The pencil sits still beside her copy of a test, it's neon shade standing out brilliantly against the dull beige desk. She stares at it for quite some time, first lost in unrelated thought and then with dead focus. It's a boring pencil; that isn't to say that pencils are very exciting to begin with, but maybe she was hoping maybe this pencil would be the one to break the stereotypes, perhaps even provide some entertainment. But alas, it is just an average pencil, just like how she is an average girl.
The clock tick, tick, ticks in a steady rhythm, telling her she is still trapped in the stifling classroom for another twenty three minutes. It's a thought that makes her want to groan, cry, scream, but she bites her lip because it would not do to cause an interruption. For some time, she carefully watches the second hand make it's way around, but it doesn't take long before her attention is directed back to The Pencil.
The Pencil. I fail to find what's so intriguing about this particular piece of wood and graphite, but she apparently does. She smiles to herself--or maybe to the pencil, I don't know--and re-positions her legs to cross the left one over the right. Her foot bounces up and down and up and down and up and down, her head shakes a little, her lips turn down in a delicate frown, but her eyes never leave The Pencil.
Eighteen minutes pass, and yet her gaze never wavers. She stands her ground, having a stare-down with The Pencil that has not once rolled to the side. But wait! She's reaching for The Pencil, clutching it tightly in her grip, she's--she's
She's putting it in her pencil case. The bell has rung, and the hypnosis of The Pencil is no more.