Pencil of Hope

There is a tradition in my former school where the younger students give pencils to graduating students as a token of good luck on their entrance exams for college. A certain 12th grader is assigned to a student each from 7th to 11th grade by their specific representative. An elaborate way to ensure everyone would receive pencils, wouldn't you agree? All the same, students can still give a pencil or pencils or anything actually for moral support to whomever they want to. Heck, students can even decide not to give anything to the one assigned. It is reasonably intimidating to hand a pencil to a senior, especially if you don't know them in both the literal and non-literal aspects.

When I was under the lower grade levels, fortunately enough, I would be assigned a well-known senior all the time. Yet, I still chose not to give a single pencil because I get the jitters with just the thought of talking up to someone older whom I barely know.  I never felt bad about it, though, seeing that they would always receive dozens – even boxes – of pencils. So when the time came that it was my turn to receive, I never actually expected anything.

In my time, we held the tradition in the school gymnasium. Students of any level would roam around receiving, giving, and conversing as it also signified a goodbye of sorts. But, some others formed groups who just sat down on the sides the whole time. And, yes, I was one of them.

From time to time, a younger student would come up and ask if one of us were the person they were looking for. If any one of us received a pencil, we would celebrate shamelessly in an absurd manner like the senior misfit-introverts we appeared to be. Receiving even a single pencil, regardless of the assigned or not, would already spark the sincerest joy.

Even though I never gave a pencil throughout the years, I was lucky enough to receive five. I was decently surprised. From their expressions, I reckoned that students assigned to me in each grade followed through. Even under the notion of merely being appointed to do so, I was deeply moved. Alyssa Son, Kristine Paga, Jeremiah Enriquez, Camille Bartolome, Carl Senio. I barely knew them, but their names, which I asked for, are etched in my mind.

As the annual but final pencil-giving ceremony closes its curtain for my batch, one by one, people started to leave the gymnasium. When most of my friends were also setting off, I decided to do so as well. Just then, a girl suddenly went up to me.

"Good luck!" she exclaimed softly. Her long black hair with a braided design on top, combed behind her ears and rested on her shoulders, opened up her entire face and perfectly showed off her bright smile lifting her tiny cheek muscles. Her eyes, almond-shaped and hazelnut-colored, directly looked at mine. She radiated pure sincerity yet amidst a bashful demeanor as she put forth both her arms to hand me the pencil. 

Five years have passed since then, yet I still vividly remember how it transpired. It might be because there was no outrageous group cheering in the background anymore. Perhaps, the five pencils from different student levels were already enough to surprise me. Her pencil-giving stood out from the other five that I remember it so immaculately like a scene plucked out from a movie. I would never have imagined, till this day, that someone unassigned would offer me a pencil.

Alas, it was uneventful from this moment on until graduation day. I was never able to speak to her again; I did not speak to her again. Much more, ask her out nor tell her how I feel. Even how I responded – took the pencil and thanked her with a very neutral tone – fell short of the filmlike, film-worthy hype from my memory.

I became aware of her existence since then, but that was it. She was but a crush. A long-time one now, at that. What a waste. The regretful actions I took or never took per se still subtly haunt and disappoint me.

Although it might have been uneventful about her and me, my friends and I were in an adolescence-induced frenzy. I didn't have to tell them; they were there, witnessed how it unfolded, waited for me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. From then on, we were stressing about it. We were panicking. We were speculating. We were overthinking.

"Why did you get another pencil when you already had five?!"

"Unassigned giving pencil? Could it be..."

"How did she know me?"

"I think she likes you."

"She doesn't like me. She must have felt bad."

"But why you? You had five pencils! I had one, for Pete's sake."

"I think you have a chance. Ask her out."

"If she knows you, then there must be a reason. And that reason is love! What else!"

"What's the tradition about again? Giving pencils to the one you like?"

"I think we're overthinking things."

"When it's her turn, you could give her a pencil as an excuse to talk to her too."

"I think she mayhaps like me."

"Dimwit. We're graduating in months. And, she's like... a 9th grader or so."

"Just ask her out already! Talk to her."

"Emergency meeting. Our eyes met."

"What an adorably cute girl. What's her name again?"

Jessica Mars. That's her name. Unlike the others, I completely forgot to ask for it when she gave the pencil, but her name is more than etched in my mind. Frantically curious, we investigated instead and asked around as inconspicuous and as seemingly casual as possible. She goes by the nickname Jessi, and she was an 8th grader at that time.

Four school years apart. And, it has been about five years. She must have graduated already and is in college by now. But, who knows if I could meet her. I doubt it, though.

I passed all the entrance exams I took and even had some universities offering a scholarship. By the way, I never used the given pencils to me in exams or any writing stuff, especially Jessi's. But their good luck and moral support charms did do me well. I left my hometown to study in my decided school, which is in the big city. That is why I highly doubt seeing her ever.

