Chapter Two: Elliot’s Misery
Elliot Bisby’s eyes shot open at precisely 3:30 in the morning. He could tell as much by the greenish glow of his alarm clock. He’d had another bad dream, though the details were already growing fuzzy. His breathing slowed now that his mind forgot the troubling images that’d woken him, and he laid his head back down upon his pillow and stared up at the ceiling.
He was grateful to have a few more hours of sleep ahead –– he wasn’t looking forward to the day. The principal, Mrs. Bundy, had requested to see his mother that morning in school. Elliot knew why, of course. It’d been stupid to slug Nate Rutledge, he thought bitterly. But his mother didn’t know about it yet because he’d been too ashamed to tell her. He flushed now as he envisioned her sitting in front of Mrs. Bundy’s desk, weeping quietly as she learned of her son’s behavior. She’d be so disappointed ... and so would his father. They were not the sort of people who took kindly to violence, no matter how noble the instance.
But Nate deserved it, Elliot reminded himself, his face growing hot with anger. A year before, just after Elliot had entered St. Bartholomew’s, Nate had tormented him too, stealing his homework off his desk, and calling him a “pigsblanket” in front of everyone at recess. The nickname was of course making fun of the fact that Elliot’s father sold hotdogs for a living. It’d been the start of everything. From then on, the other students at St. Bartholomew’s had seemed much too busy whispering behind Elliot’s back to bother wanting to be his friend.
Elliot glanced around his tiny bedroom at the shadows cast upon the walls by the faint glow of his alarm clock. Except for his bed, night stand, and an old toy trunk where he kept his clothes, the room was bare. When he was younger, his mother had tried to make it special by painting zoo animals on the walls. A panda, lion, zebra, and a giraffe. They were very well painted, and Elliot had loved them as a kid, but now they served more as a reminder that his parents couldn’t afford to repaint.
Occasionally, Elliot found himself fantasizing about being rich. He pictured himself arriving to school in the family limousine and all the kids gathering around to greet him as he stepped out onto the pavement in his brand new sneakers. He’d throw his backpack over his shoulder and remove his headphones from his ears so that he could chat spiritedly with all his friends on the way to homeroom. And when it came time for lunch, he’d buy his sub sandwich and fries and wander over to a table where a handful of people would be waiting for him to join them. Then they’d laugh and tell stories and jokes, and complain about all the homework they’d been given in history. He’d be the wealthiest kid in school, but he’d never make fun of the other students for what they wore or the cars their mothers drove.
Would be nice, thought Elliot sadly. He wished he could move away and start somewhere new ... somewhere where nobody knew he was poor.
Wanting to forget all about Nate Rutledge and the other students at St. Bartholomew’s Middle School, Elliot pulled the covers over his head and drifted back off to sleep. The next time he awoke, it was to the smell of eggs and bacon and the sound of his mother’s sing-song voice calling from inside the kitchen. “Elliot, darling! Your breakfast is ready.”
He slid his legs over the side of the bed, and quickly pulled on a tee-shirt and a pair of jeans, then shuffled into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The image staring back at him in the mirror was that of a twelve-year-old boy with messy light-brown hair and sharp hazel eyes. He wet his hair down with a comb and brushed his teeth before avoiding another glance in the mirror and heading down to the kitchen.
His father, Todd Bisby, was already seated at the table in his work uniform chewing off a piece of bacon and watching the morning news while his mother, Nora, busied herself at the stove, sliding the contents of her frying pan onto a plate.
“Get yourself some juice, Elliot, and have a seat,” said Nora Bisby sweetly as she sat a plate with eggs, bacon, and an English muffin at his place setting. She always made sure he had enough to eat.
Mr. Bisby grunted and switched off the television set. “Depressing,” he sighed, referring to the news. He then spotted Elliot sitting at the table and patted him on the shoulder. “Hey there, pal.”
A moment later, Mrs. Bisby brought her own plate to the table and sat down to eat. She was still wearing her tattered apron with the grease stains and scorch marks. Underneath it was one of her nicer outfits, a purple blouse and black slacks, most likely chosen especially for her meeting with Elliot’s principal in a few hours. Her shoulder length auburn hair was pulled up in a twist, and she had put on a pair of department store clip-on earrings that Elliot had given her for her birthday.
“I suppose you’d rather not tell us what this meeting with Mrs. Bundy is all about, would you?” asked his mother with a hint of reproach as she buttered her toast.
