Shoebag Returns Page 3

  “There is one here that is better.”

  “Better than the best?” said Mr. Sweetsong, who was on one of the twelve extension phones at Castle Sweet. “There is no such thing as better than the best.”

  “There is, though, and they even have buttons that say WE’RE BETTER.”

  “Oh, dear, dear, dear,” Mrs. Sweetsong sighed. “The Better Club. I had forgotten all about that wicked club! I once wanted to be a Better very, very badly, too!”

  “Then how could you forget it?” Stanley asked.

  “Time heals all wounds, dear. Often what was important long ago, is not even remembered later on.”

  Stanley said, “But it’s not later on yet, for me. … And even if I could find some creature to collect for the Science Room, I would never get in that club. I told Mr. Longo he was wrong.”

  “Never tell a teacher he is wrong, even if he is,” said Mrs. Sweetsong. “Teachers don’t like to hear that they are wrong.”

  “I learned that,” said Stanley sadly.

  “Before I married your mother, I didn’t belong to any club,” said Mr. Sweetsong. “It didn’t bother me!”

  “It didn’t bother you because there were no clubs in your school,” said Stanley’s mother.

  “There was a Drama Club.”

  “That’s not the same thing. Anyone could be in the Drama Club.”

  “I was not a club type, anyway,” said Stanley’s father. “I was not a snob until I married your mother.”

  “You are still not much of a snob,” she said. Then she said, “But we didn’t send Stanley off to school to be in clubs. We sent him there to learn to be a gentleman and a scholar … and to make friends.”

  “Do you have any friends?” asked his father.

  Stanley decided not to say anything about the voice he had heard offering to be his pal. What had it said its name was? Something with “bag” in it. … Probably he had imagined it, anyway. Possibly being the only boy in an all-girl school was stressing him out.

  He said, “I’ve made one friend named Josephine Jiminez.”

  She was standing just outside the phone booth, which was just outside the dining room. She had swiped a roll from a large tray being carried into the dining room by a waiter in a white coat.

  Ever since they had sung “This Is the Feast of the Lord,” in church, Josephine had begun to complain that she was hungry. … Again. … She was always hungry.

  “Is she any relation to General Jiminez?” Mrs. Sweetsong asked.

  “She is his daughter.”

  “Pedro Jiminez, hero of the Gulf War!” said Mr. Sweetsong.

  “She calls herself an Army brat,” said Stanley. He watched Josephine grab a butter ball from another passing tray.

  Then the gong bonged for lunch: ONE TWO THREE.

  Instantly Stanley heard the thunder of Miss Rattray’s feet marching down the hall, Plonk, Plonk, Plonk. He saw the high-held head, the large black frame spectacles, the long and sturdy body. Behind her, children from the Lower School followed. Behind them, the Upper School girls.

  And, of course, scattered among them were the Betters in their red and white socks, wearing their red and white buttons!

  “I must go,” Stanley shouted into the phone.

  “Good-bye, sweetie!” his mother said. “Remember, time does really heal all wounds.”

  “And time flies very fast,” said his father, “because so many people are trying to kill it! … Good-bye, son!”

  Stanley called to Josephine Jiminez, “Look out! Hide the roll! Hide the butter!”

  Josephine thrust the roll into the pocket of her blazer with one hand, the other held the butter.

  “Happy Sunday morning, Josephine,” Miss Rattray called out. Patsy Southgate, the Lower School Better, trailed behind her, pulling up her one red sock, looking smug, ignoring Josephine and Stanley. The Betters could look right through you, Stanley thought to himself. Nobody had attitude like a Better.

  Miss Rattray stuck out one of her large hands as she approached Josephine. Quickly, Josephine slipped the butter ball to Stanley.

  “Happy Sunday morning,” Josephine sang out and shook the outstretched hand.

  Miss Rattray let go of Josephine’s hand, noticed something on her own hand, but carried on bravely with a handshake for Stanley. “Happy Sunday morning, Stanley.”

  “Happy Sunday morning,” he answered, feeling her large fingers squash the ball of butter.

