Chapter 13 The Black Pencil
Chapter thirteen
The Black Pencil
Jameson Sinclair
Marigold twists her red hair up into a bun, then reaches into her bag for what I know will be a black pencil. Some might see it and think that she reached for the pencil by chance. That it was a random choice in a haphazard attempt to get her hair off her neck. But I know better. Know her better.
In middle school, we both had an English teacher, Miss Perkins, who wore her hair up with a black pencil sticking out of it.
Marigold admired her a lot, and they grew close over the course of the year and stayed that way even after she wasn’t our teacher anymore.
One day, I saw Marigold with the pencil in her hair.
She beamed at me when I asked about it and said Miss Perkins had taught her how to do it during lunch period.
Ever since then, Marigold has carried around an unsharpened black pencil for this purpose alone.
A part of me has wondered for a while if Marigold likes the idea of taking after someone other than her mother, who also has a similar shade of hair.
Sometimes her mom would come to school events, and any time someone mentioned them looking alike, Marigold would shrink.
She tried to hide it, but we’ve never been able to hide from each other very well.
“Have you talked to Miss Perkins recently?” I ask after Marigold has secured her hair.
She looks up from the outline we’ve been working on, her expression confused. I gesture to her hair as explanation, and realization sweeps over her features, along with a soft pink blush. I suppose I outed myself as watching her, but it’s too late now to take it back.
“She messages me every now and again about the articles I’ve written.” Marigold twirls a stray curl. “Asks me when my debut novel is coming out.” A little laugh escapes her, as though the idea is preposterous.
“I’m wondering the same thing. Have you been writing?”
Marigold drops her gaze back to her laptop.
“I think we should stick to talking about the article.”
I study her expression, what I can see of it, anyway.
She looks downtrodden, and tired. So tired.
I relate to the feeling. If I could take away her exhaustion by doubling my own, though, I would.
There’s a part of me that feels responsible for her state, but at the same time, Marigold has never been great at sleeping.
I used to wake up to texts with her thoughts about whatever novel she was reading or ideas for her book.
They’d have time stamps of three in the morning.
But even after those late nights she never looked this down.
“We got a lot done. Maybe we should call it a night,” I suggest, hoping she’ll head back to her apartment to rest.
Now that the outline is done and a few of our sections are started, we should be able to finish up on our own, then come together again for final edits. There are still a few days left before the deadline, so we don’t need to complete it tonight.
“Okay, yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” She closes her journal and rubs her eyes. “I’ve got some other things to do anyway.”
I try to think of a way to talk her into going to bed, but if she doesn't want to talk about writing, I doubt she’ll appreciate me trying to manage her sleep schedule. Looks like it’ll be another late night for both of us.
“Mind if I work from here too?” I ask her.
She drops her hands and blinks a few times.
“That’s fine,” she answers in a tone that betrays her hesitancy.
I’ve pushed her plenty recently, so I should give her space.
But I’m too worried to let her out of my sight tonight.
I can’t be certain, but when she ran into me earlier, it seemed like something was off.
More than the tension of being so close.
I worry that she’s not taking good care of herself.
Maybe it’s not my place to help, but she’s been my best friend for over a decade.
I can’t stomach something happening to her.
Marigold pulls out one of the anthologies we’re studying in our Early American Literature class.
She must be working on the short analysis essay that’s due tomorrow.
I finished mine yesterday. In fact, I’m caught up on all of my work right now.
Anything I do tonight will put me ahead.
Judging by the despondent look Marigold gives her laptop, she’s just opened up an empty Word document.
I’d help her, if I thought I could. She’s better at this than me and works well under pressure. I’d only slow her down.
Before high school, Marigold was the perfect student.
She submitted everything not just on time, but early.
The school put her in “gifted” classes. For a time, it separated us, because I wasn’t as accomplished.
Then, freshman year, the pressure started to get to her.
She was moved up to accommodate her abilities, but in reality it only hurt her.
I tried to get her to switch to different classes, but she refused.
She pushed herself to her limits and then some.
It never failed to amaze me when she’d finish a paper in a quarter of the time it took me, managing to get at least a B every time.
The cost was an exorbitant amount of stress, but she was always willing to pay it.
Especially when it came time for the honor roll to be announced.
The only time her parents acknowledged her.
I half-heartedly work on an assignment while Marigold types furiously at her laptop.
Her gaze flicks back and forth between the anthology and her screen.
Occasionally, she huffs or sighs. I glance at the time.
The library café is supposed to close at nine, and it’s nearly that time.
Maybe I can get something before they do.
I slip away from the table without so much as a glance from Marigold.
Thankfully, I manage to get to the café, though the barista doesn’t seem too happy about my last-minute appearance. I order a peppermint hot chocolate for Marigold and an herbal tea blend for myself. The pastries in the case look more sad than appetizing, but I get a butter croissant anyways.
When I get back to the table I’ve been sharing with Marigold, she looks up. Her hazel eyes light as she sees the cups in my hand.
“You brought me coffee?” There’s an awe in her voice too genuine to be forced.
I shake my head with a small smile.
“No, I got you peppermint hot chocolate. Though I regret it now, since that’s the nicest you’ve sounded in months.”
She scrunches her nose but takes the cup from me.
“That’s a hyperbole if I’ve ever heard one,” she says before taking a sip.
“Then you must not have heard one.”
I sit across from her, setting the croissant bag on the table. After a long practice and extra time on the ice, my muscles protest being confined to a wooden chair. Hopefully soon Marigold will either finish her assignments or get too tired to keep going.
“You’re ridiculous,” she huffs, and reaches for the bag containing the croissant.
The movement is natural, as it should be after years of sharing with each other.
She doesn’t seem to think twice before ripping the pastry in half and depositing the rest in the middle. I can’t help but smile at the sight.
Marigold pauses when her gaze catches on my face.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
She frowns but turns her attention back to her work.
Her typing is broken up with nibbles of the croissant or sips of her hot chocolate.
I rip off a piece of the bread, leaving most of it for her.
After a few bites and some tea, my eyes start to feel heavy.
I sink down in my seat and stare at the barely touched assignment on my screen.
The words start to blur and fade. Exhaustion from the day sets in, helped along by the warmth of the library and the sound of Marigold’s typing. My eyes fall shut.