Chapter VII, Part I

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Allison Groves needed pencils. "The Infamous Pencil Snapper," she was sometimes called. Even the teachers said it occasionally, most notably Professor Diefenbaker, history. They meant no malice; it was merely the truth. Allison wrote hard and fast, a furious pace, got excited and got frustrated, and broke more pencils than perhaps anyone the good school of Briargate had ever seen. A fraction, of course, were on purpose, but a greater amount were purely accidental, and at any given time a person could find at least two or three pencil halves scattered around her dorm room—something that always drove Tuly Lewis insane. Allison Groves was the greatest threat to a yellow lead stick the world had ever known.

Unexpectedly, it was not because Allison was out of pencils—having snapped all of hers into pieces—that she needed them. She had three in her possession already that would have been perfectly serviceable. It was what came next that required more. There was work to be done. She needed a stash of them. Just in case. After all, she knew she was the Infamous Pencil Snapper just as well as anyone else did.

On the second floor of Briargate, in an offshoot from the West Wing, there was a little room that had until two years previous been used for storage—sheets, linen, pillowcases. In 1953 it had been transformed into a small shop that had once jokingly and then earnestly—as those types of things sometimes go—been called "Your Local Trashbin." It had been started by a group of five ambitious second years who realized profit could be made from lost pencils, pens, and erasers, and other various supplies gathered from home. All kinds of rumors swirled around about how those five had managed to convince Headmistress Lea to let them open the place: tales of bribery, blackmail, and begging on the ground. The truth was not nearly so exciting; a girl with the unique and unlikely name of Wylie Grace had simply gone and asked.

Two years after it opened, Your Local Trashbin was doing just fine. It was still run by the same group of students, fourth years now, only there were just four instead of five. All kinds of bits and bobs could be bought at the Trashbin by the students for a penny or two—including baked goods made on weekends by co-shop owner and cook extraordinaire, Stacie Rothschild. Of course, there were a good number of students who refused to go near the baked cookies or muffins, or even the Trashbin itself, because of ideas the students themselves could hardly fully understand, only perpetuate.

Allison Groves was not one of those students. Every few Sundays she'd stop in and see what Stacie had cooked up—the scones were immaculate—and she was constantly buying new pencils there. It goes without saying the Trashbin was where she went now to stock up.

Shannon Malone had never been to the Trashbin when Allison insisted she tag along. They'd gone together to hunt down Caleb, pounding an incessant rhythm on his dormitory door on a Wednesday, during lunch. (A casual observation made by many who attended Briargate: Shannon Malone, Allison Groves, and Caleb Vance—and later others as well—rarely ate lunch.) Finally, the door was jerked open, and Caleb stood in the threshold. He looked affable enough, but there was a big black-and-blue bruise painted on his right eye. Shannon gasped in horror when she saw it, but Allison merely frowned.

"Dean or Vince?" she asked dully.

"Stephanie," Caleb replied with a grin—a private joke. Stephanie Procter was Dean's twin sister, and though she was as verbally nasty as he was she would never have dreamt of getting in a physical fight. She might mess her pretty face.

There were six of them in total. Six students that picked on Caleb for things he couldn't control: Dean and Stephanie Procter, Vince Masterson, Pearl Horne, Karen Bonner, and their ringleader, Quintus Zima. Six schoolyard bullies who, because of their malice, got themselves mixed up in the whole thing, too. Shannon Malone's experience with them thus far was minimal, but her time would come.

"Asshole," Allison said, rolling her eyes. She knew the answer anyway; it was Vince. Dean didn't do the beatings much.

Not yet.

Allison pulled him out and he went willingly, smiling at Shannon as they walked down the corridor. They didn't have far to go; the Trashbin was practically right around the corner. A handmade sign hung above the door: Your Local Trashbin. Underneath those words, a small paper arrow was tacked to the sign, pointing to the word 'open.' The door was ajar, and a handful of students could be seen milling about.

"Come on." Allison beckoned them on.