As it so happens, I am graduating again soon, as an undergraduate this time. How coherent with my thoughts while I enjoy the final times with the school library. I'm not doing anything much here - just looking at the place and the people around, holding a book for disguise, simply enjoying some peace and quiet for a pensive mood.

Nonetheless, I still do imagine meeting Jessica Mars, if ever, and how she would look now. I bet she'd have long to medium length hair, shorter than the one she had then yet still with the brownish hue. Likewise, she’d have the same almond-shaped hazelnut eyes, brimming with innocence and sincerity but now also with experience. Her face would have those puffy cheeks that are lifted when she smiles, as before. Oh, she would still rock that braid design – the one where tiny portions of hair are braided, then wrapped around the top of the head.

"Yeah, something like that. Like that girl across me from a distance," I tell myself. "She just has a bit more mature face than her."

I pause, and so does my thinking until an unbelievable realization passes through my head.

"Jessi?!" I yelled in my mind, calling her by her nickname as if the closest relationship we ever had was neither former schoolmates nor assigned and the assignee.

At the time I am close to graduating again, she appears and surprises me a second time. I have my misgivings about it, but I also know there are no other ways to find out except ask her myself. I wasted my chance before; I am not wasting it again.

Courage mustered and hopes up, I approach her, discreetly and casually.

"Jessica? Jessica Mars?"

"Yeah?" She confirms. "Do you need anything?"

"From Colby Science High?" I continue to inquire, making sure.

She nods. It is her.

"I'm from there, too. Batch '15. Can I sit down?" I carry on, masking happiness under the continued casual tone.

She lets out a joyful, dazed expression. Then, she projected the smile that lifts her cheeks – once again, I see it – as she points her hand towards the chair across from her side of the table. "Go ahead."

It really is her. This is the chance to exorcise my haunting regrets. "Hey– "

"I'm sorry, but how did you know my name?" Jessica questions. "I know we're alumni of the same alma mater and all but...," she continues with gestures implying, "you get it, right".

Slightly aghast, I then consider how long it has been. I might have remembered her this whole time, but that doesn't necessarily say the same for her. I realize that, yet I am somewhat upset and prepared to hear that things may have gone south. But I commit to push on, despite the impending worry, for what else did that pencil mean. I always keep it with me.

"This," I press on as I bring out the pencil. "You gave me a pencil for that traditional thing we have at school. You recall it yet?"

"Oh, you were the one assigned to me. I'm sorry I..."

She is still talking, but I am not anymore hearing them. I was lost in my thoughts.

It wasn't something she deliberately wanted to give. She was just a genuinely nice girl who did more than merely give a pencil but gave and presented total moral support. She was simply gladly, sincerely, promisingly doing her job. Not because she felt bad. Especially not because she had a crush on me, even the tiny bit, in the first place. I had misunderstood it all. Then again, I received six pencils?

"But I think someone from your batch already gave me a pencil before you did," I interject her.

"Ah, she must have done it by choice," she explains. "You see, I was our batch representative." She pauses and laughs lightly. "And I was making sure that every one of us would give a pencil. So, I apparently gave my pencil at the very last moment."

It really wasn't her. It was someone else: the person who handed me a pencil out of their heart and who probably held affection or admiration for me. I absolutely overlooked it. Candid action which I thought was why I fell in love wasn't the reason. It was probably because of the movie-like circumstance.

I was at a standstill. Not to mention, the shame that is hiddenly eating me up inside. The cries for help and of regret and misery won’t stop.

“Hey, I’m sorry again for not remembering you when you have remembered me,” she solemnly grieves.

Her voice sounded very sincere, so I look at her and find her face and expression in the same way. Still utterly distraught, I begin looking at the bright side, nonetheless. Perhaps, she wasn’t the promised girl like I imagined, but sincerity could still be the reason I succumbed to love – her sincerity.

“Nah, just got my hopes up. No biggie, really,” I reply, purposely brightening my voice.

“Oh no, don’t say that,” she frets. “Thanks for remembering and keeping the pencil this whole time.”

“Don’t mention it,” I chuckle. “I should be thanking you again. This bad boy supported me all the way, giving me hope,” I continue with ulterior meaning.

An awkward silence breaks in. 

“Well–” we utter simultaneously. We pause and laugh fiddly.

“Well, nice meeting you… Uhm…”

“Carlo John Bagsic. Carlo will do.”

“Oh, Jessi or Jessica. Nice meeting you again, Carlo,” she giggles.

We bid farewell. I walk away from her, looking at the pencil that started it all. Most of the things were fantasized about by me, but at the very least, my feelings are real, right? What’s worse than being haunted by misery and shame is being haunted by regrets. Strongly decided, I feel that I do not want to waste another chance.

“Say, want to grab dinner with me?” I turn and ask her out.