Giggleswick: The Complete Trilogy Collection (Books 1-3): Giggleswick

Wally Noodle was pleased to see that styles hadn’t changed much in the course of a year. As he glanced around the building paying particular attention to the apparel of the adults and children, he assured himself that, besides his perky pink bow-tie — a fad which indeed appeared to have faded out — he looked much like everyone else.

Often prone to distraction, Wally probably should have had his mind on more urgent matters. He was currently on special assignment for the SMR, an agency he was in charge of back home. Head Officer of the SMR was a prestigious and very important position, and in order to perform the job properly one had to look and act the part, which, of course, Wally did seamlessly. He was a tall, broad-chested man, with wispy blond hair and sharp blue eyes. Although too humble to admit it himself, many found him to be strikingly handsome and debonair. Being so terribly gorgeous did have its downsides though. Back home, despite the fact that everyone was well aware of his lovely wife, Lilly, and of their beautiful twelve-year-old daughter, Eliza, women couldn’t help but constantly flirt with him.

Here, he wasn’t as highly regarded, however, and hardly anyone seemed to notice his existence as he meandered down the hall, not entirely sure where to go next. He had already spent two whole days in Maine and had yet to find anyone suitable. Yesterday, he’d met with a lovely couple that had been married just three months, both seemingly wonderful people, but no — they wouldn’t do; they just weren’t quite right. Perhaps he was deterred due to the fact that they had expressed a desire to have twelve children, but he couldn’t say for sure. Then, earlier this morning he thought he’d found the perfect person: an enthusiastic, middle-aged man devoted to a cause — though, alas, it wasn’t quite the cause Wally’d had in mind. Two others he’d seen the day before might have worked out well, but once he’d described the situation to them, they quickly sent him on his way, calling him a nutter or something of the sort. It wasn’t meant to be, he supposed.

Now as Wally walked away from yet another unworthy candidate, a young schoolteacher who had expressed great interest, but for the wrong reasons — selfish reasons — he was left with no one to evaluate. He had to find someone soon … he was only ever given five days to find the perfect person and he didn’t want to wait until the last minute! Last year hadn’t been so easy either, he supposed, and he felt slightly more relaxed having remembered this. Then again, he was never all too happy with the outcome of last year’s expedition, but Constable Humphrey had insisted that Wally need not look any further; the perfect person had been found.

As he headed down the first floor hallway of St. Bartholomew’s Middle School, he glanced in through the classroom doors, comparing the many different moods and impressions of the teachers and students. In one room, he could count on a single hand the number of children with their heads up; in another, nearly half the class was waving their arms wildly about the air, begging to be called on. A history class was discussing the First World War — a very depressing topic for Wally, and the students in a chemistry class were engaged in a film about the atomic bomb — an even more depressing subject for him. He walked by and shook his head as the sound of an explosion, surely depicted with mind-blowing images, provoked many shouts of cool, wow, and yeah! from the class. Wally was thankful that Eliza didn’t have to know these things. She, unlike these children, did not know war. But before he could ponder this thought any longer, the building suddenly erupted at the tone of a bell.

Nearly knocking him over, children came bustling out of every classroom, talkative as ever after having been cooped up in one class or another for the past hour. Once he’d gotten out of the way and was no longer being pushed about, he snapped the collar of his sports coat, brushed his shoulders, and checked his reflection in a classroom window, giving himself a quick smile before his attention was again deterred.

An impish older woman holding a megaphone to her lips had come storming around the corner, nipping at the heels of two boys who’d instigated a spit ball fight between themselves and a pack of girls. The female co-conspirators were now in a fit of giggles as the boys were led away.

Stop! HOOLIGANS! Starting a spit ball fight in the middle of the hall — Have you gone MAD?!!! the older woman bellowed through the megaphone, surely deafening the boys as she poked and prodded them with the tip of her pencil every step of the way.

We’re sorry, Principal Bundy, said one of them, still sniggering and not sounding sorry at all.

Wally stifled a laugh as the parade marched by, the principal’s voice echoing down the hall. He definitely would not be talking to her — she was the exact opposite of what he was looking for. Though he doubted she would ever consider leaving her chiefly duties anyway, for she looked like she rather enjoyed yelling at students all day long.

