The Locker-Writer

This was a very old effort from private high school which I wrote for a contest that required me to include the phrases about a hat being tossed into the bushes and the pigs. Still, I retain a certain fondness for it. :-) Enjoy.

I’ll never forget the morning I met her. It was Monday, the first day of school. As the door of my locker swung back I saw to my utter disbelief that tiny, angular figure scrunched up in it, scribbling in a notebook. I uttered a strangled sound, and the figure looked up.
“Hi...” What does one say to someone in their locker?
“Hi.” it replied calmly, disentangling itself from the locker and emerging into the light of day. She (I could see then it was a she) stood there staring at me, as if trying to read something in my face. She had heavy black hair and gray eyes.
“My name is Jessica, but you can call me Pen.”
I was bewildered. “Pen? What sort of a nickname is Pen?”
“I write.” Pen replied with dignity.
“In my locker?”
“It was my locker last year. It’s the only place where I can get any inspiration. Inspiration is very important to a writer. Without it…” Pen’s head shook mournfully, dislodging a large, pointed hat which slipped down over her ear. Why was she wearing a pointed hat in my locker? I backed away. “Well… it’s… that is… I guess I’ll see you- ”
“Oh, you’ll see me,” Pen interrupted, still staring. “We’re paired to do a short story in English class. By the way, do you know that you have a very interesting facial structure? It reminds me of the Italian Renaissance…”
I fled to the bathroom without another word, and examined my face anxiously for a few minutes. I do not look like the Italian Renaissance, or any Renaissance! Nevertheless, my heels dragged on the way to English class. There sat Pen, notebook at the ready; she looked like a child in a candy store.
“How did you know we would be paired to do a short story together?” I muttered out of the side of my mouth. “We haven’t even had our first class.”
“I asked. I was discussing Shakespearean techniques with the teacher, and she told me ahead.”
I gave her what I’m sure was a pleading, anguished look. Pen merely smiled.
The rest of the class was a nightmare; our teacher wanted a story outline by Wednesday. During study period, I pulled Pen aside for a quiet little strategy session.
“So… any ideas?”
Pen sighed and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds while I waited anxiously. Finally, she returned to earth and gazed at me sadly.
“There’s no inspiration. I’m having a bad hat day.” She tapped the pointed hat.
“A bad… hat day?” I asked weakly, afraid of the answer.
“My thinking hat, yes. It’s malfunctioning. Metaphorically speaking, my pointed hat has been tossed into the bushes and I can’t get it out.”
“Ah.” So that was that. Not only was my locker infested with a writer, and not only did she tell me that my face looked like an Italian Renaissance, but she had a writing hat which was metaphorically lost in the bushes! It was too much.
“Call me if you get an idea.” I said tightly, and wrote my number down for her. She took it and shoved it under the hat, staring into space again. She didn’t call.
That night I tossed and turned for hours. I woke up with a single nonsensical sentence spinning around in my head, like one of those bits of paper that have half a word scribbled on them. Next day, my locker door swung open to reveal… Pen. She waved.
“Get out of my locker!” As soon as the words were out, I felt like a tyrant. After all, what had Pen done to me? It wasn’t her fault that her inspiration lived in my locker.
“I’m sorry,” I told her sincerely. “I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that…”
“I’ve failed you.” Pen murmured, actual tears in her eyes. “You may as well run me through now. I’m useless.” She sniffled, and I rushed to forestall an emotional outburst. Later, I was to learn that it is best to let Pen have hysterics if she wants them, but then I only knew that I wanted her sane, if possible.
“No, no, you haven’t failed me.” I gabbled hastily. “It’s just that I have this weird sentence running through my head, like the beginning of a story and…”
A gleam appeared in her eyes. “That’s the best kind! What is it?”
I hesitated, doubted, and finally blurted the sentence out. She could only laugh, after all. “’And no one ever knew where the pigs came from, or why.’”
“An inspiration…” Pen’s whole face lighted up. She quivered, obviously moved. Suddenly, I found that I liked to have my locker haunted by a writer with a pointed hat and gray eyes. The rest of it just took time.