  “What … on … earth?” Miss Rattray pulled her buttered hand back and stared down at it. “What … is this!”

  “Butter,” Josephine said. And then she giggled. “We’re butter.”

  But it was not a joke Miss Rattray appreciated. Her face was dour. Her sticky hands fluttered as the Betters pulled Kleenex from their pockets to offer to her. “You two are grounded,” Miss Rattray told Josephine and Stanley, “until further notice. Immediately after you finish eating, go to your rooms!”

  Nine

  “DOES YOUR SMILE SMELL?” a young boy on television asked. He wore dark glasses, and his teeth were very white.

  Everyone in the recreation room of the Lower School shouted back at him.

  “NO! DOES YOURS?”

  Then there were silly giggles from the small viewers, gathered around the TV. This was their favorite commercial.

  Sunday was the only day they could watch television, and only for two hours after Sunday dinner.

  “Chew Great Breath!” said their beloved TV spokesboy, while dancing packages of gum circled around him humming the Great Breath song.

  Why should your smile smell like death?

  Why should you wake up with bad breath?

  Chew chew chew and you’ll get through

  Chew chew chew, Chew Great Breath!

  “YOU CHEW IT!” everyone shouted. “WE CAN’T CHEW GUM!”

  Shoebag could not believe his eyes, or his luck.

  Chased by the yellow cat from the kitchen to the recreation room, he thought he was a goner until he leaped up on the piano, and slid in between a black key and a white one. While one girl grabbed the cat to hug, another shushed everyone so they could hear (of all people!) Gregor Samsa!

  Shoebag’s antennae bristled with joy.

  There was his old friend and ex-roach, the very one who had come to Shoebag’s rescue so many times back when Shoebag was that tiny person named Stuart Bagg.

  Shoebag remembered playing in a park, swinging in a swing, having his own pencil box, a pair of brown boots, a blue wool scarf. Oh, he had liked wearing clothes!

  When Stuart Bagg had needed a pal, Gregor Samsa had been there for him. … And now, shouldn’t Shoebag be there for Stanley Sweetsong? Hadn’t he already promised to be his pal? Wasn’t that a good reason to go forth?

  Shoebag could have been a smudge on the sole of a Doc Marten, if Stanley Sweetsong had not taken pity on him.

  Now Stanley Sweetsong was off in his room, grounded by Miss Rattray, with only the Doll Smasher for company.

  “Gregor Samsa!” Miss Rattray’s girls were shrieking so loudly the yellow cat fled, tail between its legs.

  Shoebag felt that old tingle under his shell as he remembered the formula for change, which Gregor had told him to say.

  The timing was perfect, too, for Drainboard, Under The Toaster, and Shoebag’s two brothers, Radio and Garbage Pail, had moved into the computer down by the kitchen.

  Shoebag doubted that Cook had ever invited them to live there, though Under The Toaster swore she had.

  Shoebag did not want to live inside a Macintosh, no matter how dark and safe it was, for Shoebag thrived on action and the sounds of people.

  He would have to wait for Wednesday night, when the formula worked best.

  Meanwhile, he would try to remember all the things he would need to know when he went forth changed to a tiny person.

  He would need to know how to walk upright again and how to go down slides. How to swing and how to play computer games. How to lick an ice-cream
cone and how to avoid bullies. How to eat those wiggling white worms called spaghetti.

  Possibly, he would need a television schedule, too.

  Ten

  THE BLACK MASK THEATER was darkened for this Sunday matinee.

  The Cast of Characters did not usually perform on Sunday, but Stanley and Josephine were not allowed to watch TV in the Recreation Room.

  “All because of a butter ball!” Josephine grumbled.

  “It was not the butter ball that made Miss Rattray angry,” Stanley said. “It was making fun of the Better Club. You never should have said, ‘We’re Butter.’”

  “Do you want to see If You’re Not In, You’re Out, or don’t you?” Josephine asked him. “It’s your opportunity to get in for nothing.”

  “It’s gloomy in here,” said Stanley. “I would rather let some light in. It’s such a nice day out!”

  “But we’re in!”