As Principal Bundy dragged the boys away, they both appeared to be looking particularly proud of themselves. Wally thought it odd they should seem happy to have been caught … unless, perhaps, this had been their intention from the start.

His concentration was then broken from the spectacle when he noticed two other boys standing by a water fountain whispering back and forth with wide conniving grins spread across their faces. Wally wondered what they were up to, though he surmised that whatever it was could not be good. He stared intently for a few seconds; meanwhile, several other students had joined in the charade, all of them gazing in eager anticipation at a bathroom door near the end of the hall that had yet to budge.

Wally thought he knew just what might happen when that door opened, as it was sure to do, and unfortunately it seemed that all the teachers had vanished back into their classrooms. The only people left in the hallway were the ten or so students who’d hung around to see what was about to happen.

It wasn’t long before Wally’s fears were confirmed. Suddenly all the whispering stopped and the bathroom door creaked open bit by bit. Wally couldn’t see much from where he stood, but eventually he was able to distinguish a pair of beady eyes peering out from behind the door. It was a scrawny boy of medium height that began to appear from the dimly lit bathroom, his nervous grasp on the edge of the door turning his knuckles white. The boy’s audience seemed to be taking direction from a brazen, blond-haired kid who had his hand cupped firmly against a bulging grin. They stood silent, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.

The door continued to inch its way open until, with apparent newfound bravery, the boy abruptly swung it the rest of the way and strolled out into the hallway. Nervously clutching at his books and straightening his horn-rimmed glasses, he walked with his head parallel to the floor. He was just two steps past the blond boy when, with a nod, two beastly adolescents boasting World-Wrestling-Federation tee-shirts were summoned to block his path. Having had his eyes glued to the ground, the boy hadn’t known to stop, and he dove head first into the human barricade, bouncing backwards in response and collapsing to the floor. His glasses flew across the black and white tiles, but before he could grab them up, a sneaker came crushing down in one swift stomp.

So, Joshy, said the blond in his snarl of a voice, fancy meeting you here today. He lifted his shoe off the shattered pair of glasses and kicked them towards the whimpering form lying amidst a slew of textbooks upon the floor.

Wally was awestruck. He didn’t know whether to run for help, try to stop them, or remain a feeble spectator. It really wasn’t his place to do anything but the latter, and he couldn’t risk people asking too many questions. He seemed to go unnoticed standing beneath a distant classroom doorway.

Josh continued to stir and moan on the floor but made little effort to get up, probably hoping his tormentors would leave first. Wally doubted he would be so lucky, however. From the look of things, nobody was leaving — not until they’d had their fun.

Did your mommy pack you anything good for lunch? the blond asked, bending down and picking up a brown paper bag. Why don’t we find out, he added, and he turned the bag upside down allowing the contents to spill to the floor. An orange went rolling down the hall, a bagged sandwich was soon squashed by someone’s sneaker, and a pint-sized carton of milk landed temptingly in front of the blond boy’s foot.

A student standing to the left of the blond egged him on. Go for it, Nate! he said with a laugh.

Wally couldn’t have felt worse for Josh, who now had no glasses, lunch, or life left at St. Bartholomew’s. Where had all the teachers gone? he wondered angrily.

Nate obviously couldn’t resist, and with one quick swoop he had the carton of milk in his hand and was cracking it open at the top. "I think Josh would like his milk now, he stated, gaining a host of laughter from the spectators. What do you think, Joshy?"

Josh rolled his tear-streaked eyes and gave a low moan, clearly wondering when all this would end. He had very little option but to sit and bear the brunt of it. There was nowhere to run — not with a hall full of people waiting to stop him if he tried. Please … don’t, he said halfheartedly. But anyone could see it was no use.

Nate was just about to drench Josh in milk when two students arriving on the scene pushed their way through to the front of the crowd. Don’t do it! one of them shouted when he saw what was about to happen.

Nate was taken by surprise but seemed only all too pleased to have the extra company. He turned his head toward the naysayer and sneered. "And what do you think you’re going to do about it, Bisby?" he spat.

