【小故事】快乐的课间小故事：课间借橡皮的小插曲

掰成两半的新橡皮

都怪我。昨天整理书包的时候，那块橡皮滚到了床底下，我看见了，想着明天再买，就没捡。

课间十分钟，我趴在走廊栏杆上还没玩够，回座位时远远看见数学组长已经站在过道收作业。我坐下来翻开本子，最后一道应用题算错了，铅笔在草稿纸上划了三遍，越划越黑。我伸手去铅笔盒里摸橡皮，摸了个空。我又拉开拉链，把铅笔盒倒过来抖，掉出来两支铅笔、一把断尺，没有橡皮。

书包里也没有。我把课本一本一本抖开，把侧袋翻过来，指尖在夹层里抠，什么也没有。手心开始出汗。组长的影子已经挪到我前排，她手里的作业本越摞越高。

我小声问前桌借橡皮。前桌举起他那块用得只剩一角的橡皮，一脸为难：就这一块，下午还要用。我又问同桌。同桌低头看了看自己桌上那块崭新的橡皮，纸套都没撕，是她昨天刚买的。她犹豫了一下，说，我也只有一块。

组长的影子到了我桌边。我把算错的那页用手掌捂住，像捂住一个秘密。就在这时候，同桌把那块新橡皮拿起来，两只手按住，咔的一声，掰成了两半。纸套裂开，露出里面雪白的橡皮。她把大的那半推到我面前，小的那半留给自己，说：用吧，一人一半。

我接过那半橡皮，棱角还带着掰开时的毛边。我飞快地擦掉那道错题，重新算了一遍，本子交上去的时候，正好赶上组长合上作业本。

上课铃响了。我把那半块橡皮放进铅笔盒最里面的格子，像放一件要紧的东西。下课以后，我把文具盒里那块旧的、只剩一角的橡皮递给她：这块也给你，旧的耐用。她笑了，说那咱们一人两块，扯平了。

后来那块半橡皮我用了一个学期，越用越小，最后小得捏不住，我也没扔。它躺在铅笔盒的格子里，提醒我一件事：没带橡皮的那天，有人把自己唯一的一块，掰成了两半。

A New Eraser Broken in Two

It was all my fault. When I packed my schoolbag yesterday, that eraser rolled under the bed. I saw it, thought I would buy a new one tomorrow, and did not pick it up.

During the ten-minute break, I had been leaning on the playground railing having too much fun. When I walked back to my seat, I could see the math group leader already standing in the aisle collecting homework. I sat down, opened my notebook, and the last word problem was wrong. I scratched over it three times on the draft paper, and it got blacker each time. I reached into my pencil case for the eraser and found nothing. I unzipped it fully and turned it upside down and shook. Out fell two pencils and a broken ruler. No eraser.

Nothing in the schoolbag either. I shook out my textbooks one by one, turned the side pocket inside out, and dug my fingertips into the lining. Nothing. My palm started to sweat. The shadow of the group leader had already moved to the row in front of me, and the stack of notebooks in her hands kept growing.

I asked the boy in front of me quietly for an eraser. He held up his eraser, worn down to one corner, and looked troubled: this is my only one, and I still need it this afternoon. Then I asked my desk neighbor. She looked down at the brand-new eraser on her desk, paper sleeve still on, the one she had just bought yesterday. She hesitated a moment and said, I only have one too.

The shadow of the group leader reached my desk. I covered the wrong page with my palm, like covering a secret. Just then, my desk neighbor picked up the new eraser, pressed it with both hands, and with a snap broke it in two. The paper sleeve split open, revealing the snow-white rubber inside. She pushed the bigger half in front of me, kept the smaller half for herself, and said: use it, half each.

I took that half eraser, its edges still rough from being broken. I erased the wrong problem fast, solved it again, and handed my notebook in just as the group leader closed her stack.

The class bell rang. I put that half eraser into the innermost slot of my pencil case, like putting away something precious. After class, I handed her my old eraser, the one worn to a corner: this one is yours too, old ones last longer. She laughed and said then we each have two, all square.

I used that half eraser for a whole semester, smaller and smaller, until it was too small to pinch. I never threw it away. It lies in the slot of my pencil case, reminding me of one thing: on the day I forgot my eraser, someone broke her only one in two.

