Shoebag Returns Read Online Free

Sweetsong answered.
    And Mr. Longo asked, “Do you know how your chances of ever getting into the Science Club look to me, Stanley Sweetsong?”
    “Not very good?” Stanley suggested.
    “Not good at all,” Mr. Longo replied.
    On my first day of school, Stanley wrote in his diary that night, I did not do good at all, but at least I am not imprisoned in a tank. At least I have sunlight.
    Then while he was saying his prayers beside his bed (“Please, Lord, get me out of here!”) he saw a small roach by his right knee and he reached for one of his Doc Martens to swat it.
    Hand raised, the sole of the shoe ready to come down on the tiny critter, Stanley could not kill it.
    “Just go away! ” he told it.
    He must have been very tired, and possibly only half-awake, for that was when the mind played tricks.
    “If you want me to, I’ll be your pal,” he heard a voice say.
    Now, it wasn’t God’s voice. It was too small and shaky to come from the Almighty, too much like Stanley’s own voice when he’d prayed to the Lord to get him out of there!
    And Stanley Sweetsong had never heard of such a thing as a talking roach. Even though there was not one single roach in residence at Castle Sweet, he knew none could speak.
    “Who’s there?” Stanley scrunched down and peered under his bed. Nothing there but some dust balls.
    “My name is Stuart Bagg.”
    “Where are you, Stuart Bagg?”
    “Hold your horses! First tell me if you need a pal.”
    “I do. I need one badly.”
    “Then you’ll be seeing me,” said the voice.
    But he did not say when, or where he was, and he did not speak again that night.

Seven
    C OOK HATED ONE THING at Miss Rattray’s School for Girls.
    Cook hated the new computer.
    It sat on a table right around the corner from the kitchen, near the Changing Room, which led into the swimming pool. It was a gift from the family of Josephine Jiminez.
    Cook was a giant of a woman with frizzy yellow hair, the same color as the cat who slept by the rag mop. Both of them had green eyes, too. Though both of them had names, probably, no one called them by their names. The cook was Cook, and the cat was Cat.
    This morning Cook was complaining about the computer to the only one within earshot: Cat.
    “Ask me why I need a computer, and I will tell you I need a computer for the same reason a fish needs a bicycle. What am I to do with a computer?”
    Now, Cat did not like questions. Questions woke him up. Questions needed answers and Cat had none. Cat put a paw across his eyes and tried to get back to the dream he had of his other paw holding down a rat.
    Cook was imitating the lilting tones of Miss Rattray when she had shown Cook the computer.
    “Now you will be able to plan healthy meals, Cook, and keep track of when you served which one. Now you will have all your wonderful recipes right in front of you. Now you will know exactly how much fiber is in every meal, and how much protein, fat, and carbohydrates!”
    Cook punctuated her imitation of the headmistress with a curse word.
    The cat’s tail swished angrily, for the cat could not bear profanity.
    When Cook let loose more nasty words in a venomous tone which the cat had never before heard, the cat sat up.
    He would have to give up his spot by the rag mop, and go elsewhere to rest.
    It was then that the cat saw the roach.
    The cat had seen him before, for he was a hungry pest, always foraging for food in the kitchen. Sometimes he was accompanied by his wife, who waited for him to toss her a few leftover crumbs.
    Now, however, the roach was headed around the corner, to the room where the computer was.
    “Ah! You see something!” Cook cried out. “What do you see, Cat?”
    Cook watched the cat crouch down and slowly move away from the rag mop.
    Then Cook saw what the cat saw.
    “A cockroach! Eat him!”
    But the roach was too fast. Out of the kitchen it went. Up one table leg it went. And into the computer.
    “Good!” the cook said to the disappearing