Giggleswick: The Amadán Map

Chapter Two: Elliot's Misery

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.