  “We’re in, all right. We’re in trouble, too.”

  “Miss Rattray will get over it. She always forgives, particularly on Sundays. Hand me Monroe, the Kewpie doll. The curtain is about to go up.”

  “Do you know what they call you, Josephine? They call you the Doll Smasher.”

  “Because they are jealous.”

  “What I heard is that you are jealous. Jealous of the Betters.”

  “I don’t smash the Betters’ heads in my play. I smash the heads of the dolls who aren’t good enough to get in the club.”

  “So I heard,” said Stanley. “And none of them are good enough!”

  “Then how could I be jealous?”

  “I’m jealous,” Stanley admitted. “I am not used to being told I cannot be in a club.”

  “Get used to it!” Josephine said. “Curtain going up.”

  But Stanley had heard all about her play, and now he was not eager to see it. He did not think he would enjoy a play in which dolls were whacked against the wall. He did not like the darkened room, and the black masks across the dolls’ eyes.

  “Why do they have to wear those masks?” he asked.

  “Because it is the Black Mask Theater. You have to be dramatic if you’re in theater. You have to be mysterious. Theater is supposed to be magical.”

  Stanley said, “If you smash the dolls against the wall because they can’t get into the secret club, isn’t it like smashing your own head against the wall because you can’t be a Better?”

  “Now you talk like the shrink who visits this school on Fridays.”

  “Does he visit you?”

  “I visit him. ‘Josephine,’ he says, ‘why are you so angry?’”

  “What do you say?”

  “I say I’m an Army brat, and we’re all angry because our fathers go to wars!”

  “But your play isn’t about fathers going to wars.”

  “I say I’m hungry all the time, and hungry people are all angry!”

  “But your play isn’t about hunger.”

  “I say who cares about the clubs in this school, anyway? I’m not angry about any stupid clubs!”

  “But your play,” Stanley persisted, “is about a stupid club.”

  “Curtain going up!” said Josephine.

  “Meow!”

  “No catcalls, or you have to leave!” said Josephine.

  “I didn’t meow,” Stanley said.

  “Someone did,” said Josephine.

  “Meow!”

  The large yellow cat with slanted green eyes walked toward the royal blue rug, and sat down in the spotlight beside the googly-eyed doll, Huntsville.

  “How did he get here?” Josephine said.

  “A cat! I’ve always wanted a cat!” Stanley said. He jumped off the bed, went across, and knelt down by him.

  “If you always wanted one, how come you never had one?”

  “They ruin good furniture my mother says, and my father says they get hair all over good clothes.”

  The cat squeezed his eyes shut in ecstasy as Stanley petted him.

  “Clear the stage!” said Josephine. But she could not resist the cat, either. (She could not resist any animal, any bug, any creature great or small.) She knelt down beside Stanley and petted the cat, as well.

  “Do you want to be in a play?” she asked the cat.

  “You’d better not smash his head against the wall.”

  “I wouldn’t,” she said. “I hate all cruelty. That’s why I said you were right in Mr. Longo’s class.”

  “You took it back,” Stanley said.

  “I didn’t take it back. I just wormed my way out of it. Nice kitty. Nice kitty.”

  “A yellow cat!” Stanley said. “I’ve never seen a yellow cat! Only white ones, or black ones, or Siamese.”

  “We should name him Butter,” Josephine said. “He’s the color of butter, and that butter ball is what got us grounded.”

  “Hello, Butter,” Stanley said to the cat. “Where do you live?”

  “I think he belongs to Cook,” said Josephine. “They say the kitchen has rats!”

  “Rats in the kitchen!” Stanley said. “How can we eat the food?”

  “They’re not in the food. They’re just in the kitchen.”

  “There are no rats at Castle Sweet!”

  “But you’re not at Castle Sweet now,” said Josephine. “You’re in this cruel boarding school where the Betters strut around in their red socks wearing their Better buttons.”

  “I saw a roach in my room, too,” said Stanley. He said nothing about the voice he heard after he saw the roach.

