【作文】六年级我的文具盒作文500字：一个用了三年的旧文具盒

掉漆的蓝文具盒

我的文具盒是四年级开学时买的，蓝色的铁盒子，盖子上印着一只白鲸。那时候它蓝得发亮，边角方方正正，我把它摆在笔袋最上层，舍不得用。

三年过去，它早就变了样。右边两个角掉漆掉得最厉害，蓝皮一块一块翘起来，露出底下银白色的铁皮。那是它从桌上摔下来过太多次。三年级下学期它第一次摔，我捡起来手心全是汗；到五年级，它摔下去我自己都不弯腰了，它自己熟悉怎么落地。掉漆的角摸起来糙糙的，可我手指头没事就爱去蹭那两块银白，像摸一个熟了的脸。

上个月收拾书桌，我把文具盒里的东西全倒出来，一张折成小方块的纸条从盒底的缝里滑出来。纸条都软了，边角起了毛，上面是李小冉的字：「我要走了，座位还给你留着，别忘了咱俩说好都考一中。」那是五年级上学期，她转学去外地的前一天塞进我文具盒的。我当时上课没敢看，下课看了三行，眼睛就热了。后来这张纸条一直在文具盒底躺着，我换了笔、换了课程表，没换过它。

纸条的事我没跟妈妈说。可是这周开学，妈妈领着我去了文具店，说要给我上六年级换个新文具盒。货架上一排一排，有带密码锁的，有能翻成笔筒的，蓝的绿的都有。我拿起一个灰色的，又放下；拿起一个带拉链的，摸了摸，还是放下。妈妈问我到底要哪个，我张了张嘴，说：「我那个还能用。」

妈妈不信，回家把旧文具盒拿到水池边，用湿巾擦了一遍。白鲸让擦得更清楚了，就是掉漆的两个角擦不掉，铁皮上还有细细的磕碰印。妈妈擦完递给我，说：「那就它再陪你一年。」

我把白鲸文具盒放进新书包的侧兜，纸条重新折好塞回盒底的缝里。它旧了，可它肚子里装着我三年的东西：摔过的地，写过的字，还有李小冉那句没回的话。换新文具盒的那天我到底没舍得，我想，等毕业那天，我再跟它一起回家。

The Blue Pencil Case with Chipped Paint

My pencil case was bought on the first day of fourth grade, a blue tin box with a white whale printed on the lid. Back then it was shining blue, its corners square and sharp. I set it on the top layer of my pencil pouch and hated to use it.

Three years later it had long changed. The two corners on the right had lost the most paint: chips of blue curled up one by one, exposing the silver-white tin underneath. That was from falling off the desk too many times. The first fall was in the second term of third grade; I picked it up with sweaty palms. By fifth grade, when it fell I did not even bend down - it knew by itself how to land. The chipped corners feel rough, yet my fingers love to rub those two silver patches when I have nothing to do, like touching a familiar face.

Last month while tidying my desk, I poured everything out of the case, and a small note folded into a square slid out from a crack at the bottom. The paper had gone soft, its edges fuzzy. In Li Xiaoran's handwriting it said: "I am leaving. I am still saving our seat for you. Do not forget we promised to both get into School Number One." That was the day before she moved to another city in the first term of fifth grade. I did not dare read it in class; after class I read three lines and my eyes stung. Ever since, the note lay at the bottom of the case. I changed pens and changed my timetable card, but never it.

I never told Mother about the note. But this week, on the first day of school, she took me to a stationery shop to get me a new case for sixth grade. Shelf after shelf: ones with combination locks, ones that fold into pen holders, blue ones, green ones. I picked up a gray one, put it back; picked up one with a zipper, felt it, and put it back too. Mother asked which one I wanted. I opened my mouth and said: "The one I have still works."

Mother did not believe me. At home she carried the old case to the sink and wiped it once with a wet cloth. The white whale came out clearer, only the two chipped corners could not be wiped away, and the tin still showed fine dents. Mother wiped it, handed it back, and said: "Then let it stay with you one more year."

I put the whale case into the side pocket of my new schoolbag and folded the note back into the crack at the bottom. It is old, but inside it carries three years of my life: the floors it fell on, the characters it wrote, and the words of Li Xiaoran I never answered. On the day of a new case I could not bear to switch. I think on graduation day, it and I will go home together.