Well, I — I … he was clearly trying to come up with something clever, I don’t think you’d want to find out. It was obvious to Wally that it was taking every bit of this boy’s gumption to keep from stepping back and swallowing his tongue. But bravery prevailed, and with a nervous gulp, Bisby took one step closer.

Nate looked at him as if he were a freak. You don’t think I’ll do it, do you? You’re as big a wuss as your dirt-bag father. Him and his hotdog stand. Are you going to beat me up with a hotdog, Bisby? He smiled daringly and started to tip the carton of milk so that a few drops trickled onto Josh’s head. I don’t look too scared now, do I? he added and began to pour the rest of the contents from the carton.

Wally could have seen it coming a mile away, and before he knew it, Bisby had gone charging with his shoulder into Nate’s side, sending the boy flying backwards through the air until he landed with a thud, his butt breaking his fall.

For a moment, no one spoke. Everyone was waiting to see who’d react first and how. But nothing could have prepared them for the unexpected visitor who had shown up at precisely the wrong time.

Having sensed her presence, Bisby raised his eyes from where Nate had landed upon the floor to meet squarely with the cold, calculating gaze of Mrs. Tilly Bundy, who had returned from escorting the two spit ballers to their impending detention in just enough time to witness Bisby attacking Nate.

The silence was menacing.

Elliot, you will accompany me to my office — the rest of you back to class, she ordered as calmly as she could muster, clapping her hands twice to signify an immediate dismissal from the hallway. And you, Mr. Rutledge, she stammered, turning to Nate, don’t ever let me find you on the floor again!

And with that, she was gone, dragging Elliot Bisby down the hall by his ear.

Josh, who’d gotten up from the floor just as Mrs. Bundy’d arrived, looked woe-begone having not been able to thank Elliot for his help, and Nate, now smirking, gave the boy a wink before shoving past him on the way to his next period. Then, the hallway empty, a half-blind Josh was left all alone to pick up his books and make it to class.

Although he wished there was something he could do, Wally didn’t dare approach Josh to lend him a hand. From all that had transpired over the last few minutes, the boy was clearly distressed, and Wally feared that any further excitement might leave more than milk drenching the front of his pants.

The commotion seemed to have cleared up, and the next scheduled class had begun, and so, with nothing left to stay for, Wally made his way to the front of the school and pushed through the doors, stepping out into the sunny New England afternoon. St. Bartholomew’s was just off the main street, and he followed the small driveway out until he reached the heart of town. He still felt a bit shook up from the scene he’d witnessed, but his melancholy temperament was beginning to improve.

The day seemed to be as ordinary as any other for the locals. Everyone was bustling around the busy streets going about their business. Wally walked slowly along the sidewalk whipping his head in every direction so as not to miss a single detail. Though the people appeared to be engaged in typical daily activities, they were certainly going about them rather differently, he thought.

Every year when he visited he saw more and more fascinating things, and he knew there was no way he could ever dream of seeing it all — he wasn’t given long enough to do so. The constable only allowed him five days once a year to keep up with the times, and while Wally often wished to stay for weeks, the constable was the wisest and most fair man Wally knew, and he’d surely had his reasons for insisting on such a short sojourn. Where Wally came from, no man’s opinion was ever respected more.

Suddenly, he was snapped out of his trance when a car honked at him and a rather frazzled looking woman behind the steering wheel started shouting obscenities out her window, all the while waving her arms back and forth as if wanting him to move.

Confused, Wally walked across the strip of pavement over to where the sidewalk began again. There, he stopped and stood beside a large exit sign that faced out from the food market parking lot. He turned around and waved politely to the woman, but to his astonishment, this only seemed to frustrate her more, and with an oddly symbolic flick of her hand, she sped off, leaving a trail of exhaust behind her.

Well! I must say I’m not accustomed to that! he said out loud, slightly maddened by the woman’s unpleasant disposition. But, determined to keep in good spirits, he puffed out his chest and pressed on down Main Street wearing a somewhat forced smile.

Good-day! he greeted a man walking a dachshund in the opposite direction. But he was disgruntled when the man failed to return the gesture, and instead looked as though he worried Wally might bite.

