Two Labels for One Eraser

Two Labels for One Eraser

1Yuna’s account — Our class had one afternoon to fill the time capsule before the custodian sealed it. I arranged our debate ribbon, a class photograph, and the lunch menu on the table. Twenty years from now, someone might lift these things out and decide what kind of students we were. I straightened the ribbon. Beside it, Basil placed an eraser worn down to a gray wedge. It looked like a crumb beside a medal.

2“That one?” I asked. Basil rolled it between his fingers instead of answering immediately. I thought he was enjoying making my careful display look ridiculous. He finally said it belonged to everyone who had borrowed it during our hardest math unit. I suggested a fresh eraser with our names written on it. We could show that we shared supplies without sending strangers something that looked rescued from the floor.

3When Basil began his label, I wrote one too: “We kept working until we understood.” That was what the eraser proved to me, once he explained it. I pictured future students reading our label just before a difficult test. Maybe the little wedge would seem less like rubbish then. I left space beside my label for his, although I wished he would cross out his first sentence.

4Basil’s account — Yuna had made the table look like a winners’ platform. The ribbon stood in the center, with everything else arranged around it. I put down the eraser we had passed from desk to desk that October. Its corners had disappeared one wrong answer at a time. A new one would tell people what an eraser looked like; this one could tell them something about us.

5When Yuna said, “That one?” I searched for a way to explain without giving a speech. She was holding the ribbon upright while we talked. I took her suggestion of a new eraser as proof that she wanted to hide our mistakes. Then she showed me her label. She had noticed the work, not just the dirt. I had mistaken her wish to encourage someone for a wish to impress someone.

6My label began, “Some days we did not understand.” Yuna frowned at that line. I kept it because I imagined a future student who had just failed a quiz, not one preparing to take it. I wanted that student to know that confusion had belonged in our classroom too. Our labels went into the capsule side by side. Mine did not correct hers, and hers did not finish mine.