I Found A Leather-Bound Case In A Tree And I Really Wish I Had Never Found It

But before he could get through more than a few lines, the pencil snapped. Broke in two as if someone had grabbed the top half and yanked it at a hard right angle to Michael’s hand. The break could not have looked less natural if there had been visible wires attached like in an old movie. All eyes watched as the shards of pencil crashed down to the table. And then everything was back to normal. Life and conversation returned to the room. Students began to draw again earnestly; the period was almost over. Michael blinked several times and then looked at me with a slightly perplexed expression on his face. “Whoops,” was all he said, with a sheepish grin that revealed nothing of the strangeness that had enveloped the room moments before.

That afternoon when school let out for the day I ran into Michael outside while we were waiting to get on the bus. He looked distracted and even agitated, but when he spotted me he came over quickly. I said hello but he didn’t respond at first, just staring at his feet. I started to repeat my greeting when he stopped me with a question.

“Do you hate me?” he asked. “What?” I asked, genuinely perplexed by this question. “Tell them I’m sorry,” he said and then rushed off to catch his bus, leaving me to wonder what he had meant.

The next time I saw Michael he was on the news. It was a freak accident. A semi had had a blowout going less than 30 miles an hour down one of the streets near his house. Michael had been out playing. It all happened so fast he probably hadn’t even seen the giant truck coming. At least, that’s what the news reporter said.

I never took the pencils to school again. I’d like to say I left them alone entirely, even that I threw them away or buried them, but I didn’t. The thought crossed my mind, sure, but when push came to shove, I needed the pencils. So I kept them, but I vowed to be much more careful with them. Even in my room, the pencil case stayed hidden, tucked away where (I hoped) no one would find them. Only when I was left alone, undisturbed in my room after dinner while my parents watched TV, or even better when they weren’t home at all, did the pencils come out.

When they did though, it was incredible. I was what you would call a “good” kid for a long time, so I never tried drugs or touched even a sip of alcohol until I had nearly finished high school, but that was how the pencils felt. It was like being on the greatest drug anyone had ever invented. It was like being Superman. The things I drew were getting better and better in general, and with the pencils the works were becoming incredible by the time I finished 9th grade. I actually became scared to show anyone those drawings, because I was afraid questions would come up about why those particular drawings were so much better than the other drawings I produced.

Those pencils and the drawings I produced with them became my own private world, a world all my own, a place that I was engulfed in. I was always a shy kid and for various reasons my parents moved around a lot, so I didn’t have many friends, but I didn’t care, my world of drawings was all I needed. By the middle of my 10th grade year my pencils were half gone, a pack of 20 reduced to 10. However, things changed when I met Sarah.

Sarah was my first real girlfriend. Although I had switched to yet another new school in 10th grade, for some reason that switch hadn’t left me in quite an awkward state as before. Whatever the cause, which may have been as simple as me maturing, I no longer felt as awkward around new people as I had in the past, and at this new school I made friends fast and easily. The world of the pencils became something I retreated to less and less thanks to me being constantly surrounded by newfound friends and their pool parties and pickup games of basketball.