There are twelve compartments in the pencil tray, one for each different colour. Despite this, the pencils are all mixed up together, the result of years of students hurrying to put their pencils back, pack their bags and get out of the classroom after a lesson. A red sits in the compartment for dark greens. A dark green sits in the compartment for greys.
John's hand twitches to remove it but he resists. It's only pencils, he tells himself. There's no reason why they should be sorted by colour. It's fine how it is, just fine.
But as the lesson goes on, the tray of pencils plagues on John's mind. He can't concentrate on what Miss Havisham is saying, something about x and y and population. His eyes keep flicking to that misplaced dark green.
After ten minutes, he snaps. He reaches his hand out to the tray, placed on Miss Havisham's desk just in front of his own, picks up the pencil and moves it back to the dark greens. And, with his hand so near, surely it wouldn't hurt to move the red back to its correct place?
His finger knocks another red out of place and underneath there is a yellow. His ears aren't hearing Miss Havisham's words any more as he rummages deeper. Beneath the surface, there are even more pencils in the wrong place than on top. This is no longer a case of just moving two pencils; the whole box is riddled right through with misplacement. He has only scratched the surface of a much larger problem.
It turns out that the red compartment was originally a yellow. Where then do the reds go? In the compartment for pinks, and they in the one for blacks. He is beginning to suspect that he will never be done but, now that he's started, he can't stop.
"John!" the sharp cry distracts John's attention from deciding which compartment to put a lone turquoise in. Miss Havisham's hands are on her hips. Her lips are pursed and one eyebrow is raised, "If the government brought in a tax on children, what effect would this be likely to have on our population?"
John stares at her blankly for several seconds. His classmates stop chewing and playing on their phones for a moment to look at him. Then, "Blue." he murmurs. There are a few faint chuckles. John, already returned to his colours, the pesky turquoise dealt with, doesn't notice.
Miss Havisham, however, is not amused, "We'll talk about this after the lesson."
John, squinting to tell whether a pencil is black or dark brown, doesn't notice. He seems to Miss Havisham like one possessed.
The bell rings for the end of the lesson. John stands up, smiling like one who has just completed a marathon. Every pencil is in its correct compartment.
There is a sudden surge of movement from his classmates. They rush towards the box like a swarm of locusts. One nearly knocks John over. Barely noticing how the dark blues lie all together beside the light blues, they throw their handfuls of pencils on top. A yellow lands in amongst the purples. A white lands in the oranges, a black in the light greens. John reaches out to fix them but the throng is too strong. He is propelled towards the door. A tear pricks at his eye.
Next lesson- when is it? Just two days' time!- he will sort them out again.
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