Shoebag Returns Read Free Page B

noticed the Betters that morning in assembly. The Betters always had the better seats, down in the front row.
    There were half a dozen of them there as everyone stood and sang the school song.
    We are Miss Rattray’s girls,
    We are Miss Rattray’s pearls,
    Royal Blue to say we’re true,
    White to show delight,
    At being in Miss Rattray’s School,
    Hoo-rah, hoo-ray, We start our day
    Sing-ing,
    Sing-ing
    Sing-ing!
    After the assembly, Miss Rattray herself confronted Stanley Sweetsong as he started down the hall toward his first class.
    “Why weren’t you singing, Stanley Sweetsong?”
    “I am not a girl. I could not sing that I am one, when I am the only boy.”
    “True,” said Miss Rattray frowning, her head held high as always. Stanley stood next to her like a little bird towered over by a long-legged crane.
    Stanley wore the royal blue blazer with the gold buttons, the white shirt, blue tie, and white pants.
    “We will have to change the song,” said Miss Rattray, “even though we have sung that song for one hundred and fifty years.”
    Just then a Better passed by and Miss Rattray caught her arm. “Patsy Southgate,” she said, “please tell the Betters that we need a better song … We need a song that includes Stanley Sweetsong here.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” said Patsy Southgate, the only Better from the Lower School. “The Betters will write a better song.”
    “The Betters,” said Miss Rattray to Stanley, “can do anything. That’s why they’re better.”
    “Could I ever be better?” Stanley asked her.
    Both Miss Rattray and Patsy Southgate shook their heads doubtfully.
    Both said, at the same time, “Oh, dear, I doubt that!”
    This made Stanley Sweetsong very angry, for he had never in his entire life been told it was doubtful he could be better.
    He always thought he was the best.
    He had always been told he was.
    He had been told he was the best by his mother, by his father, by his tutor, and by Tattle, the chauffeur.
    His first class that day was science.
    “As you know,” said Mr. Longo, “the Science Club is the only other club at Miss Rattray’s.”
    Stanley raised his hand.
    He said, “How would I know that?”
    “Because I am telling you! There are only two clubs in this school. The Better Club and the Science Club.”
    “Can I join the Science Club?”
    “You may if you win a prize. … Look up here at the two prizewinners from last year.”
    Mr. Longo had a mustache that drooped above his upper lip. He was bald, plump, and he carried a pointer.
    He pointed at two tanks in the front of the room.
    “In this one we have the snake,” he said. “A king. … And in this one,” he pointed to the second tank, “we have an African frog, who has buried himself in the mud.”
    “Why are they prizewinners?” Stanley asked.
    “Because they have been captured, and put into environments similar to their own.”
    “Similar to their own?” Stanley said. “But the snake cannot unfurl, the tank is so small … and the frog has no sun, the way an African frog probably has.”
    Some of the girls giggled — not at Stanley’s remark, though he didn’t know that — but at the very idea of speaking up that way to Mr. Longo. No one ever answered Mr. Longo back.
    Then a voice rang out, “Stanley’s right!”
    It was a familiar voice.
    It was a familiar face at the back of the room, with familiar freckles and familiar red hair.
    “If Stanley’s right,” Mr. Longo asked Josephine Jiminez, “what does that make me?”
    “Wrong?” she asked.
    Mr. Longo smiled so very sweetly, and he purred at the girl, “I beg your pardon, Josephine. Did I hear you say that I was wrong?”
    “No, sir,” she backed down. “I did not say you were. I asked if you were.”
    “Stanley Sweetsong, answer Josephine Jiminez. Am I wrong?” Mr. Longo’s mustache quivered. His eyes were fixed like little black beads on Stanley’s face.
    A hush fell over the room.
    “It looks that way to me,” Stanley