The Pencil

“Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”

I’m sitting in my 10th-grade Chemistry class when I speak those fated words. We’re about to take a test, one of those scantron things that have to be filled out in No. 2 pencil only, and I can’t find my pencil anywhere. I lean over to the kid sitting next to me. Tom Peli-something. He’s a bit weird, and I’ve never really spoken to him much before, but I’m desperate, and this kid’s always prepared.

“Sure.” Tom pulls another pencil out of his backpack. Before he hands it to me, he holds it up between us. “Just so you know, it’s haunted.”

“What?” Did I just hear what I think I heard? I knew the kid was weird, but what the hell?

Mrs. Conway’s sharp voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “Put everything away except for your pencils and erasers. I will not pass out the test until everything is away and the room is quiet. And you will need the entire class period for this test.”

After a few more whispers and shuffles of books and other materials, the class grows quiet. Tom is still holding the pencil between us.

“Whatever, I’ll take it,” I say, grabbing the pencil out of his hand.

Tom just shrugs. “Okay. I warned you.”

Mrs. Conway hands out the test, and I get to work filling in the little bubbles for what I hope are the right answers.

C. Hydrochloric Acid

A. Carbon Dioxide

B. 18 Electrons

C. Hydro—

“Of all the things you could do with a pencil, and you’re just filling in those little bubbles?”

I look up at the sound of the small voice. It sounds like the speaker is right in front of me, but there’s no one there. I look around, but no one else seems to have heard the voice. Confused, I return to reading the next question.

If a sample of matter is uniform throughout and cannot be separated into other substances by physical means—

“I’m not complaining, really. It’s just that there are so many other things you could use me for.”

Again, I look up, but there’s no one there. I glance over at Tom, but he is focusing on his test. I scan the room, looking for any sign that someone else heard the voice, but all of my classmates have their eyes on their test.

“Do you need something, Mr. Speero?” Mrs. Conway is at her desk, glaring a warning at me over her glasses.

“No, Mrs. Conway,” I answer quickly and try to get back to my test.

But when I pick up my pencil to fill in the next bubble, I notice something on the eraser. Something sitting on the eraser.

“I mean, you could doodle, or even sketch a masterpiece!” the thing says. “You could write a story or a letter. Even an essay would be better than this!”

I gasp and drop the pencil on my desk, drawing the attention of several of my classmates and my teacher.

“Mr. Speero! Is there a problem?”

“Um, can I go to the bathroom?”

Mrs. Conway looks at me sternly and then rolls her eyes. “Fine. But don’t dawdle, or I might suspect you are up to something.”

I just nod at her, stealthily grab the pencil, stuff it in my pocket, and walk out of the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Tom smirking at me as I leave.

When I make it to the bathroom, I pull the pencil out of my pocket and stare at it. It looks like an ordinary pencil – yellow except for the black lettering spelling out the brand name and a number 2, with a dull, lead point on one end and a pink eraser held in place by its metal holder.

Suddenly, the eraser begins to morph. Two little arms stick out and grab the edge of the eraser, and soon a head appears. The little thing pulls itself all the way out as if he were pulling himself out of a hole. When his entire body emerges, he sits down on the edge of the eraser and looks at me thoughtfully.

I stare back at him in fascination. He looks like a fully grown man, but he can’t be more than half an inch tall, and he’s entirely white, though slightly transparent. He’s wearing an equally white, equally transparent outfit consisting of khakis, a collared shirt, and a sweater vest, and on his nose sits a pair of wire-framed glasses.

“What are you?”

The little man shrugged. “Ghost, ghoul, poltergeist. Call me whatever you like; I’m not picky.”

“Tom was telling the truth?”

“He usually does. One of the reasons most people think he’s kind of weird.”

“So, do you, like, belong to him?”

The ghost looks indignant. “I don’t belong to anyone! Tom just happens to be the current keeper of the pencil that I haunt. Or, at least he was. Now, that honor has been passed to you!”

“What? Because I borrowed the pencil?”

“Yes!” the little ghost says excitedly. “And now you get the benefit of my great wisdom!”

“Look, I just needed a pencil to take this stupid Chem test.” Then an idea hit me. “Wait, the benefit of your wisdom? Does that mean you can help me on my test?”

He sighs. “I suppose I can. But I wouldn’t be much help. The sciences are all well and good, but they don’t hold the pure passion and depth of literature or art. If you really want to put me to work, set me loose on an analysis of Shakespeare or a short story about the futile pursuit of love. I was a writer, painter, and professor of art and literature in a past life, you see.”

“Of course you were,” I mutter. “Look, I gotta get back to finish the test or Mrs. Conway will fail me for suspected cheating. Sorry, but I don’t have any use for a haunted pencil. Tom can have you back.”

“Wait!” the little man shouts at me as I exit the bathroom. “I can make myself useful! I can! I’m intelligent and ambitious. Together, we can really go places!”

“Not interested.”

“Please, don’t give me back to that idiotic boy!” the ghost begs. “I cannot stand that imbecile!”

Getting tired of the little ghost’s whining, I shove the pencil into the pocket of my jeans, but that doesn’t shut him up. His muffled voice stays with me all the way down the hall from the bathroom to my chemistry class.

“You don’t know what it’s like! He’s had my pencil for four years, and I don’t think I can take it a day longer. Please! Don’t give it back to him!”

His pleas are starting to wear on me, and I consider giving in and just keeping the pencil for the sake of the little whiny ghost professor, but when I enter my classroom, I come face to face with Mrs. Conway.

“Are you ready to take your test now, Mr. Speero?”

“Um, actually, I need a pencil.” Her raised eyebrow tells me that she doesn’t quite believe me, but she still leads me to her desk, pulls a sharpened pencil from her drawer, and hands it to me.

“Anything else?”

“No, Mrs. Conway. Thank you.”

I walk silently to my desk as Mrs. Conway sits down at hers. The little professor is still yammering away in my pocket, making my next decision easier. I pull the haunted pencil from my pocket and hold it out to Tom.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I whisper.

Tom looks up from his desk and glances at me and then the pencil. The little professor is now on his knees on top of the eraser, his hands clasped as he pleads with me. “Don’t do it! I’m begging you! I’ll do anything! I’ll—”

Tom shrugs and reaches for the pencil. The instant Tom takes the pencil from my hand, the ghost disappears, and I can no longer hear him.

Tom smiles down at the pencil. “Hello again,” he whispers to it before sliding it back into his backpack. Then, he goes back to his test without another word.

Trying to shake the memory of the tiny ghost from my mind, I do the same.

Which element below has the highest electronegativity?