The Pen

         “Mom, pleeeeeeeeease,” I begged.

         “Cassandra, you know what I’ve said about those talking pens.”

         “But everyone has one! Jenny Shmyder has two!”

         I eyed the pens on the rack enviously. There they were, lined in neat rows, one of every color. Each was neatly packaged with a stenciled characteristic on top. So far, PenCo offered four kinds: Funny, Uplifting, Sarcastic, and Judgmental.

         “Please, Mom! I’ll pay you back!” I knew this would work. My mom let me buy anything as long as I paid her back.

         My mom paused, turned, and narrowed her eyes at me. “Just one and you owe me money.”

         “Here, I’ll pay you right now,” I reached into my pocket and yanked out ten dollars. She took the money and I made my way over to the rack.

         Each pen had a demo line. I clicked the first one, Uplifting. “Great Job!” it said.

         “Nah,” I mumbled.

         Next came Judgmental. “Ugh, I am way to good for you.”

         I felt a little hurt and moved to Funny. “So said your mother!”

         I rolled my eyes and moved to the last one, Sarcastic.

         “Hey, pen,” I said, “how’s it going?”

         “I don’t know. How do you think it’s going?”

         I giggled a little. This one showed promise. I snatched the lime green Sarcastic pen and dashed off after my mother.

         At home, I switched the pen from demo mode to regular mode.

         “Please say the following words: My mother owes me a zillion rupees.”

         “My mother owes me a zillion rupees.”

         “Voiceprint received. Processing. Processing. Processing,” the pen repeated the word until a pleasant ding came. “Pen now ready for speaking.”

         “Hello, pen. How do you like your new owner?”

         I could almost feel the pen looking me up and down. “I am sooooo honored. I am sure there is no better person to own me.”

         I started to say thank you, but then remembered this pen was programmed to be sarcastic. I giggled a little.

         “Cassandra! Go to bed!” my mother called.

         “Fine, Mother!” I yelled.

         “Why don’t you go to bed!” screeched my pen.

         “What?” my mom yelled.

         “Nothing,” I called as I switched the pen off.

         “Goodnight, pen,” I said.

         “Is it really a good night?” the pen replied.

         I frowned and tried to switch the pen off again. Nothing happened. Perplexed, I set the pen down on my nightstand and crawled under the covers.

         The next day, I woke up and got ready for school. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a green blouse. “Oh, such a lovely outfit,” remarked the pen. I rolled my eyes and slid the pen into my pocket.

         “It looks so nice from inside here,” the pen’s muffled voice said.

         “Shut up,” I grumbled.

         The pen didn’t speak at all until we got to school. At the door to my classroom, I was confronted with Jenny Shmyder.

         “Hey, loser,” she said. Two pens were in her pocket. “Your hair could be done a lot better,” said one pen.

         “You look lovely!” said the other. Jenny grabbed the one that complimented me and jammed it in her pencil bag.

         “Jealous?” she asked.

         “I don’t know. Do you think I’m jealous?” the pen replied.

         Jenny’s eyes widened. “Oh, things are going to be sooo miserable for you in Gym.”

         I frowned and went to my seat. “Keep it down, pen,” I mumbled.

         “Why don’t you keep it down?” snapped the pen.

         “Hey!” I tried to switch the pen off again, but nothing happened. I’d have to have Mr. Johns, the computer teacher, look at it later.

         Class began. I began to feel stiffer and stiffer. I wondered why I felt so stiff. Then Ms. Krainak called on me.

         “Cassandra, do you know where I can put this number in the equation?”

         “I can think of a few choice suggestions,” replied the pen.

         Ms. Krainak gasped and sent me to the principal’s office. “Pen, seriously, quit it,” I said, feeling myself get stiffer and stiffer.

         “You quit it!”

         I entered the office. “Cassandra, do you need to see the nurse? You look a little green,” asked the secretary.

         “Um… no.”

         “You look green!” called the pen.

         The secretary glared at me and sent me outside in the hall to wait for the principal.          As I walked, I felt myself becoming shorter and stiffer. I sat down and pulled out the pen. I gasped, and saw that it was getting bigger and fleshier and more like me. I felt myself shrink even more, until I was small enough to fit in the pen’s pocket. The pen looked like a carbon copy of me. “Nooooo!” I yelled. The pen covered her pocket with her hand.

         Principal Brown walked out of his office to see Cassandra Williamson, glaring ferociously.

         “Cassandra, what’s wrong?”

         “I don’t know. What do you think is wrong?”