"That's a lie," she whispered. "I can't do that. I can barely draw a straight line."
"Good job," he said.
Maya reached out a trembling finger.
"Show-off," Mr. Elara murmured, sweeping a pile of dead leaves. The cloud pulsed a lazy pink in response. the bong cloud
Today, a girl named Maya followed him. She was the quiet artist, always sketching in the margins of her homework. She slipped through the broken door as he was refilling his mop bucket. "That's a lie," she whispered
The cloud lunged.