Velvet Pencils

For some reason, I felt as if I needed him.

His silence, his camouflage, his diligence, all things I feel have become a part of me. The way his hair brushed the desk when he bent his head to do his work, when his face tensed in concentration when he didn’t understand a math problem, all things I’ve become used to and unknowingly expected everyday. Like it was routine.

Cyle.

When ever I hear that name, I think of a lot of things. The color orange, porcelain, Math, English, worn leather books, a lot of seemingly pointless things. But to me, they’re everything I need to know to be able to go to school everyday.

Orange is the abnormally bright hair he sports everyday. Wild and uncombed.

Porcelain is the color of his skin, smooth and blemish less.

Math, the first period I have with him.

English, the last period I have with him.

Leather books, the one thing I always see him with, even if it is for two periods.

But the one thing that will always pop into my mind, whenever I hear that name, will always be the thing that I will remember him by.

Pencils.

Velvet pencils.

Always, he has these things. When ever we need to do a problem in math, he pulls out a velvet pencil. Whenever we need to write an essay, he writes with his velvet pencil. If the teacher says for us to write in pen, out comes a velvet pencil, even if it costs him 5 points. If we have a book fair, he’s the first on to go, and come out with shit loads of, what else, velvet pencils. He never writes in anything else.

But that wasn’t the thing that first caught my eye. First it was the hair.

It was the first day and I was a freshman. I was virtually shaking to the bone because of my nervousness. White pants, bright pink shirt, and purple jacket, I stuck out like a sore thumb. Not that the whole school was dark or anything, but out of the sea of students, I was clearly the brightest. And the fact that I was a guy didn’t help any matter. Some kids looked at me with confusion, some with disgust, most with silent mocking. I didn’t care though, they could stare all they wanted, I didn’t know them, they didn’t know me. It made me feel a little separated from everyone but whatever, it was cool.

I walked down the hall, staring at the paper I had gotten in the mail that said where my locker was, all the necessities. Suddenly I was knocked over, falling hard onto the ground. Groaning I looked up, only to be met with a large irritated guy. He glared at me.

“Watch where you’re going, ya fairy.” He grunted, walking away

Bastard. I thought as I hauled myself up. Looking at the lockers, I saw that I was at mine and smiled, well that was coincidental. Twisting the number that was on the paper into the dial, I was pushed again, but not as hard. It was more like a brush than anything.
“Sorry.” Came a light, airy, voice. It was like they didn’t want to say a word. Ever.

I turned around, expecting a person to be standing behind me, but all I saw was a hunched figure, clad in black, shuffling down the hall. Florescent orange ear length bouncing with their foot steps.

“Hey!” I shouted. They just shuffled faster and turned a corner.

I stared down the hall for a couple seconds, before shrugging it off. I opened my locker and stared at my paper for a full five minutes before realizing I really couldn’t focus. That bright orange hair was clouding my mind. Even I wouldn't dye my hair orange. And I’ve done some pretty crazy shit.

Finally being able to shake it off, I put my stuff in the locker and grabbed the things I needed. I closed the locker, and made my way to my first class. I caught a few stray stares of the last wandering students, but I didn’t care. Strangely, I didn’t feel so alone anymore.

That was the first and last time I heard him talk, also the first day I started watching him. That was the day that I almost wish never happened. Almost.