一个旧文具盒的自述

我是一个铁文具盒，蓝色，盖子上印着白鲸。我在这个小主人的书包里住了三年。现在我的右边两个角掉了漆，露出银白的铁皮，像磕掉的两颗门牙。她不嫌弃我，她的手指天天来摸那两块铁皮。

我身上的漆不是一天掉光的。第一次摔是在三年级下学期的数学课上，她从桌边捞我没捞住，我侧着身子砸在地上，右边第一个角就是这么磕的。后来我熟了一套本事：从桌角滑下去要侧着落，别肚皮朝下，肚皮朝下白鲸会磕出坑。她后来也熟了，看我摔下去，只抬一下眼皮。

我肚子里的事，比她笔袋里任何一支笔知道得都多。我装过她写坏折成团的纸，装过半块断掉的橡皮，还装过一张纸条。那张纸条是五年级上学期一个晚上塞进来的，那天她回家哭过一场，哭的是好朋友转学走了。第二天有个女孩在她文具盒里塞了张折成小方块的纸条，她上课不敢看，下课看了三行，又把它按回我盒底的缝里。这一按，就是两年多。纸条的字我看不清，可我替她保管得严严实实，连铅笔灰都没让它进缝里。

这个星期，她妈妈带她去了文具店。回来那天，桌上多了一个灰色的新盒子，带拉链，能翻成笔筒，皮面亮得能照出人影。新盒子躺在我旁边，小声问我：「你身上怎么这么多坑？」我没答话。它没摔过，没装过纸条，没听过半夜的哭声，它当然亮。

换不换，其实她说了算。那天晚上她把新盒子打开，又合上，打开，又合上。然后她把我盒底的缝抠开，把纸条抽出来看了看，又放回去。她把我擦了一遍，把我放进新书包的侧兜，新盒子留在了书桌上。

现在我还在她侧兜里，每天跟着她走两站路。我的角还是掉漆的角，我的白鲸让擦得发白。她上六年级了，明年就要毕业。她跟她妈妈说过，毕业那天带我一起回家。我肚子里那张纸条还没旧，我也还不能旧。

Confessions of an Old Pencil Case

I am a tin pencil case, blue, with a white whale on my lid. I have lived in this girl's schoolbag for three years. Now the two corners on my right have lost their paint, showing silver tin underneath, like two front teeth chipped off. She does not mind. Her fingers come to rub those two bare patches every day.

My paint did not chip off in one day. The first fall happened in a math class in the second term of third grade. She tried to catch me as I slid off the desk edge and missed. I hit the floor on my side, and that is how the first right corner got dented. Later I learned a craft of my own: when sliding off a desk corner, land on the side, never belly-down - belly-down puts a dent in the whale. She learned too. When I fall now, she only lifts her eyelids.

What I hold inside, I know better than any pen in her pouch. I have kept crumpled paper she wrote badly, half a snapped eraser, and a note. The note was stuffed in one evening in the first term of fifth grade. That day she came home crying, over a best friend moving away. The next day another girl slipped a small folded square of paper into my case. She dared not read it in class, read three lines after class, and pressed it back into the crack at my bottom. That press has held for over two years. I cannot make out the writing clearly, but I have guarded it for her tightly, keeping even the pencil dust out of the crack.

This week her mother took her to a stationery shop. When they came back, a new gray box with a zipper sat on the desk, one that folds into a pen holder, its surface bright enough to show a reflection. The new box lay beside me and whispered: "How did you get so many dents?" I did not answer. It has never fallen, never held a note, never heard crying in the middle of the night. Of course it shines.

Whether to switch is really her call. That evening she opened the new box and closed it, opened and closed it again. Then she picked open the crack at my bottom, drew out the note, looked at it, and put it back. She wiped me clean, put me in the side pocket of her new schoolbag, and left the new box on the desk.

Now I am still in her side pocket, walking two bus stops with her every day. My corners are still the chipped ones, my whale rubbed pale from wiping. She is in sixth grade now, graduating next year. She told her mother that on graduation day she will take me home. The note inside me is not old yet, and so I cannot be old yet either.