The place wasn't awfully large, but every shelf and table was packed with anything a student could need, and quite a few things a student wouldn't need. The people who ran the place had funny senses of humor, and that's how a teakettle, two dozen knitting needles, a sock puppet, three maracas, and a picture of Bing Crosby with a mustache doodled on him came to be on sale. Lord knows where all the things came from; that was knowledge privy only to the people in charge. That was not the really important question to ask, anyway. The real question was this: How did this stuff sell?

Allison ducked into the room, weaving past pink gum erasers and a selection of books, past notebooks and piles of Magic Markers, to the bins of lost and found pencils. She grabbed a fistful of them; the rule in the Trashbin was as many pencils as a person could hold in one hand for two pennies. A pretty good deal for someone like Allison Groves. Shannon and Caleb trailed behind her, Shannon gazing curiously at all the odds and ends surrounding her. Old news for Caleb.

Allison took her pencils up to the old classroom desk that served as a register. Wylie Grace herself sat at the chair, two tin boxes in front of her. Behind her, two boys were speaking intensely, obviously involved in an argument. Wylie smiled knowingly when Allison approached.

"More pencils, huh?" she asked.

"Oh, leave me alone," Allison said. Wylie laughed, her impish face lighting in mischief, and collected Allison's change.

"They're all yours."

Allison didn't even have the chance to turn around when another voice, boisterous and loud, came from behind.

"Oh, you're cleaning the place out again, huh, Allison?"

Allison glanced over her shoulder, knowing already who she would see. Jared Wilkins grinned at her, flanked on either side by the usual suspects: Dexter Bradbury, Ollie O'Brien, and Ginger Beaumont. Allison rolled her eyes, not bothering to give him a response. Instead, she asked a question of her own.

"What are you here looking for?"

"My hopes and dreams," Jared responded without missing a beat. Dexter groaned.

"Stop making that joke," he chided. Jared was unbothered, shrugging a shoulder indifferently and smiling crookedly.

"I needed erasers," Ginger said, holding out three as an explanation. "I don't know why they're here."

"Just...seeing what's up for grabs," Jared said. He looked to either side of him, as if trying to prove it. Allison snorted, stepping out of the way and letting Ginger up to the makeshift register.

"See you got clobbered one," Jared said to Caleb. His words were blunt but his voice was not. His voice understood. Jared Wilkins got clobbered one pretty often, too.

"Hey, Ollie, what d'ya say?" Wylie said as she placed Ginger's money in one of the tin boxes. She tossed her head in the direction of the boys behind her. "Wanna place a bet?"

"Yeah, yeah, do it, Ollie," Jared said enthusiastically, grabbing one of the girl's red pigtails and tugging on it lightly. "You're the best."

Ollie looked dubiously at Ginger. "What do you think?"

"Go for it," Ginger said, smiling.

"Well...okay," Ollie said, still a trifle uncertain. She lowered her voice as she went on, speaking to Wylie. "What's the score?"

"Batman and Superman," Wylie said. "Jordan for Batman, Simon for Superman. They've been off-and-on about it for a couple days now, but they really got into it about...twenty minutes ago?"

"What are they talking about?" Shannon asked as this went on. She leaned close to Allison, speaking into the girl's ear.

"Those two boys back there," Allison began, "Simon Warren and Jordan Beaumont—Jordan's Ginger's older brother. Every few days they get into an argument about something silly. One of them always ends up apologizing—"

"And they go cry together for a couple hours," Jared interjected, grinning madly. Allison wasn't certain she'd ever seen Jared not smiling.

"I doubt that," Allison said dryly. She hadn't known he was listening. "Anyway, Wylie takes people's bets on who will apologize and when. It's pretty tricky because—like Wylie said—sometimes they can go off-and-on for days."

"Ollie's won the past three times," Jared said proudly, as if he'd done it himself. "She's got a special talent or something."

Neither Allison nor Shannon replied. Allison focused her attention on the little red-haired girl, waiting to hear what she would say. Ollie watched the boys behind the desk closely, with narrowed, quizzical eyes. The boys carried on, oblivious.

"Has anyone got twelve-seventeen yet?" Ollie asked quietly.