This really was all beyond his comprehension. This sort of thing would never have happened back home. No — no, there was definitely something different about people here. No matter how many ingenious inventions they may have created, Wally thought that perhaps they may not be quite as … well, as levelheaded as his kind. Nevertheless, he was still in awe of their accomplishments. That computator invention of theirs was awfully impressive — he wished he could figure that one out!

Wally continued to stroll along, admiring the park and the many different shops and markets. He was particularly fascinated by a long and wide superstructure-type building that sat back a bit from the road. The store’s name, although misspelled, suggested that it sold walls. He’d always assumed walls were built right on the spot, but apparently America had begun to market them. Either way, he didn’t dare go in to see for himself what this Wal-Mart was like. He’d never make it — the parking lot itself looked nearly as long as the English Channel! The store also seemed a bit out of place in this small town setting, Wally thought, but he supposed the building needed to be rather large if it meant to keep enough walls in stock.

Farther along, there was a perplexing little shop nestled in-between a candy store and a beauty parlor. Wally glanced up at the engraved wooden sign that read Finola’s Finds, and on the window, the word Antiques was painted across the glass in cursive. He walked through the door, which jingled at him like the shops back home did, and was greeted by an older woman with frizzy, white hair. She had a small jeweler’s magnifying glass stuck in her left eye, and there were a bunch of coins sprawled in front of her across a glass countertop. The woman identified herself as Finola and asked if Wally needed help finding anything, but he declined and told her he’d just have a look.

He didn’t look for long, however. It turned out the place was full of old things, and based on his currency conversion charts, it was all being sold for extravagant prices. One-hundred dollars for a beat up looking chair that a mouse wouldn’t dare break wind on?! Rubbish, he thought, and he scurried out of the place, determined to find either the perfect person or at least something interesting to look at in the meantime.

Continuing on, he soon found that he was losing his drive. His feet felt like two large calluses, his legs felt like mush, he was beginning to feel a trite bit faint, and his stomach — oh his stomach! Abruptly, a thunderous low moan emitted from his abdomen, and to his horror, it appeared that several people had heard and were now staring blankly in his direction.

As his stomach continued to groan, Wally started looking around for someplace to eat. Something light, he thought, for he didn’t wish to spoil his dinner, which was only three hours away. He and Lefty Scrum, his only traveling companion, had been dying to try the restaurant with the golden sign that boasted how many billions of people it served. They thought it must be really popular, though neither one of them could figure out why anybody’d name a restaurant just the letter M.

The town had many places to eat, but so far every place he’d passed was either a fancy restaurant or pub, and what he really needed was something quick. At last his eyes spotted a little vendor outside the local bookstore. Whatever it sold, there were a lot of people waiting in line to buy it, so Wally got closer till he could see that the name Bisby Dogs was painted across the front of the cart, and a picture of a hotdog was painted beneath the name.

Having once had a hotdog a few years back on his annual visit, Wally decided it would do the trick and stepped into the line. The man dishing out hotdogs seemed to be in a very pleasant mood and was greeting his customers in the friendliest of manners. He was a rather short, thin man with light-brown hair combed neatly atop his benevolent face, but his features were slightly diminished by the worn and faded clothing he was wearing. Wally doubted that running a hotdog stand paid very much, though he also doubted that anybody would ever consider doing so as a primary occupation.

As he neared the front of the line, he was able to make out the prices of the different items, and, wanting just the plain hotdog, he found its price on the chart. Then, as he was removing the money from his wallet, his eyes happened upon a small sign that had been adhered to the cart. It read simply: Promote World Peace! Wally was delighted to see such a wonderful message displayed. This was what he was all about. It was something he could relate to.

He glanced at the name on the hotdog stand again.

Bisby Dogs.

Where had he heard that name before? It was just recently too. The boy, perhaps? Yes! Elliot Bisby from St. Bartholomew’s Middle School … and hadn’t that Nate Rutledge teased him about his father selling hotdogs? Why surely this was Elliot’s father’s stand! Yes, it must be, he thought.

