【作文】初中生我的文具盒作文600字：文具盒里的青春印记

文具盒上的那些贴纸

我妈给我买的那个金属文具盒，初一时还是亮的，现在旧得看不出原来的颜色。盖子上贴满了贴纸：一枚火箭，一行英文字母，一只尾巴卷起来的猫，角落里还有一面小国旗。周同学说它像打满了补丁的被子，我不许他碰。贴纸每张都有来历，撕掉一张，等于撕掉我的一段日子。

火箭是初一物理课上贴的。那天物理课代表上台演示，讲火箭怎么升空，讲到作用力和反作用力，声音突然拔高，一巴掌拍在讲台上。下课我冲到校门口的文具店买了那枚贴纸。我想记住那一刻——一个十三岁的男生，被物理学击中的那一刻。英文字母是初二同桌贴的。我英语差，单元考试前单词总是背不进，她什么也没说，把写着鼓励二字的贴纸啪地贴在我文具盒上。我没道谢，但那天把单词表抄了三遍。

猫是我自己在初二寒假贴的，在补习班桌上看见的，尾巴卷着，像在打瞌睡。那阵子我天天累，早上七点早读，晚上九点半下自习，上课困得眼皮打架，还是撑过来了。小国旗是初三模拟考前贴的。考前一晚我手心出汗，笔都快握不住，翻出一枚国旗贴纸按在盖子角上。它代表什么我也说不清，大概就是想给自己一点胆气。

盖子底下还压着一叠便签，写满了公式。路程等于速度乘时间，电功率等于电压乘电流，还有初二错了两次的多边形内角和。胶都干了，边角翘起来，我不舍得扔。那是上课偷记的要点，是考后订正的错误，压在盖子底下，像一本不肯示人的笔记。

贴纸翘边了，我就用透明胶带压住。我妈说这文具盒该扔了，换个新的。我不同意。新的文具盒干净，可它什么都没有。旧的这个不一样，它记得我每一次想放弃又没有放弃。

现在每次打开文具盒，合页都会咔哒响一声，像翻页。贴纸在旧下去，我在长高。总有一天我会换掉它，但不会扔，我会把它放进抽屉。那个文具盒里，装着我一步一步走过的青春。

The Stickers on My Pencil Case

The metal pencil case my mother bought me in seventh grade was shiny then; now it is so worn you cannot tell its original color. The lid is covered with stickers: a rocket, a line of letters, a cat with its tail curled up, and a small national flag in the corner. Classmate Zhou says it looks like a patched quilt, but I will not let him touch it. Every sticker has an origin, and peeling one off would be like tearing out a page of my life.

The rocket went on during a physics class in seventh grade. That day the physics class monitor gave a demo on stage, explaining how a rocket lifts off, and when he reached action and reaction, his voice suddenly rose and he slapped the podium. After class I ran to the stationery shop by the school gate and bought that sticker. I wanted to keep that moment: a thirteen-year-old boy struck by physics. The line of encouragement was put on by my deskmate in eighth grade. My English was weak, and the word list never got into my head before the unit test. She said nothing, just slapped a sticker with two words of encouragement onto my pencil case. I did not thank her, but that day I copied the word list three times.

The cat I put on myself during the winter break of eighth grade. I saw it on the desk at the tutoring center, tail curled, looking as if it were dozing. Those days I was tired every day: morning reading at seven, evening study until nine thirty, so sleepy in class that my eyelids fought each other, yet I held on. The small flag went on before the graded mock exam in ninth grade. The night before, my palms sweated so much I could barely hold my pen, so I found a flag sticker and pressed it into the corner of the lid. I cannot say what it stands for. Maybe I just wanted to give myself some nerve.

Under the lid there is also a stack of sticky notes covered with formulas: distance equals speed times time, electric power equals voltage times current, even the polygon interior-angle sum I got wrong twice in eighth grade. The glue has dried and the corners curl, but I cannot bear to throw them away. They are the key points I jotted down in class and the mistakes I corrected after exams, hidden under the lid like a notebook I would not show anyone.

When a sticker peels at the edge, I press it down with clear tape. My mother says this pencil case should be thrown out and a new one bought. I refuse. A new pencil case is clean, but it holds nothing. This old one is different. It remembers every time I wanted to give up and did not.

Now every time I open the pencil case, the hinge clicks once, like turning a page. The stickers grow older, and I grow taller. One day I will surely retire it, but I will not throw it away. I will put it in a drawer. Inside that pencil case is the proof that I walked through my youth step by step.

