The Book of Stanley Read Online Free PDF Page B

nodded.
    Now her classmates stared and talked among themselves. In the five or seven seconds it took for Ms. Charlebois to resume her position at the front of the class, Maha heard several theories. Most of them, of course, concerned sex.
    Maha imagined the particular act that had rendered Ms. Charlebois pregnant. Unlike many other teachers at Wagar, she was a beautiful woman. Thin, clear-skinned, with a deft hand in eye makeup and excellent taste in scarves. Yet it was difficult to picture Ms. Charlebois without clothes, without the giant belly, writhing and calling out as they do in the movies. Repeating “yes” or “ oui ,” addressing God, tearing into or slapping the man’s flesh. Was it in the dark, the instant of Ms. Charlebois’s impregnation, or on some bright Saturday morning in a township farmer’s field?
    Electricity. The conservation of electricity. Jonathan Talbot was staring across the aisle at Maha’s breasts, her hair. She imagined his sour breath, streaked with hot dogs and Coca-Cola. His erection.
    He leaned toward her and whispered, “What’d it say?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œWas it a make me real letter?”
    Maha did not answer, or turn to him. She stared straight ahead.
    â€œA fuckin’ make me real letter?”
    Somehow, even though Jonathan Talbot had whispered, Ms. Charlebois heard him. The heightened senses of a pregnant woman. “Jon. Out!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOut!”
    â€œI didn’t say anything.”
    â€œRight. Out.”
    â€œThis is prosecution.”
    â€œThe word is persecution , Jon. Either way, get out. You’re done here.”
    Jonathan turned to Maha, opened his mouth, and moved his tongue around in a crude manner. “Fine.”
    He stood, and Ms. Charlebois paged the office to prepare the administrators for Jonathan Talbot’s arrival. Kirchhoff’s Laws were illuminated for another seven minutes until the buzzer sounded. Maha’s classmates filed out while she sat in the acid of her shame. Make me real. Ms. Charlebois eased into the ergonomically correct chair at her desk, exhaled mightily, and smiled.
    â€œCome closer, Maha.”
    She did, with her gaze fixed firmly on the blackboard behind the teacher.
    â€œHow are you?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œThings are all right?” The teacher reached down and cradled her belly. “Really all right?”
    â€œIf there’s something you want to say, just say it.”
    Ms. Charlebois frowned thoughtfully. “You’re writing letters to–how do you say it? Allah?–in physics class. Now, you aren’t like other students. I can’t warn you that you’re about to fail and ruin your prospects for university. You could ace the finals in your sleep.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut given what happened in January. Given your file. I just want to…make certain your health is sound. Are the other students still bugging you? Jonathan. Is he?”
    â€œHe’s insignificant.”
    â€œShould I call your parents, I wonder?” The teacher lifted the letter to God and used it as a fan. “Should I be concernedabout this? You’re not getting extreme , are you? Because we have strict guidelines around these things now, with the fire-bombings and shootings here in Montreal and all the strife in the Gaza Strip…”
    â€œI’m not an extremist.”
    â€œThey taught us about warning signs at the convention.” Ms. Charlebois leaned forward on her desk. “You don’t hate Jews or anything, do you?”
    Maha Rasad swiped the letter from Ms. Charlebois, gathered the supplies from her desk, and marched out of the physics lab.
    â€œThere’s a hotline!”
    In the hallway, Maha walked upright, proudly, just as her mother had taught her, until she turned the corner. Then she backed into a set of lockers with a hollow clang and lowered herself slowly to the floor.