.
It was in the air, riding on a beeline right our to McNab's head, the same line it came in on, only faster. McNab froze, then flinched, lust in time. The ball missed his head but nipped the bill of his cap and sent it spinning like a flying saucer out to shortstop. The ball landed in the second-base dust and rolled all the way to the fence in center field.
Dead silence. Nobody moved. McNab was gaping at the kid, who was still standing there all calm and cool, waiting for the next pitch. Finally a sort of grin slithered across McNab's lips. He roared: Get the ball? McNab had it figured now. He was so busy laughing at the runt, he lobbed him a lollipop and the runt got lucky and poled it. This time McNab wasn't laughing.
He fingered the ball, tips digging into the red stitching. He wound, he fired, he thought: That sucker's goin' so fast even I can hardly see it! And then he was looking up, turning, following the flight of the ball, which finally came down to earth in deep left center field and bounced once to the fence. More silence, except from someone who yelped "Yip — " then caught himself.
He was handed the ball. He slammed his hat to the ground. His nostrils flared, he was breathing like a picadored bull. He windmilled, reared, lunged, fired. This time the ball cleared the fence on the fly. No more holding back. The other kids cheered. Somebody ran for the ball. They were anxious now for more. Three more pitches. Three more home runs. Pandemonium on the sidelines.
It was raining red and green hats. McNab couldn't stand it. The next time he threw, it was right at the kid's head. The kid ducked. McNab called, "Strike one! The kid bent his stomach around the ball.
It was the craziest baseball swing you ever saw, but there was the ball smoking out to center field. They waited a pretty long time, but they figured, well, McNab's wizz probably would last longer than a regular kid's.
Might even make the creek rise. At last McNab was back on the mound, fingering the ball in his glove, a demon's gleam in his eye. He wound up, fired, the ball headed for the plate, and - what's this! It wasn't a ball at all, it was a frog, and McNab was on the mound cackling away, and the kid at the plate was bug-eyed.
He'd never — nobody'd ever — tried to hit a fastfrog before. So what did the kid do! He bunted it. He bunted the frog, laid down a perfect bunt in front of the plate, third-base side, and he took off for first. He was half- way to second before McNab jolted himself into action.
The kid was trying for an inside-the- park home-run bunt the rarest feat in baseball, some- thing that had hardly ever been done with a ball, and never with a frog — and to be the pitcher who let such a thing happen — well, McNab could already feel his strikeout record fading to a mere grain in the sandlot of history. So he lumbered off the mound after the frog, which was now hopping down the third-base line.
As a matter of fact, it was so close to the line that McNab had a brilliant idea — just herd the frog across the line and it would be a foul ball or frog. Which is what he tried to do with his foot. But the frog, instead of taking a left turn at the shoe, jumped over it and hopped on toward third base. He was heading for the green fields of left, and the runt kid, sounding like two runners with his flap-soles slapping the bottoms of his feet, was chucking dust for third.
Only one hope now — McNab had to grab the frog and tag the runner out. But now the frog shot through his legs, over to the mound, and now toward shortstop and now toward second, and McNab was lurching and lunging, throwing his hat at the frog, throwing his glove, and everybody was screaming, and the kid was rounding third and digging for home, and — unbefroggable!
The ball, the batter, the pitcher all racing for home plate, and it was the batter, the new kid out of no- where, who crossed the plate first, at the same time scooping up his book, twirling his borrowed red cap back to the cheering others, and logging on past the empty stands and up the hill to the boulevard; McNab gasping, croaking after him: Don't let me ever catch ya!
The town was buzzing. The schools were buzzing. West End. East End. Buzzing about the new kid in town. The stranger kid. Carrying a book. Flap-soled sneakers. The kid who intercepted Brian Denehy's pass to Hands Down and punted it back longer than Denehy himself ever threw it.