And at that precise moment, Wally was struck by a brilliant idea. Maybe he had found them. Maybe he had found who he’d been looking for. The more he pondered it, the more he thought they were perfect! He could hardly contain himself. The boy had shown remarkable bravery and courage that afternoon, standing up for what was right. And his father seemed a peaceful sort of fellow. Wally’d have to make sure of course, but he thought it quite likely that he’d not only stumbled upon the perfect person, but the perfect persons. The constable had allowed him to choose more than one in the past, although it had been several years since he’d done so. In fact, back in 1993, he’d taken a family of eight! Then again, he had been severely ridiculed by the community for that one, and even Constable Humphrey had suggested that in the future Wally should stick to no more than four.

Brimming with excitement, he awaited his turn in line.

Can I help you? Mr. Bisby asked kindly as Wally stepped to the front.

Erm — I’ll have a plain Bisby Dog and a can of Coke, he answered.

Diet? Mr. Bisby asked before digging into the tiny refrigerated compartment of his stand.

Wally wasn’t sure what that meant and figured he better stick with what he knew. No, thank you, he replied. He was busy bouncing ideas around in his head, wondering just how he was going to approach Mr. Bisby on this most delicate situation. He certainly couldn’t do it here, he thought. No, that was definitely out of the question. But finally he had an idea …

Here you are, sir, said Mr. Bisby, sliding the order across the counter. Will that be all?

Yes, Wally replied, having been snapped from his thoughts. He handed over the money and picked up his hotdog and Coke. "Well, actually …" He waited to continue until Mr. Bisby had finished punching the buttons on the cash register.

Mm hmm? the man hummed brightly.

My son — er, he’s about to turn six, you see, and we’re having a little party for him in a few weeks, and … well, I was wondering whether you might be able to pop round with your cart? I’d pay you handsomely, of course! It was a long shot, but the only way Wally could think to get Mr. Bisby’s address.

I’ve done birthday parties in the past, yes, the man replied. Why don’t you take my business card, and you can give me a call when you work out the details. And with a smile he handed Wally a card from his shirt pocket and proceeded to greet the next customer.

It was exactly what Wally needed. At the bottom was Mr. Bisby’s name and address, and now all he had left to do was to decide how he was going to explain everything carefully enough in a letter. He had to be extremely cautious not to give too much away until he was sure the Bisbys would agree to the proposition. If he were too explicit in his explanation, everything could be lost.

He would have to deliver the letter personally, he resolved — the mail would take much too long. His feet, however, were in no condition to walk to the Bisby home, and so, upon spotting a yellow taxi-cab heading in his direction, Wally turned to face it in the middle of the road and raised his hand in what must have looked quite unfortunately like a Nazi salute.

The already banged-up Buick came to a screeching halt directly in front of him, its bumper kissing his kneecaps. Wally nodded to the bug-eyed man seated behind the steering wheel and walked around to the front passenger door to get in. And, as he lowered himself into the seat, he greeted the driver and flashed him one of his stunning smiles.

The older gentleman stared at him from under his tweed cap. His eyes were still wide open, and Wally couldn’t help noticing the beads of sweat dripping down from his forehead. He was sitting oddly in his seat too, and his hands looked as though they were glued to the steering wheel. Really, if Wally hadn’t know any better, he might have thought the man looked rather … well, constipated, though he preferred not to think of such unpleasantries.

You alright, chap? he asked, feeling a trifle concerned.

The driver gasped and wheezed, and his thick gray mustache puffed out around the edges. B-Bloody hell … yo’ mad, he sputtered, confirming Wally’s hunch that he was an Englishman. Lower class. Like ter pop m’heart right out of me bosom! he added, clearly winded.

I — I’m terribly sorry. Wally didn’t know what else to say. He’d begun to wonder if he hadn’t mixed up the cab-hailing directions he’d learned in a recent SMR study, and, gaging by the waxen look of his chauffeur, he now felt pretty sure that he had.

The cab driver rubbed at his eyes, returning them to their normal proportion, but when the car behind them then tooted its horn, it was any wonder the man’s head didn’t puncture the roof. Gasping once more for air, he shifted the car into gear and slammed his foot against the accelerator, and then they were off, speeding into the sunset.

