【散文】我的文具盒散文400字：盒盖上的那张小贴纸

盒盖内侧的小鲸鱼

放暑假清书桌，那只蓝铁皮文具盒从床底滚出来，盒盖磕在地上，啪一声弹开。我弯腰去捡，先看见的不是灰，是盒盖内侧那张小鲸鱼贴纸。翘了边，颜色淡了，可它还贴在那儿，尾巴朝上，像浮在一片褪了色的海面上。

它不是我的。六年级生日那天，同桌林小满神神秘秘塞给我一小张贴纸，摊开来七八只小鲸鱼，蓝的绿的都有。她说生日礼物就这个，别的都太贵。我当场不高兴了半分钟——别人送的都是笔袋、手账。她急了，说你会喜欢的。回家我随手把一只小鲸鱼贴进文具盒盖里侧，贴完才发现，她自己的盒盖里侧也贴了一只，尾巴朝上，跟我的一模一样。

第二天她凑过来看，眼睛弯起来：我们一人一只，凑一对。她伸出小拇指，我也伸出小拇指，两个文具盒并排摆在课桌中间，像两间挨着的小房子。她说，以后就算分到不同的中学，盒子也不许换，换了鲸鱼就没地方住了。我说好。那天放学我们各回各家，校门口挥的手比平时久一点。

后来真的分开了。她去了城西的中学，我留在城东。开学第一周我给她写信，问鲸鱼还在不在。她回：在，就是盒子旧了，你别嫌弃你的。我们没再提换盒子的事。见面少了，一年凑不齐几次，说话从一节课一节课地聊，变成节假日里匆匆的几句。我一度以为那份约定跟小学同学录一样，翻过就翻过了。

可此刻我蹲在床底的光里，捏着那只磕瘪的盒盖，发现鲸鱼没掉。胶都老了，边都翘了，它没掉。铁皮盒替我记着六年级的下午、两间挨着的小房子、校门口多挥的那几下。我把它放回书桌最上层。城西那个盒子里，鲸鱼应该也在。有些朋友不常见面，可约定贴在哪儿，人就没走远。

The Little Whale Inside the Lid

Summer break, cleaning the desk, the blue tin pencil case rolled out from under the bed, its lid hitting the floor with a snap. I bent to pick it up, and the first thing I saw was not the dust but the little whale sticker inside the lid. Its edges had curled, its color had faded, but it was still there, tail up, floating on a sea that had lost its blue.

It was not mine. On my birthday in sixth grade, my deskmate Lin Xiaoman slipped me a small sheet of stickers mysteriously. Spread out, seven or eight little whales, blue and green. She said that was the birthday gift, everything else was too expensive. I was unhappy for half a minute, since other people got pencil bags and journals. She panicked and said, you will like it. Home, I stuck one whale inside my pencil case lid on a whim, and only then noticed she had stuck one inside her own lid too, tail up, exactly like mine.

The next day she leaned over to look, eyes curving: one each, a pair. She held out her little finger; I held out mine. Our two cases sat side by side in the middle of the desks like two adjoining little houses. She said, even if we go to different middle schools later, we are not allowed to change the cases, or the whales will have nowhere to live. I said okay. That day we each went home, and we waved at the school gate a little longer than usual.

Then it really happened. She went to a school in the west of the city; I stayed in the east. The first week I wrote her a letter asking whether the whale was still there. She wrote back: it is, the case is just old, do not be ashamed of yours. We never mentioned changing cases again. We met less, not even a few times a year; our talks went from whole class periods to hurried sentences on holidays. I began to think the promise had turned like a graduation autograph book, once turned, done.

Yet now I crouch in the light from under the bed, holding the dented lid, and find the whale has not fallen off. The glue is old, the edges are curled, and it has not fallen. The tin case keeps for me the sixth-grade afternoon, the two adjoining houses, the extra waves at the school gate. I put it back on the top shelf of my desk. In that case in the west of the city, the whale must be there too. Some friends are not seen often, but wherever the promise is stuck, they have not gone far.