The kid who rescued Arnold Jones from Finsterwald's backyard. The kid who tattooed Giant John McNab's fastball for half a dozen home runs, then circled the sacks on a bunted frog. Nobody knows who said it first, but somebody must have: Nobody except Amanda Beale had any other name for him, so pretty soon, when they wanted to talk about the new kid, that's what they called him: The legend had a name. But not an address. At least, not an official one, with numbers.
What he did have was the deer shed at the Elmwood Park Zoo, which is where he slept his first few nights in town. What the deer ate, especially the carrots, apples, and day-old hamburger buns, he ate.
He started reading Amanda Beale's book his second day in town and finished it that afternoon. Ordinarily, he would have returned it immediately, but he was so fascinated by the story of the Children's Crusade that he kept it and read it the next day. And the next. When he wasn't reading, he was wandering. When most people wander, they walk. Maniac Magee ran.
Around town, around the nearby townships, always carrying the book, keeping it in perfect condition. This is what he was doing when his life, as it often seemed to do, took an unexpected turn. Until the runt. Now, as he thought about it, he came to two conclusions: He couldn't stand having this blemish on his record.
If you beat a kid up, it's the same as striking him out. So McNab and his pals went looking for the kid. They called themselves the Cobras. Nobody messed with them. At least, nobody in the West End. The Cobras had heard that the kid hung around the park and the tracks, and that's where they spotted him one Saturday afternoon, on the tracks by the path that ran from the Oriole Street dead end to the park. He was down by Red Hill and heading away from them, book in hand, as usual.
But the Cobras just stood there, stunned. It was true. The kid was running on the rail. McNab scooped up a handful of track stones. He launched one. He snarled, "He's dead. Let's get 'im! He wobbled once, leaped from the rail to the ground, and took off. He was at the Oriole Street dead end, but his instincts said no, not the street, too much open space.
He stuck with the tracks. Coming into view above him was the house on Rake Hill, where he had eaten spaghetti. He could go there, to the whistling mother, the other kids, be safe. They wouldn't follow him in there. Would they! Stones clanked off the steel rails. He darted left, skirted the dump, wove through the miniature mountain range of stone piles and into the trees And then could it be? He slowed, turned, stopped.
They were lined up at a street a block back. They were still yelling and shaking their fists, but they weren't moving off the curb. And now they were laughing. Why were they laughing! The Cobras were standing at Hector Street. Hector Street was the boundary between the East and West Ends. Or, to put it another way, between the blacks and whites. Not that you never saw a white in the East End or a black in the West End.
People did cross the line now and then, especially if they were adults, and it was daylight. But nighttime, forget it. And if you were a kid, day or night, forget it. Unless you had business on the other side, such as a sports team or school. But don't be lust strolling along, as if you belonged there, as if you weren't afraid, as if you didn't even notice you were a different color from everybody around you.
The Cobras were laughing because they figured the dumb, scraggly runt would get out of the East End in about as good shape as a bare big toe in a convention of snapping turtles. He was simply glad the chase was over. He turned and started walking, catching his breath.
East Chestnut. East Marshall. Green Street. Arch Street. He had been around here before. That first day with the girl named Amanda, other days logging through. But this was Saturday, not a school day, and there was something different about the streets - kids. All over. One of them jumped down from a front step and planted himself tight in front of Maniac. Maniac had to jerk to a stop to keep from plowing into the kid.
Even so, their noses were practically touching. Maniac blinked and stepped back. The kid stepped forward. Each time Maniac stepped back, the kid stepped forward.
They traveled practically half a block that way. Finally Maniac turned and started walking. The kid jumped around and plunked himself in front again. He bit off a chunk of the candy bar he was holding. Candy bar flakes flew from his mouth. Other kids had stopped playing, were staring. Someone called: Mars Bar heard the calls, and the stone got harder. Then suddenly he stopped glaring, suddenly he was smiling.