Elliot took a sip of juice to avoid answering the question, then gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.
“Thought that might be the case,” she said, the corners of her mouth forming a grin as she and his father made eye contact. They weren’t likely to be all that concerned. Elliot wasn’t one to make trouble. “We’ll talk about it later then,” she added, and she soon got up from the table and began to wash the dishes by hand.
Despite their lack of money, the Bisbys were quite happy people. Mrs. Bisby had the kindest of temperaments, and Mr. Bisby was nearly always chipper. They were “glass half-full” people and felt no need to be otherwise. They paid the bills on time and got by in their modest home, but it was largely due to having determinedly charitable personalities and such low paying jobs that they could hardly keep their hands on enough money to afford even the slightest of luxuries. And this, though they never quite seemed to realize it, was where Elliot suffered. Wearing ill-fitting thrift store clothes and being toted around by your mother in a white 1985 Chevy Cavalier with more rust spots than the S.S. Constitution didn’t exactly make one prone to popularity.
“I packed you a peanut butter sandwich and some pretzels for lunch, Elliot,” said his mother as she dried the last few dishes upon her apron.
Picking the paper bag up from the counter, he thanked her and slid it into his book-bag. “I’ll be out in the car,” he said and hugged his father, who was now having a chuckle at the morning comics.
“Have a nice day at school, Elliot,” said Mr. Bisby, diverting himself from the Garfield strip. And he added “Be good” just for something to say, for Elliot had never really given them cause to worry that he’d be anything otherwise. Not yet, at least.
“I’ll be with you in a sec, hun!” his mother called after him as he headed for the door. She pulled off her apron and gave Mr. Bisby a kiss on the cheek before grabbing her purse and checking her hair in the hallway mirror on the way out.
Elliot was already buckled into the passenger seat when his mother got in and stuck the key in the ignition. She pulled the driver door shut, and it gave a terrific rattle –– as it always did. Elliot mused that one day it might just fall off. Then they’d have to get a new car. The engine roared to life, hissing and choking, and sounding much more like a fighter jet flying overhead than a family sedan pulling out of the drive. And then, as they barreled down the street and out of the neighborhood, Elliot peered through the side view mirror and frowned. Billowing out of the back of the car was the familiar trail of smoke that would follow them everywhere they went. Meanwhile, his mother hummed cheerfully beside him, completely unaware of the upset she’d be feeling just as soon as Mrs. Bundy had spilled the beans.
Elliot felt a lump forming in his chest, and he was finding it hard to swallow. He felt incredibly guilty, not so much for pummeling Nate Rutledge, but for the disappointment such knowledge was sure to cause his parents. He fidgeted nervously in his seat and prayed for a traffic jam or a flat tire –– anything to avoid having to go to school. He hadn’t forgotten that above his head, tucked in the sun visor, was a red plastic mixing spoon. His mother had meant it as a warning not to misbehave in the car when Elliot had been a child. Of course Mrs. Bisby had never used the spoon, for she was not one to spank, but this hadn’t stopped her from reminding the little Elliot of it on many occasions, even if she’d done so with a hint of jest.
Elliot felt worse for the memory of that spoon, and for the thought that today he might have actually deserved it. Taking a deep breath, Elliot squeezed his eyes shut and did not open them again until he felt the car park and heard the familiar bang of the tail pipe as his mother switched off the aging engine.
Mrs. Bisby must have sensed Elliot’s worry, for she leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek and a smile before he could get out of the car. “I love you more than cheese, ya know,” she said. His mother did say this once in a while, only every time it was something different. Last time, he recalled that she loved him more than portobello mushrooms, which had made complete sense to Elliot who had never liked mushrooms.
He smiled sheepishly at her. It’d made him feel a bit better, but hadn’t kept beads of sweat from forming on his forehead as they walked toward the school office. He didn’t even care that several students had witnessed him arriving with his mother in that silly old car ... he was much too upset to be embarrassed today.
When they reached the door to Mrs. Bundy’s office, his mother wished him a good morning and slipped inside. Elliot was nearly late for his first class and had no other choice but to dash down the hall if he meant to make it to the classroom on time. Mercifully, the seat next to his, usually occupied by Nate Rutledge, was empty this morning, and, for just a moment, Elliot forgot his misery and found himself imagining Nate lying at home in his bed with a hot water bottle on his backside, still aching from having been thrown to the floor by Elliot the day before. The thought soon made him feel guilty, however, and he quickly distracted himself by removing a notebook and pencil from his bag.