It was a few minutes before either one of them said anything. At first, Wally feared even the sound of his voice might startle the man. I — suppose you’d like to know where I want to go? he asked finally, attempting to break the ice.

The driver grunted.

Well, the address is right here on this business card, he said, handing it to him.

The man took his eyes off the road just long enough to memorize the address. I’ll ’ave yeh there in about five minutes, he muttered.

I’m Wally, by the way.

That’s nice, the driver said with a nod.

The ensuing silence made it pretty clear the man was not about to offer his own name.

And you are?

There was a hesitation. Everett.

Oh, said Wally, and in searching for some other topic of conversation, he decided to mention the Bisbys. I’m not from around here. Do you—

Yeh could ’ave fooled me! Everett interjected, his mustache twitching.

Wally didn’t know what to make of this comment, and so he continued, Do you know the Bisbys?

Of course, who doesn’t? the man exploded. Ruddy people. Not like us!

Wally wasn’t sure what ruddy meant, but he didn’t think it sounded much like a compliment. Do most people like them?

Nah, they’re strange. Too nice fer their own good. Just plain phony, if yeh ask me.

"That’s why people don’t like them? They’re too nice?" Wally didn’t understand … he rather enjoyed nice people himself.

Yep. The woman, she’s always runnin’ dem soup kitchens and making blankets for the ’omeless and such, yet they barely ’ave two pennies to rub together themselves. Bet me tax dollars are coverin’ their behinds! And Mr. Bisby, ’e pretty much keeps to ’imself, but he’s always so dang bubbly, yeh feel like shovin’ one of dem ’otdogs up ’is … well, ’is nose!

Wally thought they sounded absolutely delightful. What about the boy? he asked.

Well, don’t know much ’bout ’im me’self, but me youngest — grandchild, that is — goes to school wit ’im. Say’s he’s just as awful as ’is parents. Nate though, he’s great. Just won county wrestlin’ champ! he added. This proud comment was cause for the first and only toothy grin he would display the whole evening.

How nice, said Wally before the man could boast any further. He now knew exactly who he was talking to. It seemed rather ironic that Nate Rutledge should be ragging on a hotdog vender’s son when his own grandfather was a taxicab driver!

Guess yeh can find out fer yerself now. We’re ’ere, said Everett, and he pulled the car up alongside the curb.

It was almost dinner time, and Wally didn’t want to be late meeting Lefty. So, as much as he’d have rather drug a three-ton elephant back into town, he knew he would have to ask Everett to wait for him. He’d be needing a ride to the restaurant once he’d slipped a letter into the Bisbys’ mailbox.

Wally quickly scrawled a short message on a piece of notepaper he’d brought with him and slid it into an envelope. He’d been thinking of what to say ever since he’d bought the hotdog and had finally come up with something safe but informative. Then, licking the envelope shut, he addressed it simply to The Bisbys and got out of the car.

The house was shabby and small, unlike the homes where Wally was from. The shutters were mostly crooked, and the paint was peeling, but Wally couldn’t help noticing the bold window boxes full of carnations, or the slightly sloppy garden filled with all sorts of colorful flowers. Somebody, likely Mrs. Bisby, had tried to give the home a loving touch.

Though it was clear the Bisby family had very little money, Wally thought it looked like they were making the most of things. In fact, the more he came to think of it, the more he actually admired their little home and its modesty. And it was with this thought that Wally slipped his letter into the Bisbys’ mailbox and hoped it’d find them well.

Not a moment later, he was being honked at by his increasingly impatient driver, and so he quickly slid back into the car, barely managing to buckle his seat-belt before Everett had stomped upon the gas pedal.

Then, as they sped away, Wally turned around in his seat for one last glimpse of the Bisbys’ house before it faded into the glowing sunset. Now it was up to them to decide, he thought. He could only hope that he’d made his letter enticing enough for them to respond. The Bisbys seemed perfect — possibly the most perfect people he’d ever chosen.

Everett, having clearly sensed Wally’s fascination with the Bisbys, groaned and shook his head. Bloody awful, they are, he declared.

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.

The next day began almost as terribly as the previous one had ended. Elliot awoke