【散文】我的好朋友散文500字：同桌的你

课桌抽屉里的纸条河

课桌是两个人的课桌，一条铅笔画的中线，分了三年。

我的同桌叫沈一禾，话不多，笔头快。初一初二我们只守那条中线，借一块橡皮也要说请。转折在初三第一次月考，我数学砸了，趴在桌上不动。过了一会儿，胳膊底下塞进来一张纸条，折成三折，展开是一行字：一次考砸不算什么，我数学也才九十二。后面画了个歪歪的箭头，指着她自己的卷子。我笑出声，老师看了我一眼。

从那天起，抽屉成了我们的河道，纸条是船。上课传，下课也传。纸条上写的内容从「这道题选C」变成「食堂的红烧肉别打，咬不动」，再变成「还有二百天」和「怕什么，一起」。她写错字，我在旁边画个圈，她回敬我三个圈。抽屉里最重的一张纸条是期中考后写的，只有四个字：你没问题的。那四个字我后来在高考前又看了一遍。

课桌的侧板上有一排刻痕，是我们俩每年量身高刻的，最底下两道浅，是初一的，那时候她到我肩膀。刻痕一年比一年高，到初三顶上，她反超了我半个头。毕业前最后一天，我们拿尺子量最后一道刻痕，量完谁也不说话，然后一起把抽屉清空。她的抽屉里倒出十七张纸条，我的倒出十九张。我们没商量，各自把对方的纸条拢进书包。

毕业那天下了小雨，校门口人很多，我们挤在人群里说了很多话，又好像什么都没说。她递给我一块橡皮，就是初一那块，包着纸壳，边角磨圆了。她说用三年了，顺手。

现在我书桌的抽屉里，那些纸条按日期排着，像一条河。纸条会黄，字会淡，可我记得每一条纸条递过来的时刻：趴在桌上的那次，抬头看黑板的那次，还有毕业那天她转身挥手，手腕上晃着校牌。

成长是一条越来越宽的路，好在有一个人，隔着一条铅笔中线，陪我把最窄的那段走完了。

The River of Notes in the Desk Drawer

The desk was a desk for two, divided for three years by a center line drawn in pencil.

My deskmate was called Shen Yihe. She did not talk much, but her pen was fast. Through Grade one and Grade two of middle school we only guarded that center line, and even borrowing an eraser required a please. The turning point came at the first monthly exam of Grade three. I failed math, and lay face down on the desk without moving. After a while a note slid in under my arm, folded in three. When I opened it, one line of writing said: one failed test is nothing, my math was only ninety two. Behind it was a crooked arrow pointing at her own paper. I laughed out loud, and the teacher looked at me.

From that day the desk drawer became our river, and the notes were boats. We passed them in class and after class too. What the notes said changed from the answer to this one is C, to do not take the pork in the canteen, it is too tough to bite, and then to two hundred days left and whatever are we afraid of, together. When she wrote a wrong character I drew a circle beside it, and she repaid me with three circles. The heaviest note in the drawer was written after the midterm exam, only four characters: you will be fine. I read those four characters again before the college entrance exam years later.

On the side board of the desk ran a row of notches, cut each year as we measured our heights. The bottom two were faint, from the first year, when she reached my shoulder. The notches climbed year by year, and at the top, in Grade three, she had passed me by half a head. On the last day before graduation we measured the last notch with a ruler, and when we finished neither spoke. Then together we emptied the drawer. Seventeen notes came out of her side, nineteen out of mine. Without discussing it, each of us gathered the notes of the other into our schoolbag.

On graduation day it drizzled. The school gate was crowded. We stood in the crowd saying a great many things, and yet it felt like we said nothing at all. She handed me an eraser, the same one from the first year, in its paper sleeve, its corners worn round. She said it had served three years, and it fits the hand.

Now in my desk drawer at home those notes lie arranged by date, like a river. The paper will yellow and the writing will fade, but I remember the moment of every note arriving: the time I lay face down on the desk, the time I looked up at the blackboard, and the time on graduation day she turned and waved, her school badge swinging on her wrist.

Growing up is a road that keeps widening. The good fortune is that one person, across a pencil center line, walked the narrowest stretch of it with me.