It was Miss Teresa Featherbottom’s English Literature class, and the lanky woman was wearing a floor length jumper embroidered with peacocks of many colors. She lilted to the front of the class and instructed everyone to take out their books in a voice as feathery as her name. They were reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. Elliot had already read it several times on his own, and it wasn’t that he minded reading it again, because it was one of his favorite books, but today, as the teacher asked the students to take turns reading the third chapter aloud, Elliot couldn’t seem to focus on the Pevensie children from the book. Instead, as tales of the White Witch and the faun echoed through the classroom, Elliot’s eyes were fixed upon the clock above the blackboard, watching the second hand tick its way round and round until he was nearly in a trance.
“Eeeellllllliot,” sang Miss Featherbottom, apparently for the third time. He hadn’t heard when the classroom phone rang, or the “mmhm, mmhm, okaaaay, bye now” of the teacher before she hung it up and floated over to Elliot’s seat. “Mrs. Bundy would like you to join her and your mother in the office,” she said.
The rest of the classroom broke into a collective whisper, as most students are prone to do when someone gets sent to the principal’s office, and Elliot’s stomach did a backflip as he grabbed his bag and scooted toward the door.
Miss Featherbottom smiled sweetly at him on his way out, but he didn’t feel the least bit comforted. He tried to walk as slowly as possible down the long hallway, ignoring the whispers still trailing behind him, but nothing could stop the big oak door of Mrs. Bundy’s office from getting closer and closer. Once the door knob was in reach, Elliot placed a trembling hand around the cold stainless steel, and, with a quick shutter of a breath, he turned the handle and gave the door a push.
It was exactly the scene he had imagined. Mrs. Bundy’s eyes shot toward him, a satisfied smile pulling at her lips, and across from her desk, Elliot’s mother sat looking out the window, clearly straining to conserve tears.
“Ah, Mister Bisby, just in time,” said Mrs. Bundy dutifully. “I’ve just been telling your mother of the physical altercation you found yourself in yesterday. Do sit down.” She motioned now to a second chair in front of her desk.
Elliot sat ruefully, but couldn’t yet bear to look over at his mother.
“As you well know, Saint Bartholomew’s has a zero-tolerance policy against violence,” she said matter-of-factly. “This morning I got a phone call from a very shaken Mrs. Suzzy Rutledge. She says her little boy Nate was quite fearful to attend school today. He was apparently rather afraid you would try to ambush him in the hallway again on his way to class.” Mrs. Bundy looked sternly down at him through the spectacles perched on the end of her pointy little nose. “Mrs. Rutledge decided to keep Nate home from school today to ensure his safety,” she said with an important flutter of her eye lashes, clearly trying to impress upon Elliot his own lethality.
Nora Bisby suddenly turned from the window, her hands balled into fists and knuckles turning white. “My son is not a monster!” she cried through quivering lips.
Mrs. Bundy forced what was obviously supposed to be a brief but comforting smile. “When students lay in fear of attending my school, something has got to be done.” She peered down at a few pink-colored forms stacked neatly in front of her on the desk. “Mrs. Suzzy Rutledge has requested that Elliot be suspended from school, and I feel it is my duty to oblige.”
Elliot could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “But I––” he yelped.
“I’m afraid there are no ‘buts’ in our policy, Mr. Bisby,” she interrupted. “You will finish out the rest of your school day and then commence with your suspension for a week’s duration.” She scribbled something on one of her pink forms, then held it out in front of his mother’s fallen face. “Your signature will be needed for this waiver, if you please, Mrs. Bisby.”
And there was no more to be said.
* * *
Elliot found it only a little reassuring when his mother gave him a kiss on the cheek before she left the school and he was sent back to class with the pink slip clutched in his hand. The shock of being suspended had yet to wear off. He wasn’t even the type of student to get a detention, much less be suspended. His misery at the word momentarily averted the blazing anger that would soon erupt inside of him. How could Mrs. Bundy possibly be so thick as to believe Nate Rutledge actually feared his presence? The thought of Nate at home enjoying a day of video games while his mother baked him chocolate-chip cookies and penned disgruntled letters to the PTA was all Elliot could take before tears of rage welled up inside of him, threatening to break loose.
