11. Pencil

“Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight-”

“Can you stop that? It’s so annoying,” I say.
“4:16 p.m., she’s officially over an hour late,” my sister, Agatha, informs me.
“The counting was a bit much,” I say sharply, but she ignores me. We’re waiting at the front of the school gates, where there are no other kids left and nothing but staff cars left in the car park. I look up at my sister, who has refused to sit down the entire time. Instead, she’s taken to pacing and hastily reassuring every adult who has approached us that our mother will be here any minute.
“Just sit down, standing there won’t make her get here any quicker,” I say plainly as I draw shapes in the red dirt with a stick. Agatha continues her pacing of the school gates. They are gently ajar in preparation for the short flurry of students who will be getting out of their extracurricular classes in approximately 14 minutes.
“Aren’t you even a little concerned at how late she is?” Agatha asks me before she turns on her heel and continues her stride.
“Not really,” I shrug. She’s never been good at being on time.
“If we had gotten the bus I could have at least gotten my homework done,” Agatha groans.
“So do it now,” I say, still fixated on the dirt canvas below me.
To my surprise, she listens for once and plonks herself down on the other half of the rock. I hear her rustling through her backpack, the mountain of homework my sister brings home doesn't make year 9 seem appealing in the slightest.
“Damn it, I must have left my pencil case in my locker, can I borrow a pen?” she asks.
“Sure,” I fling my bag over to her carelessly.
I keep my head down as she rummages through my bag which is conveniently void of any homework.
“Christ, Charlotte, that’s disgusting!” Agatha shrieks from behind me. I suspect she’s found the apple that went missing from my lunchbox last week. When I turn around I see her holding a chewed-up pencil by the sharp end with an expression of horror flushed across her face.
“What is wrong with you?” Agatha sighs, “what if someone in your class asked to borrow a pencil?”
“They don’t,” I say, “they know better.”
“Ugh!” she huffs, stuffing my tooth-carved pencils back inside and shoving everything back into my bag.
“Never mind, I’ll do my homework when we get home,” she decides. Picking herself back up from the rock, she begins to walk the length of the school gate again.
“You ought to take better care of your things,” she quips as she passes.
“Yes Mum,” I tease. She throws her best scowl at me, which only riles me up more. I slip my school shoes off and rest my feet in the red dirt. My navy school socks with the red embroidery of my name across the toe line slowly become speckled by red earth.
“Mum’s going to kill you,” Agatha says in a sing-song voice.
“I don’t care,” I reply in the same rhythm. And the truth is, I really don’t. My feet are hot and tired after another day trapped in my thick leather school shoes. Much like for the reason I chew my pencils, I simply took my shoes off because it feels good.
The flash of a car entering the car park catches Agatha's attention.
“She’s here,” she informs me.
“No shit,” I reply. She punches me in the arm and heaves her backpack towards the car.
Mum rolls down the driver’s window and calls, “sorry, my loves! I thought you both had orchestra practice today.”
As I trod toward the car, with my shoes in my hand and my light backpack strung over my shoulder, I hear Agatha talking in a low voice, undoubtedly dobbing me in.
Mum looks me up and down as I approach the car and does the exact same sigh, “Oh Charlotte, look at your socks. Come on, take them off, you’re not getting the car dirty too.”
I throw my backpack on the back seat, my shoes on the floor, and obediently remove my socks. I stuff them into my shoes under Agatha’s watchful eye. When I climb into the car and feel the Agatha informs our mother about my habit of chewing my pencils too.
“Oh Charlotte, what are we going to do with you?” Mum groans.
Little do either of them know the carpet feels fabulous under my bare feet.