The Book of Stanley Read Online Free PDF

me.”
    â€œI’m pooped.”
    â€œYou aren’t pooped. Don’t pretend to be pooped!”
    Stanley lifted himself out of the water and helped the lifeguard, a tall and fit young man of seventeen or eighteen, to his feet. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œWho are you?”
    On his way back to the change room, Stanley realized that others in the pool were watching. The splashes and screams and echoes of screams had quieted, due to the lifeguard’s loud incredulity and, perhaps, other more peculiar reasons. As Stanley took his shower, the lifeguard stood next to him.
    â€œWho are you?” the lifeguard said again. Tears had formed in his eyes. “Please.”

 
    SIX
    Dear Allah–
    In my dreams you are white. How can that be? You look like that man in Pretty Woman, only older. This is not what I have learned. You know what I have learned and IF IT IS WRONG AND YOU KNOW IT , and if you are real, and if you know All Things, why have you deceived us for so long? Why have you chosen me to be doubtful? Why now? You know what we believe. If we are wrong and you know we are wrong, and surely someone is wrong (I believe the Christians are wrong), why do you not stop us and correct us in a civilized manner? We would only be angry and ashamed for a short time and then I am certain we would be pleased.
    Â 
    Thank you sincerely. Allahu Akbar.
    Â 
    Maha Rasad
    Montreal, Quebec
    Â 
    Ms. Charlebois was so pregnant she could not reach down for a piece of chalk that had fallen to the floor. Yet there she was, in front of Maha Rasad and the rest of her class, discussing Kirchhoff’s Second Law. It seemed to Maha that Ms. Charlebois should be at home, doing whatever it is women do right before they give birth. Sterilize bottles? Sweep the stairs?
    Tomorrow, Maha would begin writing her final series of high school examinations. But she could not concentrate on physical laws of electricity. Maha checked over her fifteenth letter to God, for spelling errors and grammatical peculiarities. Very quietly, she read it aloud to herself. This was what she had learned in both English and French composition tutorials: we do not discover our mistakes until we hear them.
    Just as she was about to slip her fifteenth letter to God into a pocket at the back of her physics binder, Ms. Charlebois appeared before her. “Maha.”
    â€œYes?” She covered the letter with her elbows.
    â€œMay I see that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou weren’t paying attention.”
    â€œYes, I was.”
    Ms. Charlebois sighed and leaned back, crossed her arms over the giant belly. “Tell me what I was saying.”
    â€œYou were discussing Kirchhoff’s Laws, which concern energy. The conservation of energy and the conservation of charge. There are two laws.”
    The teacher sniffed, clearly disappointed. “Why are you writing letters in my class?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Ms. Charlebois.”
    Maha knew the material and knew she would get between 90 and 100 percent on her exams, but she also knew Ms. Charlebois would demand the letter. This was not because of any rule or regulation. No, Ms. Charlebois was curious. And Maha was a special case, a student with a history . At Wagar High School, the jewel of Côte St.-Luc, a suburban city in the western quadrant of the island of Montreal, a teacher was entitled to see private letters composed by Maha Rasad.
    â€œHand it over.”
    After a short pause, the extent of Maha’s rebellion, she took her elbows off the letter and gave it to Ms. Charlebois, lifting it so the woman would not have to bend over. Silence filled the class as Ms. Charlebois read the letter. When she was finished, she looked down at Maha.
    â€œWhat’s it say?” Jonathan Talbot, whose voice was like a knife on sheet metal, wore a T-shirt that advertised for a motorcycle company. Ms. Charlebois ignored him.
    â€œWe’ll deal with this later?”
    Maha