My brother is there, sitting on the bed, sorting and organizing writing utensils. Old pens and pencils they are, ballpoints, graphite pencils, gel ink, highlighters worn-out from their users’ clutches. The pencils he is sorting out are used and of different lengths. He wishes to have a new set of pencils and a good quality sharpener.
He stops organizing the pens and pencils, glances at me with a blank look on his face. He waits for me to speak although he always ignores my presence when I enter his room. He would rather be left alone, function independently, live his life exactly how he wants, but not this month. It’s time for back to school shopping.
“We don’t need any more,” I say. I pick up a freshly sharpened HB pencil. “I’ve got four or five left from last year. They’re in my drawer.” I study the charcoal-coloured tip like an algebra equation in the BC Math 9 textbook. I threw the pencil down on his bed.
“These are in perfect condition. Perfectly reusable,” I said.
The ballpoints are in my hand now. He doesn’t respond so I thought he was ignoring me like usual.
My brother smirks and makes a duck face at me. He gets up from the bed, and walks towards the night table. He grabs the khaki envelope, slips his index finger through the seal and rips it open.
“This is my list. Get yours.”
“No. I don’t need much.”
“We have to go. We go every year!”
“MOM!!!!!!!!!!”