He held up the candy bar, an inch from Maniac's lips. Take a bite. The kid had done the unthinkable, he had chomped on one of Mars's own bars. Not only that, but white kids just didn't put their mouths where black kids had had theirs, be it soda bottles, spoons, or candy bars. And the kid hadn't even gone for the unused end; he had chomped right over Mars Bar's own bite marks. Mars Bar was confused. Who was this kid? What was this kid? As usual, when Mars Bar got confused, he got mad.
He thumped Maniac in the chest. That what you think! I'm not saying I'm an angel, either. Not even real good. Somewhere in between, I guess. One minute you're yelling at me, the next minute you're giving me a bite of your candy bar. Flies stopped buzzing. If you're bad, let your mother or father tell you. After a while he looked down. He flipped through some pages, "Looks like mine. I'm keepin' it.
Mars Bar grinned. The flies were waiting. East End vultures. Suddenly neither kid could see the other, because a broom came down like a straw curtain between their faces, and a voice said, "Ell take it. She lowered the broom but kept it between them. Mars Bar glared up at her. There wasn't an eleven- year-old in the East End who could stand up to Mars Bar's glare. In the West End, even high-schoolers were known to crumble under the glare.
To old ladies on both sides of Hector Street, it was all but fatal. And when Mars Bar stepped off a curb and combined the glare with his super-slow dip-stride siumpshuffle, well, it was said he could back up traffic all the way to Bridgeport while he took ten minutes to cross the street. But not this time. This time Mars Bar was up against an East End lady in her prime, and she was matching him eyeball for eyeball. And when it was over, only one glare was left standing, and it wasn't Mars Bar's.
Mars Bar handed back the torn page, but not before he crumpled it into a ball. The broom pushed him away, turned him around, and swept him up the street. The lady looked down at Maniac. A little of the glare lingered in her eyes. I can't be following you around. I got things to do. There was something he felt like doing, and maybe he would have, but the lady turned and went back inside her house and shut the door. So he walked away.
Maniac uncrumpled the page, flattened it out as best he could. How could he return the book to Amanda in this condition! He couldn't.
But he had to. It was hers. Judging from that morning, she was pretty finicky about her books. What would make her madder — to not get the book back at all, or to get it back with a page ripped out!
Maniac cringed at both prospects. He wandered around the East End, jogging slowly, in no hurry now to find Sycamore Street. He was passing a vacant lot when he heard an all-too-familiar voice: This time Mars Bar wasn't alone. A handful of other kids trailed him down the sidewalk.
Maniac waited. Coming up to him, Mars Bar said, "Where you runnin', boy? You afraid. We'll give you a head start.
Mars Bar glared. Mars Bar reached for it. Maniac pulled it away. They moved in on him now. They backed him up. Some high-schoolers were playing basketball up the street, but they weren't noticing. And there wasn't a broom-swinging lady in sight. Maniac felt a hard flat- ness against his back.
Suddenly his world was very small and very simple: He clutched the book with both hands. The faces were closing in. A voice called: At the curb was a girl on a bike - Amanda! She hoisted the bike to the sidewalk and walked it over.
She looked at the book, at the torn page. You lie. I didn't! She grabbed the book and started kicking Mars Bar in his beloved sneakers. You understand? Amanda took the torn page from Maniac. To her, it was the broken wing of a bird, a pet out in the rain. She turned misty eyes to Maniac.
She was scrubbing purple crayon off the TV screen. Beale held up a hand, said, "Hold it," and went on scrubbing. When she finally finished, she straightened up, turned, and said, "Now, what!
You know. They shook hands. Beale smiled. He really likes books. I met him on Beale nodded solemnly — "No, of course you didn't" — and gave Maniac a huge wink, which made Amanda screech louder, until something crashed in the kitchen. Beale ran. Amanda and Maniac ran. The scene in the kitchen stopped them cold: The girl was Hester, age four; the boy was Lester, age three.
In less than five minutes, while Mrs. Beale and Amanda cleaned up the floor, Hester and Lester and their dog Bow Wow were in the backyard wrestling and tickling and lumping and just generally going wild with their new buddy — and victim — Maniac Magee. Maniac was still there when Mr. Beale came home from his Saturday shift at the tire factory. He was there for dinner, when Hester and Lester pushed their chairs alongside his.