前排林小满的文具盒

我坐在林小满后面两排，但她的文具盒我看得比谁都清楚。那盒子是深蓝色的，摆在桌角，像她钉在那儿的一个据点。初三这一年，我眼看着它的盖子从光滑变得斑驳：贴纸一层压一层，最外层的边缘都卷起来了。

最先贴上去的是一张月亮贴纸，初二开学时我看见的。后来月亮上面压了一张星星，星星旁边又贴了一小条胶带，胶带上用圆珠笔写着三个字：别走神。再后来，贴纸越贴越多，有一回她换文具袋，把旧盒上的贴纸一张张揭下来，挪到新盒上，挪错了方向，月亮倒过来了，她也没撕，就这么倒着贴了一整个学期。我问她为什么不正过来，她说：撕下来就没记性了。

她文具盒的盖子里侧才是重点。掀开，里面贴满了便签，黄的绿的粉的，每张都写满了公式。速度那一张边角最旧，折过两次；电功率那张字迹最乱，一看就是上课抢着记的；还有一张写着多边形内角和，后面画了个感叹号。我猜那是她栽过跟头的地方。便签一张压一张，最底下那几张只露出边，她也不抽出来，就让它压着。有一次她借我橡皮，盒子敞着，我看见最底下一张便签上写的不是公式，是一行小字：撑住。我没问，她把盒子合上了。

模拟考前的那个晚自习，她坐在我前面，从文具盒里抽便签背。我看见她的手在抖，撕了一段透明胶带想压住翘起的边，撕了三次没撕下来。她把胶带按在桌上，两只手压着，压了十几秒，才继续撕。那十几秒里她没抬头。第二天考完，她在走廊上跟人说物理最后一道大题做出来了，语气很平，可我注意到她路过自己座位时，伸手把盖子上那张倒着的月亮按了按。

毕业前一周，她文具盒上多了最后一张贴纸，是一枚小小的太阳，贴在月亮旁边。她没跟我说什么，我也没问。我后来常想，那个文具盒替她记着的东西，比她的成绩单多。贴纸记着她想当宇航员的初二，便签记着她没熬过去又熬过去的每一晚，而那行撑住，记的是她谁也没告诉过的紧张。一个文具盒能装下的东西，原来比铅笔和橡皮多得多。

Lin Xiaoman's Pencil Case, Two Rows Ahead

I sit two rows behind Lin Xiaoman, but I know her pencil case better than anyone. It is dark blue, parked at the corner of her desk like a base she has dug in. All of ninth grade, I watched its lid go from smooth to mottled: stickers layered over stickers, the outermost edges curling up.

The first one I noticed was a moon sticker, there at the start of eighth grade. Later a star went over the moon, and beside the star someone taped on a small strip of tape with three ballpoint words: Stop daydreaming. Then more and more stickers. Once, when she switched pencil pouches, she peeled every sticker off the old case and moved them to the new one, but put the moon on upside down. She never tore it off; it stayed upside down the whole term. I asked why she did not fix it. She said: tear it off and it loses its memory.

The real story was inside her lid. Open it and it is papered with sticky notes, yellow, green, pink, every one covered with formulas. The note about speed has the most worn corners, folded twice; the one about electric power has the messiest handwriting, clearly jotted in a hurry during class; and one note on the polygon interior-angle sum ends with an exclamation mark. I guess that was where she once fell. The notes overlap, and the bottom ones show only their edges, which she leaves buried. Once she lent me an eraser with the case open, and I saw that the bottom note did not hold a formula but a small line: Hang in there. I did not ask. She closed the case.

On the evening study hall before the mock exam, she sat in front of me pulling notes out to recite. I saw her hands shaking. She tore at a piece of clear tape to flatten a curling edge and missed three times. She pressed the tape flat on the desk with both palms for ten or twenty seconds before tearing again. She did not look up during those seconds. After the exam the next day, she told someone in the corridor that she had finished the last big physics problem, in a flat voice. But I noticed that as she passed her own seat, she reached out and pressed the upside-down moon on the lid.

A week before graduation, one last sticker appeared on her case: a small sun, placed next to the moon. She said nothing to me, and I did not ask. I often think since then that the pencil case kept more records for her than her report card did. The stickers recorded the eighth-grader who wanted to be an astronaut; the notes recorded every night she almost did not make it and did; and that line, hang in there, recorded the nervousness she never told anyone about. What a pencil case can hold turns out to be far more than pencils and erasers.