Wylie drew a folded up piece of paper from the second tin box and examined it thoroughly. "Today? It's all yours if you want it."

"Yeah." Ollie nodded. "Yeah." She dug around in the pocket of her skirt. "Uh...three cents on Simon for twelve-seventeen."

"Wow, three cents," Wylie said with a grin. "You're usually a penny girl."

Ollie smiled shyly. "I guess I'm feeling lucky."

"You sure you want twelve-seventeen?" Dexter asked. "That's only three minutes from now."

Ollie shrugged. Her cheeks were bright red. Allison figured it was all the attention. Wringing her hands, she repeated that she was feeling lucky.

From somewhere in the stacks to the side of them, a voice floated across the air.

"Wylie, are you placing bets on Simon and Jordan again?" It was Stacie Rothschild. Wylie, Stacie, Simon, and Jordan. The four owners of the store. The fifth was no longer with them.

"Yes," Wylie said.

A pause. "Don't bankrupt the store again, okay?"

"I'm not allowed to place my own bets anymore," Wylie said. She didn't seem perturbed in the slightest. Stacie's laugh rang out.

"Sure."

"Stick around if you wanna," Wylie said, ignoring Stacie and turning discreetly to look at the boys. Still, neither noticed the group observing them. "You can see if you're right."

"Let's see," Shannon said quietly. She seemed strangely entranced by the whole thing. Allison herself was curious; she wanted to know if the reigning champion had another win in her. They all kept one eye on the boys and one eye on the clock, counting down the seconds that would mark three minutes had passed. Simon Warren did not apologize at three minutes.

He apologized at two.

All of the spectators—except perhaps Ollie O'Brien, but there's no way to be sure—had thought it was all over when Simon had called Jordan a son of a bitch and then turned to walk away. They all figured he'd go off somewhere to cool down, and Jordan would go someplace of his own to cool down, and it'd be quite some time before either of them apologized. They couldn't peel their eyes away until the thing was finished though, and they all watched, slightly incredulous, as Simon stormed through the stacks right by them, unnoticing, made it to right in front of the door, and stopped dead. If they could've seen his face, they would've seen the argument—with himself this time. His back was to them, though, and they saw nothing until he finally turned around and came wheeling back behind the desk. At twelve-sixteen, Simon Warren apologized. Ollie O'Brien was one minute off.

"You win again, Ollie," Wylie said with a low whistle. She picked up the second tin box and poured the contents into Ollie's hands. "A minute off."

"Rats," Ollie said as all types of coins spilled out.

"What's up with you?" Jared asked, knocking her gently on the shoulder. "You won! Again!"

"I didn't get the time right," Ollie said. "I've never gotten the time right."

Jared looked around at the rest of the group, rolling his eyes. "She takes everyone's money and she's upset that she didn't get the time right. Gee whiz."

Caleb, Jared, Ginger, and Dexter all gathered around Ollie, inspecting her treasure. Jared held out his arm to Ollie and she knocked the length of her forearm against his, a strange ritual the two of them had had for as long as Allison had known them. Shannon turned to Allison with a smile.

"She must really have some kind of special talent," she said. Allison shrugged.

"Ollie pays attention," Allison replied. "You know the strangest thing? Jordan and Simon are always fighting, but I don't think they've ever actually been mad at each other. That's what Ollie says, anyway."

Shannon looked surprised, and perhaps intrigued, but Allison did not notice. She looked down at the newly purchased pencils in her hand. Her mind was elsewhere, at a very different place than the kids still marveling in Ollie's victory. She put her hand on Shannon's arm and said, "Tomorrow. In the library at lunch."

"What?" Shannon asked.

"Just be there," Allison responded, going to tell Caleb the same thing.

The Infamous Pencil Snapper had a whole stash of pencils, ready for the work ahead. Now she just had to begin.


***Wylie, Stacie, Jordan, and Simon are honestly some of my favorite characters and they're only here for a hot minute. Just like me to do that. Oh well. Thanks to everyone who commented and voted, I truly appreciate it :)***

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