Honestly Elliott: Part Two

In the corner, the hamper overflows.

I’m not necessarily above rewearing a pair of lightly used socks, so I shove the laundry mountain sideways to make it topple over.

But even though I felt a few pangs when I first paged through, I couldn’t help but read it anyway.

Casually, I slide the book underneath my bed.

My cheeks flush.

“Your shoes are by the door,” she says, like she can anticipate what I need to hear next.

Not everyone knows that you can eat the calendar too—around here, that means peas, broccoli, and cabbage in spring; zucchini, eggplant, and okra in summer; pumpkins, sweet potato, and squash in fall.

Griffin Connor says that pastries and baked goods appeal to the masses. It’s not the same as real cooking.

No one’s palate was ever elevated by eating a doughnut sugar-bomb.

“Besides, it’s beautiful,” Mom says, in that relentlessly optimistic way she has.

She’s actually the reason I didn’t fail. She’s the one who reached out to my parents and attended every conference—ones with the counselor and assistant principal with scary words like Retention and Summer School.

Every time I turned in something, she looked me right in the eye and said, “I knew you could do it, Elliott.”
Never underestimate the power of one person believing in you.

“With this project, you will create a business plan and be given a budget. You’ll then execute your idea at our Avery Local festival next month,” she says.

“From your booth you can demonstrate a prototype of your idea. Or, if you choose to, you can sell items and keep the profits.”

“This project is the culmination of everything you’ve learned at ASG,” she continues.

“This is a group project. You can have anywhere between two and five people in a group. Not one. Not six. Due to space constraints, there is absolutely no flexibility on this rule, I’m afraid.”

I’ve seen my school plan, where proximity is recommended as a nonverbal redirection strategy. Really, that’s just a teacher way of saying that sometimes I get back on task if a teacher stands by my desk.

“We’re going to have some time now to find your groups and do some preliminary brainstorming. The project is due next month, so you’ll be moving at a quick pace. By the end of this week, you should have your proposal submitted, so use your time wisely.”

The thing about no offense is that it’s always said immediately after someone says something totally offensive. Think about it. If you say something nice, you would never in a gazillion years think to add on the end “no offense.”

“Are you all right?” I talk kind of out of the corner of my mouth, I’m not sure why.
“Not really,” she says grimly. “My group is terrible.”

Maribel finishes sharpening and inspects the tip of the pencil. She must decide it is sufficiently pointy, because she turns to go.

In a flash, I see my future: Another project packet crammed in the corner of my closet and my grades for this semester will plummet.

Good morning, everybody, Tear Tank says in a sports-announcer kind of voice. We're here to witness an astounding display of the most powerful waterworks known throughout the land, brought to you by the one and only Elliott...Quigley...Sawyer!

A light smattering of applause comes from the crowd.

Maribel writes my name—with perfect penmanship, I might add—and makes a flourish underneath.

They go back to their discussion about leverage and rubber bands.

It’s a huge building with lots of windows and turrets, and it’s painted the soft orange of a papaya, with creamy yellow trim.

The waiting room has a bunch of random furniture in it, antiques that someone reupholstered in some of the strangest patterns—like an armchair with fried eggs and waffles, throw pillows with octopuses, and a sofa that looks like a strawberry.

It’s sort of like UNO, but there are a bunch of rule cards with different variations and you pick different rules to play with each time.

Nothing bothers turtles. They’re unflappable.

Their version has meat, cheese, slaw, and spicy mayo sandwiched between two plantain disks.

This time it’s about who’s stronger—Wayward Beast or the Glimmering Ogre.

She looks at me warily. To be fair, I have a history of not taking news about the baby very well.

Kate nods vigorously.

I start lumbering around the kitchen, holding out my arms like I have a giant watermelon baby inside me.