He stalked off to his next class, U.S. History with Mr. Willig, and took his seat at the back of the room where he promptly zoned out until the lunch bell rang at quarter-till noon. He had to ask Mr. Willig to sign his suspension slip before leaving the classroom, and it pained Elliot to see the incredulous look that formed on the face of one of his favorite teachers as he handed him the slip of paper. Would this day ever end? he thought. He left the classroom without a word and headed to the cafeteria.
There was no hope of lunch cheering him up. It’s not like he’d have anyone to eat with, and his peanut butter sandwich would hardly be of any comfort. He quickly glanced around the cafeteria, just in case some friend he’d forgotten about miraculously appeared, but no friend was to be found, and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by wandering around too long. He was just about to sit down at an empty seat near the end of a long table when he spotted a be-speckled boy sitting alone a few rows back, hiding behind a tattered copy of War and Peace. Joshua Innes, no doubt.
Elliot contemplated this alternative. Josh was perhaps the one person who’d welcome his presence considering the prior day’s events, and it would give them both someone to sit with. However, he didn’t fancy they’d have much in common. Elliot couldn’t play chess, had no interest in Russian literature, and had by no means aced every test that’d ever crossed his path. Yet, anybody to talk to at the moment would at least keep his thoughts off the impending suspension.
With his mind made up, Elliot walked over to Josh’s table. He hesitated, waiting for the boy to spot him over the top of his book.
“Er, I just –– um ... I was wondering if I could join you,” Elliot stammered, feeling quite dweebish for worrying that even the most unpopular kid in school might say ‘no’.
Josh looked like a deer caught in headlights and did not move until his tortoise-shell glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. He repositioned them with a large sniff and scrunch of his face, then said, “Okay”. And, after an awkward pause, he added, “Thanks ... by the way.”
Noticeably embarrassed by the memory of their previous encounter, Josh returned to the comfort of his book, and Elliot sat down across from him and took out his sandwich and pretzels. He felt just a bit less self-conscious than he would have felt eating alone, but the silence was making it difficult to forget the look he’d seen on his mother’s face as she was asked to sign his suspension waiver. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind a discussion of Russian literature after all.
“Are you liking the book?” Elliot decided to ask.
At first it seemed as though Josh were contemplating whether to answer at all, but finally he opened his mouth to respond. “It’s a bit slow,” he said. And with the escape of these words, the idea of continuing the discussion must have seemed slightly more appealing to him, because he added, “But I’m quite fascinated by the Napoleonic Wars,” and then watched Elliot’s expression for any sign of consensus.
“W-w-well, um, I suppose that w-would be interesting,” Elliot sputtered, now feeling like a deer caught in headlights himself, for he had no idea what the Napoleonic Wars were.
“Yes,” Josh agreed. “I’ve just read the bit about the Battle of Borodino,” he added, looking like he fervently hoped Elliot would be able to contribute something exciting to the topic of battles.
Elliot munched his pretzels and sighed. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that one,” he said, knowing the conversation was of no use.
Josh looked disappointed, and Elliot thought maybe even a tad disgruntled. The awkwardness seemed too uncomfortable for him now, and he gathered up his pile of school books, tucking War and Peace under his arm, and struggled under the weight of them to stand. He frowned, looking antsy to leave. “Well ... see you around,” he said. Then, with a shrug, he was gone.
So much for a distraction, thought Elliot. Why did he always feel so different? He didn’t even fit in with the “nerds”! As far as he could tell, he didn’t fit in anywhere. Now that he was back to eating alone, Elliot chose to hide behind the cover of a book as well, though his chemistry textbook was scarcely more interesting than Josh’s novel had been, and he found himself only pretending to read.
Finally, the lunch bell rang, and the rest of the day passed without further trauma. Each of his teachers had worn an expression of shock as they learned of Elliot’s suspension, but none of them had been inclined to ask questions, which had suited Elliot just fine.
His mother then looked very stern when she picked Elliot up from school at the end of the day, but when he opened his mouth to apologize, she waved him off before he could begin. “Elliot, dear, don’t let it worry you for now. I know you’ve had an upsetting day. We’ll have a good chat about things with your father over dinner.”
Given that his mother wasn’t one for yelling, Elliot was left to think she was delaying her lecture in an attempt to further settle her thoughts. But there was a part of Elliot that wished she would yell at him. He wanted to be punished for the tears he’d put in her eyes that morning.