  “Roaches don’t bother me,” said Josephine Jiminez. She leaned over and nuzzled the yellow cat. “I would rather have them around than certain people and their secret club! Everything I need is right in this room. The Black Mask Theater, the Cast of Characters, you and me, and now Butter! Who cares about anything else?”

  But her voice had a very needy sound. And Stanley Sweetsong was thinking that there he was in a dark room on a sunny day with a ditzy girl everyone called the “Doll Smasher.” At Castle Sweet he would have been out on the great green lawn with a croquet mallet, batting balls through the wicket.

  Eleven

  IT WAS LATE ON a Wednesday night, pitch-dark except for a slice of orange moon.

  Inside the Macintosh, all the roaches were fast asleep but one.

  He was perched at the door of the disc drive, listening for any sound besides the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and the water filter in the swimming pool.

  Then Shoebag hopped down to the keyboard.

  He drew a deep breath, let it out, and spoke the roach formula Gregor Samsa had taught him.

  “Flit, flutter, quiver, quaver, totter, stagger, tumble, warble, wobble, wiggle, swing, and sway.”

  You would think that when a roach turned into a tiny person there would be a sound of some kind, a pop or a snap, or a poof with a puff of smoke.

  But there was none of that.

  As soon as Shoebag said the words he felt his shell lift, his legs dissolve, his cerci vanish, and his antennae float off.

  His two human eyes saw himself become, quite soundlessly, a small, very naked, young boy.

  Instantly, he covered his private parts with his small hands, then whispered “Oh dear, oh dear, I forgot about clothes.”

  But right in front of him, covering the computer, was an old Hootie & The Blowfish T-shirt.

  Stuart Bagg lifted it up carefully, for he did not wish to disturb the sleep of his roach family — a very deep sleep, since they had feasted on an extra-large late-night picnic, filled with crunchy morsels. Shoebag had spent days gathering them, so their dear roach bodies would be exhausted from gobbling the crumbs down.

  The T-shirt was way long, past his knees, the short sleeves past his elbows.

  He was barefoot, of course, and his hair was uncombed.

  The cat appeared as he stood there, and wound himself in and out between his legs, nipping his ankles.

  Sometimes cats were suspicious of small boys who’d once been r
oaches. Stuart Bagg knew that from experience. Sometimes cats batted at your feet as though you were still an insect, and sometimes they followed you.

  This cat was no exception.

  “Scat!” said Shoebag. “Please scat!”

  The cat jumped away, but he sat at the door to the kitchen eyeing Shoebag thoughtfully.

  Then, while everyone in the school was still asleep, Stuart Bagg set off to find some shoes.

  Twelve

  “OH, NO YOU DON’T!” said Stanley Sweetsong, leaping out of his bed.

  “I thought you were asleep!” said Stuart Bagg. He dropped the boy’s Doc Martens on the floor.

  “Stay right where you are!” Stanley said.

  “Where would I go without shoes or pants?” Stuart Bagg asked him.

  In his blue-and-white striped pajamas, Stanley padded over to the light switch and pressed it.

  Then he stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Bagg, muttering “Thief! You are a thief in the night!”

  “I am Stuart Bagg, Stanley. Remember when you said you needed a pal? I am your pal.”

  “What kind of a pal steals my only pair of Doc Martens?”

  “You have many pairs of shoes, and I have none, Stanley.”

  The two boys were the same height, and the same weight. While Stanley Sweetsong had brown eyes and brown hair, Bagg’s hair was red, his eyes were blue, and his face was full of freckles.

  “This is a trick,” said Stanley, “and I think Josephine Jiminez is in on it. You have red hair and so does she. You have freckles and so does she. Maybe you are her brother.”

  This was the hardest part about changing from a roach to a boy, explaining it.

  It would never do for Stuart Bagg to say that only moments ago he had been a cockroach.

  He could never tell anyone from whence he came. Humans were too logical and practical to accept the truth. Humans were too finicky to be chums with ex-cockroaches.

  “Josephine Jiminez is not my sister,” said Stuart Bagg. “She is not a part of this, and you must never tell her about me.”

  “Who can I tell about you then? She is my only friend.”