EXACTED REVENGE
Your story is about an artist trapped in a locker borrowing a pencil.
Nigel sighed. It sounded strange as the sound echoed off the sides of the tiny locker. Yet again, he had been forced into Sean Green’s locker by none other than the man-boy himself. The bell rang, and Nigel mentally chalked up another tardy. Reaching for his back pocket, he discovered that his lock pick was missing. Great, he thought. Even worse, Sean had a block class at the moment, while Nigel did not. Another tardy. Wonderful.
The locker was dark; it smelled of gym socks and some foreign (probably illegal) substance. The little light in the locker told Nigel all he never wanted to know about Sean Green. On the up side, there was a Playboy centerfold taped to the inside of the locker. On the downside, it was in one of the darkest places, making it nothing more than a light colored blob. Nigel sighed and banged his head against the back of the locker. As he did, a permanent marker fell from the shelf onto his head. It appeared to be a bright red when held up in the little light Nigel had. As he looked at it, a thought came to him. For the first time, Nigel grinned an evil grin. Sean had always given Nigel crap for his drawings, excellent though they were. Sean needed to see just what a simple drawing could do. But just as Nigel was about to put marker to locker, a boulder fell in front of his door to creativity.
When Nigel drew, he always had to have a pencil behind his ear. It didn’t matter if it was mechanical or regular, or if Nigel was copying the Mona Lisa or doodling on his paper. He had to have a pencil behind his right ear. And at the moment, his pencil was nowhere to be found. But maybe Sean had something resembling a pencil somewhere in this godforsaken closet of filth. By twisting about, he managed to stick his fingers into the backpack of his enemy and extract one chewed-up pencil. Nigel made a mental note to find a decontamination shower as soon as he was out. He stuck the pencil behind his ear and closed his eyes. As he did, his masterpiece began to take shape.
He planned the inside of a locker with the same attentiveness and attention to detail as an architect would. In truth, he was no longer a high school student. He was an interior designer. Nigel planned the arcs and curves, the straight lines and the shading. The locker would cease being merely a locker. It became the empty landscape for Nigel’s imagination to come out and play. It came out and did more than play in a little square sandbox. The imagination ran free for miles and miles. It built castles and fought dragons. It designed universes. Nigel had come to understand that the drawing itself was only half of the fun; the real fun was in the planning.
The bell rang. Nigel heard it like it was coming from far away, but he still made note of what it meant: The alarm was the marking his half-way point. He had to start.
At first, Nigel hesitated. A part of him wondered if Sean had really been mean enough to deserve hours of scrubbing at the marker. Then the other part of him screamed ‘YES!’ and stomped out the timid part of him that showed mercy. Nigel put the marker on the cool metal and moved it slowly at
By Elenore Franklund
first. The curves were a lullaby, slow and soft. But as Nigel became comfortable with his designs, his lullaby morphed into a faster string piece. And that string piece moved from a stroll in the park to a sprint. Nigel’s marker was moving faster and faster. His curving lines became stronger and straighter until every ‘line’ was a mass of short quick lines. Nigel knew somewhere the locker was starting to look like the ravings of a mad man, but he didn’t care. This was his world, his realm.
When the bell rang the second time, it startled Nigel’s hand to the side of his intended line. He knew he had approximately thirty seconds to finish his masterpiece, time woefully shorter than what he would have liked. With a line and a final flourish, Nigel was finished. Within moments of placing the cap back on the marker, the door opened to admit the ugly face of Sean Green. His grey eyes glinted with taunting thoughts. Sean opened his mouth to a sneer before he noticed the crazy scribbles. Seeing his opportunity for escape, Nigel blindly punched and ran without looking back. Sean looked up from the flat of his back, watching his victim run down the hall. Amused students looked on, secretly cheering for the fleeing underdog. Nigel only got as far as the front door before he ran smack into Principal Hall. Principal Hall was a block of a man; no one messed with him. He grabbed the back of Nigel’s shirt and pulled him to the office. Nigel didn’t even fight it. He hung his head and walked along, not saying a word.
Once the door was closed, Principal Hall sat down behind his desk. He sat down and rubbed his temples, saying,
“Mr. Schumacher. That is your name, correct?” With a nod from Nigel, Principal Hall continued, “Why were you trying to leave my school?” What could Nigel say? He cast his gaze around for a bit, thinking hard. The principal shook his head and said,
“You know what? I don’t care. I have a meeting with the superintendent to get to. Just promise you won’t do whatever it is you did and get to class.” Nigel could scarcely believe his good luck as he left the office. He ran off to Math, knowing he would never graffiti Sean Green’s locker again. His revenge had been taken.
