The Art of being Strangers

iii.

"This is weird," I say.

Basil sighed. "It's only weird if you make it weird."

"Can't you just whisper me the answers instead?"

"I could. Don't want to, though. It's more fun this way," he said smiling.

Basil was standing beside me, his hand on mine. He was really concentrated on trying to move my hand on his own. He insisted it would be easier if he took control of my hand and just write in my place. I agreed, of course, but didn't think it would be this hard for him to move my hand.

"Look, we can always just go by my plan, which is easier," I say annoyed.

"You wanted my help and got it. Christ, just be patient. I've never done this before. But if I can manage to do it, it will be much more efficient. Just think about it—clean handwriting, correct answers and you'll finish fast."

"Are you trying to insult my handwriting?" I shot him a look.

"Perhaps," he smirked back.

We've been sitting in a random empty class for about 20 minutes now. I decided to ditch art class so I could work with Basil on our cheating plan, which was supposed to be working by now. Sweat drops from Basil's forehead as he tries moving my hand again.

"It's no use, Basil," I sigh.

"Oh come on, just be positive for once," he said as he let go of my arm, his hand now resting on his hips.

"What now?" I say, letting go of the random pencil that was resting in my grip just a few seconds ago.

Basil doesn't answer, but I don't blame him. Things weren't exactly going our way. At all.

"Hey, hand me the pencil for a second," he says randomly.

I nod, handing him the pink pencil that was resting on the desk. He grabbed it and started studying it with his eyes. I just looked at him silently with a bored expression, my head resting on my palm.

"Well that explains it," he whispers.

"Hm?" I ask confused.

"Grab your pen – or something you use really often."

I don't question his request. My hand reaches into my backpack, searching for my pencil case. Finding it, I grab my lucky pen. It was a black, cheap ordinary pen that I got from the dollar store a few years ago. I have absolutely no idea why I call it my lucky pen to be honest. It's not like it brings me good grades, but I just named it that way.

I always thought it was cool to have lucky items. I used to have a pair of lucky socks – a pair of fluffy blue socks with green dinosaurs on them – that I wore on random days. Those random days I wore them would turn out to be the greatest days of the week. I cried a lot when I ripped one of the socks. It was a stupid accident, and I was angry for allowing myself to mess up the only lucky thing I had. My mom insisted she'd buy me a new identical pair, and I let her. But they weren't the same, I could tell that. I wore them the next day at school. That day sucked. I got my first B in class – which was a surprise because my middle school self used to get only A's. That was the first and only B I got back then. When I came back from school I threw the socks in the closet and never saw them again. I probably still have them to this day. Somewhere in a random corner in the closet.

"Pen?" Basil asks, interrupting my memories.

"Right here."

I hand him the black pen. He was now standing just a few centimeters away from me, head tilted to one side as his eyes squinted at the pen.