Abby had a real signature.

We were all, like, ten, and crowded around a bench in the cafeteria, mesmerised. Abby had a pen and a notebook. Her signature was an elegant showpiece—ponderous loops, florid curlicues, a vaulting flourish. A single flickering motion of the pen, but what beautiful baroque calligraphy she wrought. Every stroke was deliberate, every hairline precise.

She signed Abigail Greenwood several times for our delight and said, “That’s my signature. Who else has a signature?”

Cassie went next. Hers was a confection of curves and cusps that danced in between the lines and ended in a dramatic flourish. “My mom helped me with it,” she clarified.

Nikki declined. “I just write my name normally. I don’t know how to do a real signature yet.”

“Aw, that’s lame,” said Abby. “How about you, Gracie?”

I didn’t have a real signature. My mum never showed me how to do a real signature, but I also didn’t want to be lame. My cursive wasn’t the best, but maybe that would prove enough? What counted as a real signature?

With veiled trepidation I approached Abby’s notebook and took her pen. I knew I’d only get one shot at this. My pen-motion would have to be swift enough that it would seem practised. I spent a second or two trying to plan out how Grace Hellman would look between the wide-ruled lines, where the curlicues might happen, how far the slant and shear would go, where to aim for in a final flourish.

I set the nib of the pen to the page and in an instant I had a nasty shock from the realisation that I actually didn’t know how to do the cursive capital G. What did it look like? Nothing like a regular G. Did the first loop fall inward or outward? They’re all waiting on you, take your best guess!

And suddenly my hand was driving the pen without my control, shaking and sashaying and careening across the blue lines, tracing out a borderline asemic stream of ink, and before I regained control, the pen took flight over the rest of the signatures, out of my grip, over the bench, and across two rows of students before bouncing off some fourth-grade girl’s shoulder. Left upon the page was a series of squiggles that could very charitably be said to resemble my name.

“That’s not a real signature,” Abby said. “That’s just cursive.”