As they pulled up in the driveway, they saw that Mr. Bisby’s bicycle, complete with hotdog cart in tow, had already arrived home. “Must have been a slow day for hotdogs,” his mother said with a trace of anxiety, for they couldn’t afford too many slow days.
His father was inside, slumped over the kitchen table with an ice-pack pressed to his head, looking as though he’d had a very bad day, and without a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Bisby was by his side.
“Not to worry, Nora,” he assured her lovingly, smiling briefly as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Just another blasted headache,” he said with a wince. “Hello, Elliot! Good day at school?”
Mrs. Bisby wrinkled her nose at Elliot, making it clear that he should wait to respond to that particular question until his father was feeling better. “I’m sorry about your headache, dear,” she said soothingly. “I was a bit worried when I saw you were home early.”
“Well ...” he said, sighing heavily. “I wish it were only the headache.” Mrs. Bisby sat hesitantly beside him at the kitchen table. “One of the gas valves snapped off the cart today, and I was forced to close up.” He shook his head in frustration.
It took Nora Bisby a moment to digest this information, but when she responded, it was with her usual optimism. “Not to worry. You’ll call the hardware store tomorrow to order the part and be back to business in no time.” She smiled bravely and gave his hand a squeeze. “We’ll make do,” she said, though it was clear she was trying to keep her face from betraying her words.
Mr. Bisby leaned in to kiss his wife with a glint in his eyes that was reserved only for her, and Elliot, feeling a bit awkward standing around to watch, turned to leave.
“Why don’t you go put your school things away, Elliot, and get cleaned up for supper,” his mother called after him.
“Right,” Elliot called back.
He resurfaced for dinner a half-hour later to find the table nicely set and spaghetti on their plates. Mr. Bisby was no longer clutching an ice-pack to his head, and he looked to be in better spirits. However, from the look upon his face, Elliot was certain his father was now in-the-know.
“I’m sorry to hear about your suspension, Elliot,” said Mr. Bisby after several minutes of painful silence.
Elliot twirled spaghetti around his fork more times than was necessary, not knowing how to respond, but his mother saved him the effort by prodding her husband under the table and motioning in Elliot’s direction with her eyes.
“Eh-hem! Well, yes,” Mr. Bisby grumbled. “Elliot, you know your mother and I detest violence of any kind,” he stated in a very fatherly fashion, “and we have tried to raise you to feel the same way.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Elliot, his chest once more tightening with shame. He didn’t know if his parents believed the principal’s story that he’d been bullying Nate Rutledge, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain what’d actually happened. It didn’t really matter anyhow –– he knew there was no punch worth throwing in their book. “I’m –– sorry I’ve disappointed you,” he added, his eyes still fixed upon his spaghetti.
His father nodded firmly and sighed. “Yes, well –– your mother assures me that you are quite remorseful, and I believe she is right, so we won’t be punishing you any more than your suspension already has.”
Mrs. Bisby put her fork down and placed her hand atop Elliot’s, giving him a smile. “I know things have been tough at school, dear ... but the bravest of people solve their problems without violence.”
And with this, the lecture was over, and Mrs. Bisby was suddenly remembering that she’d forgotten to fetch the mail from the mailbox earlier.
“It’ll still be there in the morning, dear,” said Mr. Bisby, spinning an enormous forkful of spaghetti into his mouth with a mischievous grin.
The rest of the evening passed slowly, and Elliot tried to distract himself by working on some of the homework he’d been assigned, despite now having a full week left to complete it. He couldn’t wrap his mind around being suspended. It was depressing. There was, however, one bright spot perhaps, he thought. For one whole week, there would be no Nate Rutledge, no humiliating gym classes, and no lonely lunch periods to endure! The idea was even more enticing upon second thought, in fact. Maybe Suzzy Rutledge wouldn’t be satisfied sending Nate back to school until Elliot’d been expelled ... How much worse could that be? he mused. Then he’d have to be sent to another school entirely! And maybe there he’d at least make a few friends.
He closed up his books and tucked them away in his backpack. Would anyone care that he was missing from school? Probably not, he thought. Not the poor kid who always sat alone at lunch. Why should anyone care?
He slipped on his pajamas and passed a fleeting glance at the well-loved copy of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe that sat on his night-stand. At least it was a familiar friend, if not the human kind. Tonight, Elliot would have given anything to find his own magical wardrobe to escape through. And it was with this thought that he was back where the whole mess of a day had started ... lying in bed and staring at the greenish glow of his alarm clock.