I open my crayon box to start the coloring assignment Ms. Prewett assigned us. Jaimison, my seat partner, opens her crayon box. Broken, ripped, and old crayon lie in her blue box. I look at my, perfect, new, untouched crayons in their pink box. I want hers. I don't know why. All I know is that I hate mine.
Without making a sound I, try to make my crayon box look like hers. I start to rip the paper and breaking the crayons in halves, fourths,and eighths. Good no one is looking, yet, I think to myself.
“What are you doing?” Jaimison asks.
“Ummmmm, nothing,” I say turning my crayon box away from her. It takes a while but finally, it's to my liking, exactly like hers. I have collected a landfill of trash. As I shuffle over to the green trashcan by the door, I make sure nobody is looking before I release my remaining crayon parts.
Rushing back to my seat I’m hoping not to draw attention. I start to color, feeling happy and proud. “Man, my picture looks great with my new crayons,” I think to myself. I continue to color in my picture, being careful not to go outside the lines. I deserve a good grade on this, Mom and Dad will be so proud of me, I think.
Ms.Prewett grabs a tissue and blows her nose. I continue to color happily. Uh-oh, this could be it. I am dead. She throws her tissue away and turns around. Whew, I’m safe. But then she turns around. I gulp.
“Who’s crayons are these?” she demands. Everyone looks for the suspect, confused.
“Don’t make me take each one of you into the hall,” she says raising her voice.
I slowly raise my hand feeling the tears.
“It was me” I whisper.
“What?” she asks.
Everyone looks at me. I shrink down in my seat not ready for what's about to happen.
“Why would you do that?” she asks as I start to cry. I feel all eyes on me. I'm too scared to answer. I don't want lunch buddies.
“Why did you?” she asks raising her voice even more.
“I don’t know,” I say crying out the words.
“Go get them”
“What?” I ask confused and worried.
“Go get them out of the trashcan,” she says.
“Do I have to?” I ask still balling. This is it. I am done.
“Yes, go get them now,” she orders, I slip out of my seat, my thoughts racing. What will my parents think? Will I get lunch buddies? Will she hate me now? Do my friends think I am stupid? Will I get to go to recess? I kneel down, crying so hard I can’t see. I wipe my eyes and I start picking out the crayons and their wrapping. I know Ms. Prewett is staring at me, along with my classmates.
It feels like I’ve been digging through the trash for days, but really it's only been five minutes. I collect everything I can and I put it back in my box. She tells me to go wash my hands and I do.
I run out of the first grade room and past the kindergarten door hoping no one will see me and my tears. When I make it to the girls’ bathroom I wash my hand and sing twinkle twinkle like I was taught. Before I get a paper towel I look at myself. Why did I do that? You’re so stupid Isa. You should have left your crayons alone.
I race back from the bathroom, all eyes on me. I sit down and Ms.Prewett says nothing to me for the rest of the day. I wish she would at least say if I'm in trouble.
Now I’m in eighth grade, I don’t really know why I did that or why I hated my crayons. I am still friends with Jaimison and she doesn’t know why either. But lesson learned through this ordeal is don't try to be like someone else. Be yourself, and be content with what you have. Your crayon box is perfect the way it is.