两间挨着的小房子

六年级三班的教室中间，有两间小房子。说是房子，其实是两个文具盒，一个蓝铁皮，一个白铁皮，并排摆在两张课桌拼起来的缝上，谁也不越界。班里人早习惯了：那是周航和林小满的界碑，两人从三年级同桌到六年级，中间没红过脸。

生日贴纸是那年春天出现的。林小满送周航一小张贴纸，七八只小鲸鱼。周航当场愣了愣，嫌礼物小。林小满也不争，转头把一只鲸鱼贴进自己盒盖里侧。周航看了一会儿，回家也贴了一只进去，尾巴朝上，跟她那只一模一样。第二天两人把盒子并排一放，伸出小拇指：以后上不同的中学，盒子不许换，换了鲸鱼没地方住。这话被前排的人听见，笑他们幼稚。两人不理会，把盒子往中间又挪了半寸。

后来毕业，一个城东一个城西，那半寸的界碑拆了。再后来，班里传过一些话，说周航换了新文具盒，又说林小满跟新同桌很好。传话的人没见过，只是传。两个盒子其实都还在，鲸鱼也还在，只是没人再并排摆它们。铁皮上的蓝一天淡过一天，贴纸的边一天翘过一天，像两个小孩各自长大时，谁也没顾上回头的那段路。

同学聚会在多年后的寒假，小学全班凑齐大半。周航迟到了，进门先看见林小满，愣了半秒，坐下。聊到一半，他从书包侧袋摸出那只蓝铁皮盒，磕瘪了一角。林小满看了一眼，从包里拿出白的。两个盒子并排放在桌上，放在当年那条不存在的缝上。她打开盒盖，鲸鱼翘着边贴在里侧；他也打开，他的鲸鱼也还在。满桌人起哄，两人都不躲，也不解释。散场时他们在楼道挥手，挥得比当年校门口还久。

那两间小房子后来搬进了各自的书桌抽屉，还是挨着放，中间隔着一层布。鲸鱼贴着，约定就没散。

Two Little Houses Side by Side

In the middle of Class Three, Grade Six, there were two little houses. Houses, in quotes: two pencil cases, one blue tin, one white tin, side by side on the seam where two desks met, neither crossing the line. The class long ago got used to it. They were the boundary stones of Zhou Hang and Lin Xiaoman, deskmates from third to sixth grade, who never once fell out.

The whale stickers appeared that spring. On his birthday, Lin Xiaoman gave Zhou Hang a small sheet of stickers, seven or eight little whales. He froze for a moment, unimpressed by such a small gift. She did not argue; she stuck one whale inside her own case lid. Zhou Hang watched it a while, went home, and stuck one inside his lid too, tail up, exactly like hers. The next day they set the cases side by side and held out little fingers: when we go to different middle schools, no changing the cases, or the whales will have nowhere to live. The kid in front heard this and laughed at them for being childish. They ignored him and shifted the cases another half inch toward the middle.

Then graduation came, one to the east of the city, one to the west, and that half-inch boundary was dismantled. Later, talk went around the class that Zhou Hang had bought a new case, that Lin Xiaoman got along with her new deskmate. The talkers had not seen anything; it was just talk. Both cases were actually still there, and the whales too; no one just set them side by side anymore. The blue on the tin faded a little more each day, the sticker edges curled a little more each day, like the road two children walked as they grew, neither turning back in time.

The class reunion was years later, in winter break, most of the class gathered. Zhou Hang arrived late, saw Lin Xiaoman first, froze half a second, sat down. Midway through the talk he took a blue tin case from his bag, one corner dented. She glanced at it and took a white one from her bag. The two cases went side by side on the table, on the seam that no longer existed. She opened her lid, the whale curled at the edges inside; he opened his, his whale still there. The whole table teased them; neither dodged, neither explained. At the end they waved goodbye in the stairwell, longer than at the school gate all those years ago.

The two little houses later moved into separate desk drawers, still stored side by side, a layer of cloth between them. With the whales still stuck on, the promise never came apart.