good, but also in agreement with Stanley about what the Butters would do on Career Day.
“In an all-girl school,” said Mr. Sweetsong, “what chance does one boy have when they vote for a president?”
“There was no vote,” said Stanley.
“No vote?” his father said. “What kind of a school is that?”
“It’s changed since my day,” said Mrs. Sweetsong. “In my day there was always a vote. And in my day the parents did not get letter after letter asking for money.”
“The school wants to build a larger Science Room,” said Stanley, “so Mr. Longo can imprison more poor creatures in tanks.”
“Now, don’t dwell on those tanks in the Science Room!” said Mrs. Sweetsong. “That’s all you write about in your letters. Snakes and frogs and whatnot in those tanks.”
“And a tarantula, too, like Tattle’s, only this one is a Mexican blonde!”
His father said, “What do you call two spiders who just got married?” Mr. Sweetsong was always trying to cheer up his only son and sole heir.
“What do you call two spiders who just got married?”
“Newlywebs,” his father laughed.
But Stanley did not need that much cheering up where Mr. Longo and his ugly tanks were concerned. On Career Day the Butters would strike! One tank would be empty. They could not let the snake or the frog go free, for they had been captives too long. They would not know how to fend for themselves, and it would be impossible for the Butters to care for them.
But Stanley could care for the tarantula until Thanksgiving. Then he would take him home to Tattle, who knew all about this king of spiders!
And the Mexican blonde was the perfect choice, since it had been donated to the Science Room by none other than C. Cynthia Ann Flower.
There had been a vote on that, and it was unanimous!
In honor of Gregor Samsa, there would be nine glowing smiles on the faces of the Butters, and none of the smiles would smell.
The tarantula would have a new, safe home, and to replace him in the tank, there would be a Butterfinger.
“You haven’t said you miss us,” said Stanley’s mother.
“You haven’t said you wish you were back at Castle Sweet,” said his father.
“I have been very busy,” Stanley said.
“But never forget,” his father said, “someday this will all be yours!”
“I can make my own bed now,” Stanley said.
“You won’t have to here,” said Mrs. Sweetsong.
“But I am not there,” said Stanley. “And I have eight friends here.”
“Thanksgiving is coming,” said Mrs. Sweetsong. “Then you will be here and not there.”
“We’ll have a big turkey!” his father said. “Where do all good turkeys go when they die?”
“Where?” Stanley asked.
“To oven!” his father laughed.
“Not funny,” Stanley said, because one thing the Butters stood for was kindness to all critters large and small.
There was yet another reason for the Butters to dislike C. Cynthia Ann Flower. For there she was, on that blustery Autumn noon, as Stanley came out of the phone booth, dressed in her royal blue blazer, white skirt, and white sock and red sock. A fur collar on her parka. Rabbit fur, it looked like to Stanley Sweetsong.
So he said to her, “Anyone who’s better, ought to have a better idea to keep warm than wearing the fur of a dead animal.”
“Anyone who was butter,” she replied, “was melted down by Miss Rattray into a yellow puddle, and no longer exists. Isn’t that right, Stanley?”
She opened her parka and flashed her white button with the red letters: WE’RE BETTER!
Next to it was a button with Gregor Samsa’s photo on it, for C. Cynthia Ann Flower was a big fan of the Great Breath spokesboy.
Her beautiful beautiful face smiled meanly at Stanley.
She said, “For a while I thought the Butter Club was meeting secretly, but the meltdown finished you, didn’t it?”
Stanley wished he could laugh in her beautiful beautiful face, but the Butters were an underground club, and
“In an all-girl school,” said Mr. Sweetsong, “what chance does one boy have when they vote for a president?”
“There was no vote,” said Stanley.
“No vote?” his father said. “What kind of a school is that?”
“It’s changed since my day,” said Mrs. Sweetsong. “In my day there was always a vote. And in my day the parents did not get letter after letter asking for money.”
“The school wants to build a larger Science Room,” said Stanley, “so Mr. Longo can imprison more poor creatures in tanks.”
“Now, don’t dwell on those tanks in the Science Room!” said Mrs. Sweetsong. “That’s all you write about in your letters. Snakes and frogs and whatnot in those tanks.”
“And a tarantula, too, like Tattle’s, only this one is a Mexican blonde!”
His father said, “What do you call two spiders who just got married?” Mr. Sweetsong was always trying to cheer up his only son and sole heir.
“What do you call two spiders who just got married?”
“Newlywebs,” his father laughed.
But Stanley did not need that much cheering up where Mr. Longo and his ugly tanks were concerned. On Career Day the Butters would strike! One tank would be empty. They could not let the snake or the frog go free, for they had been captives too long. They would not know how to fend for themselves, and it would be impossible for the Butters to care for them.
But Stanley could care for the tarantula until Thanksgiving. Then he would take him home to Tattle, who knew all about this king of spiders!
And the Mexican blonde was the perfect choice, since it had been donated to the Science Room by none other than C. Cynthia Ann Flower.
There had been a vote on that, and it was unanimous!
In honor of Gregor Samsa, there would be nine glowing smiles on the faces of the Butters, and none of the smiles would smell.
The tarantula would have a new, safe home, and to replace him in the tank, there would be a Butterfinger.
“You haven’t said you miss us,” said Stanley’s mother.
“You haven’t said you wish you were back at Castle Sweet,” said his father.
“I have been very busy,” Stanley said.
“But never forget,” his father said, “someday this will all be yours!”
“I can make my own bed now,” Stanley said.
“You won’t have to here,” said Mrs. Sweetsong.
“But I am not there,” said Stanley. “And I have eight friends here.”
“Thanksgiving is coming,” said Mrs. Sweetsong. “Then you will be here and not there.”
“We’ll have a big turkey!” his father said. “Where do all good turkeys go when they die?”
“Where?” Stanley asked.
“To oven!” his father laughed.
“Not funny,” Stanley said, because one thing the Butters stood for was kindness to all critters large and small.
There was yet another reason for the Butters to dislike C. Cynthia Ann Flower. For there she was, on that blustery Autumn noon, as Stanley came out of the phone booth, dressed in her royal blue blazer, white skirt, and white sock and red sock. A fur collar on her parka. Rabbit fur, it looked like to Stanley Sweetsong.
So he said to her, “Anyone who’s better, ought to have a better idea to keep warm than wearing the fur of a dead animal.”
“Anyone who was butter,” she replied, “was melted down by Miss Rattray into a yellow puddle, and no longer exists. Isn’t that right, Stanley?”
She opened her parka and flashed her white button with the red letters: WE’RE BETTER!
Next to it was a button with Gregor Samsa’s photo on it, for C. Cynthia Ann Flower was a big fan of the Great Breath spokesboy.
Her beautiful beautiful face smiled meanly at Stanley.
She said, “For a while I thought the Butter Club was meeting secretly, but the meltdown finished you, didn’t it?”
Stanley wished he could laugh in her beautiful beautiful face, but the Butters were an underground club, and
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