同桌的尺子量过我的矮

我初一个子矮，坐第二排靠窗，同桌是班里最高的女生之一，叫韩霜。课桌中线是她画的，铅笔，直，用尺子比着画的。她说她的规矩：东西不过线，人不过线。我说好。中线存在了整整一年，安安静静的。

她有一把断尺，三十厘米断成两截，断口磨得圆。她不用它量东西，用它敲我胳膊。我上课走神看窗外的鸟，胳膊上轻轻一下，低头，她在算她的题，像什么都没发生。再走神，再一下。那把断尺比老师的点名管用，后来我走神的次数越来越少，她就不敲了。断尺重新躺回笔袋，我以为它退休了。

那年运动会我报什么项目都吃亏，跳高第一轮就出局，坐在跳高架下面发呆。她走过来，把断尺放在我手边，塞过来一张纸条：矮怕什么，长个子的路还长。后面画了一条往上走的折线，折线尽头画了个火柴人，火柴人头顶画了颗星。我把纸条夹进字典，把断尺还她，她不要，说放你这儿，走神的时候看一眼。

断尺在我笔袋里躺了两年。我上课想打瞌睡就摸一下断口，圆滚滚的，不扎手。初二下学期我蹿了六厘米，坐到了第四排，我们隔着两排，纸条改成课间传。她写「长高了记得捡球」，我写「断尺还你」，她回「送你，量你的新个子」。

毕业那天搬课桌，空教室的地上全是灰。我们的旧课桌搬到走廊，桌腿上贴的姓名条翘了边。她撕下来对折收进兜里，说留个纪念。拍毕业照，我站在她旁边，她照旧高我半个头，可我已经不怕了。相机响之前她把断尺从兜里掏出来，塞回我手里，说还是你拿着，你以后个子高。

现在我的书桌上立着那把断尺，三十厘米断成两截，断口圆滚滚。它量过我的矮，也量过我的长。课桌的中线早擦没了，纸条攒了一沓，毕业照上两个人挨着站，中间没有线。

The Broken Ruler My Deskmate Left Me

In my first year of middle school I was short, seated in the second row by the window, and my deskmate was one of the tallest girls in the class, named Han Shuang. The center line of the desk was drawn by her, in pencil, straight, drawn against a ruler. She stated her rule: things do not cross the line, people do not cross the line. I said fine. The center line stayed there for a whole year, quiet.

She had a broken ruler, thirty centimeters snapped into two pieces, the break worn round. She did not use it for measuring; she used it to tap my arm. When I daydreamed in class and looked at birds outside the window, there was a light tap on my arm, I looked down, and she was working out her own problems, as if nothing had happened. Space out again, tap again. That broken ruler worked better than the teacher calling names, and the more I spaced out the fewer taps came, until she stopped tapping. The broken ruler lay back in the pencil case, and I thought it had retired.

That year at the sports meeting every event I entered went against me, and I was out in the first round of the high jump, sitting under the crossbar in a daze. She walked over, placed the broken ruler beside my hand, and slipped in a note: so what if you are short, the road of growing taller is long. Behind it she drew an upward zigzag line, at the end of the line a stick figure, and above the head of the stick figure a star. I put the note into my dictionary and returned the ruler to her. She refused, saying keep it there, and take one look whenever you drift off.

The broken ruler lay in my pencil case for two years. When I felt sleepy in class I touched the break, round and smooth, it did not prick the hand. In the second term of Grade two I shot up six centimeters and moved to the fourth row, two rows apart, and the notes changed to passing between classes. She wrote remember to pick up the ball now that you are tall, I wrote the ruler goes back to you, she replied it is a gift for you, measure your new height.

On graduation day we carried the desks out, and the floor of the empty classroom was full of dust. Our old desk went to the corridor, and the name tag on the desk leg had curled at the edge. She peeled it off, folded it, put it in her pocket, and said keep it as a memory. For the graduation photo I stood next to her, she was still half a head taller, but I was no longer afraid. Before the camera clicked she took the broken ruler out of her pocket and pressed it back into my hand, saying you should still hold it, you will be the tall one from now on.

Now on my study desk stands that broken ruler, thirty centimeters in two pieces, the break round and smooth. It measured my shortness, and it measured my growth. The center line on the desk was erased long ago, the notes piled into a stack, and in the graduation photo the two of us stand side by side with no line between us.