He was there to help Amanda mend her torn book. He was there watching TV afterward, with Hester riding one knee, Lester the other. He was there when Hester and Lester came screaming down the stairs with a book, Amanda screaming even louder after them, the kids shoving the book and themselves onto Maniac's lap, Amanda finally calming down because they didn't want to crayon the book, they only wanted Maniac to read. And he was there when Hester and Lester were herded upstairs to bed, and Mrs.
Beale said, "Don't you think it's about time you're heading home, Jeffrey! Your parents'll be wondering. Beale to drive him home. And then he made his mistake. He waited for only two or three blocks to go by before saying to Mr. Beale, "This is it.
Beale stopped, but he didn't let Maniac out of the car. He looked at him funny. Beale knew what his passenger apparently didn't: East End was East End and West End was West End, and the house this white lad was pointing to was filled with black people, just like every other house on up to Hector Street. Beale pointed this out to Maniac.
Maniac's lip started to quiver, and right there, with the car idling in the middle of the street, Maniac told him that he didn't really have a home, unless you counted the deer shed at the zoo.
Beale made a U-turn right there and headed back. Only Mrs. Beale was still downstairs when they walked into the house. She listened to no more than ten seconds' worth of Mr. Beale's explanation before saying to Maniac, "You're staying here. Before Maniac could go to sleep, however, there was something he had to do. He flipped off the covers and went downstairs. Before the puzzled faces of Mr. Beale, he opened the front door and looked at the three cast-iron digits nailed to the door frame: He kept staring at them, smiling.
Then he closed the door, said a cheerful "Good- night," and went back to bed. Maniac Magee finally had an address. It gave her an excuse to sleep with Hester and Lester every night. Most of the time during the day the little ones drove her crazy; she couldn't stand to be in the same hemisphere with them. But at night, the best thing was to have them snuggled up on both sides of her. It made no sense, but that's how it was. Beale divided the little ones' room into two sections with a panel of plywood, and Amanda moved her stuff into the back part.
Except for her suitcase of books — that stayed in her old room, with Maniac. The way Maniac fit in, you would have thought he was born there. Help children enjoy good books and learn foundational reading and literature skills with this "Literature Kit" from Classroom Complete Press. Easy-to-use, the resources are divided into sections: The teacher's section provides a summary of the story along with a list of vocabulary words for each chapter.
The student worksheets include both "before you read" activities which activate background knowledge, guide connections, and introduce vocabulary as well as "after you read activities" which check comprehension and provide opportunities for thoughtful consideration of the text.
The "easy marking" answer key features columns of answers that allow teachers to simply line up the worksheet with the key to quickly see the correct answers.
Grades Classroom-reproducible pages; consumable workbook. Aligned with Common Core State Standards. Please Note: Inspire your students with this brave story about racism and homelessness. The helpful journal topics offer extended writing activities and discussion prompts. Students come up with possible story ideas that could relate to the title, maniac.
Illustrate the scene between McNab and Maniac. Match quotes to the characters who said them. Students confront the idea of discrimination by identifying some of the ways people discriminate against other people. Find proof from the story to support the different qualities inhabited by Maniac and Grayson. Give meaning to expressions from the story.
Identify each expression as a simile or metaphor. Identify a major and minor problem that Maniac faces in the story and explain each in a paragraph. Aligned to your State Standards, additional crossword, word search, comprehension quiz and answer key are also included.
About the Novel: Maniac Magee is a Newbery Medal winning-story about a young homeless boy running through town and the different people he meets along the way. Orphaned at the age of three, Jeffrey Magee runs away from his Aunt and Uncle eight years later.
Running his way through the town, Magee learns of the hatred and racism that separates the two sides. Along the way, he meets a wide range of interesting characters, and even develops a legend for himself, earning him the nickname Maniac.