抽屉里的公共橡皮

我们班的橡皮是有去无回的。开学三个月，光失物招领箱里的无名橡皮就攒了一捧，每块都缺一个角，像被谁咬过。

那天课间，班主任从办公室拿来一块大白橡皮，方方的，比我们的手掌还宽。她把它放进教室后排那个空抽屉，说：这是公共橡皮，谁没带就用，用完放回原处，不许带走。她刚说完，后排立刻围上去七八个人，都想第一个摸它。

第一个用的是马小跳。他数学本上有一大片铅笔印，他掐着橡皮在纸上横着蹭，一下掰下来好大一块碎屑，橡皮上留下一个豁口。他拍拍手走了，碎屑留在桌上，被后排的风吹到地上。路过的林小雨停下来，把碎屑捏起来丢进垃圾桶，又用袖口把桌面擦干净。

第二个用的是我。我的铅笔盒里其实有橡皮，但我就是想用那块大的。我挤进人群，把本子垫在抽屉沿上擦字。橡皮又大又软，擦得特别干净，我擦了一行又一行，把本来没错的字也擦了一遍。等我回过神来，公共橡皮上多了三个豁口，我脸一热，赶紧把本子合上。

这时有人喊：该值日的擦黑板！马小跳举着黑板擦冲过去，擦到一半黑板擦上的粉笔头掉了，他改用手指抠，抠得一手白。他跑到后排，抓起公共橡皮就往黑板上按，粉笔印被橡皮擦掉了一大块，黑板上出现一块诡异的白。值日班长从讲台上喊：橡皮是擦字的，不是擦黑板的！马小跳挠挠头，把橡皮放回抽屉，讪讪地笑了。

放学前的最后一节课间，我发现抽屉里那块橡皮旁边多了一块新的，粉色，带着草莓图案，纸套都没撕。谁放的没人承认。第二天，抽屉里又多了两块，一块黄的，一块带卡通熊的。公共橡皮从一个豁口变成了一排豁口，可抽屉里再也没有空过。

上课铃响了，值日生把最后一块橡皮归位，摆正。那块最早的大白橡皮已经小了一半，躺在抽屉正中，像一块用旧了的里程碑。谁没带橡皮，伸手就能够到——这大概就是那块橡皮存在的全部意义。

The Shared Eraser in the Drawer

Erasers in our class go out and never come back. Three months into the term, the lost-and-found box had gathered a handful of nameless erasers, each missing a corner, as if someone had taken a bite.

That day at break, our homeroom teacher brought a big white eraser from the office. Square, wider than our palms. She put it into the empty drawer at the back of the classroom and said: this is the shared eraser. Anyone who forgot theirs may use it, put it back when done, and nobody takes it home. The moment she finished, seven or eight kids swarmed the back row, all wanting to touch it first.

Ma Xiaotiao used it first. His math notebook had a big smear of pencil marks. He pressed the eraser down and scraped sideways, tearing off a huge chunk of shavings, leaving a notch in the eraser. He dusted his hands and left. The shavings stayed on the desk, then blew onto the floor in the draft from the back. Lin Xiaoyu, passing by, stopped, pinched the shavings into the trash bin, and wiped the desktop clean with her sleeve.

I used it second. My pencil case actually had an eraser, but I wanted to use the big one. I squeezed into the crowd and rested my notebook on the edge of the drawer to erase. The eraser was big and soft and cleaned beautifully. I erased line after line, even erasing characters that had never been wrong. When I came to my senses, the shared eraser had three new notches, and my face went hot. I shut my notebook quickly.

Then someone shouted: duty students, clean the blackboard. Ma Xiaotiao charged over with the board eraser. Halfway through, the chalk sleeve fell off the eraser, so he scraped with his fingers, covering them white. He ran to the back row, grabbed the shared eraser, and pressed it onto the blackboard. A big patch of chalk marks came off, leaving a strange white smear on the board. The duty class monitor shouted from the podium: the eraser is for words, not for blackboards. Ma Xiaotiao scratched his head, put the eraser back in the drawer, and grinned sheepishly.

During the last break before school, I found a new eraser beside the one in the drawer. Pink, with a strawberry pattern, paper sleeve uncut. Nobody admitted who put it there. The next day two more appeared, one yellow, one with a cartoon bear. The shared eraser went from one notch to a row of notches, but the drawer was never empty again.

The class bell rang, and the duty student set the last eraser back in place, straightened. The original big white eraser was already half its size, lying in the middle of the drawer like a worn-out milestone. Whoever forgets an eraser can reach one with a stretch of the hand. That is probably the whole meaning of that eraser.