Page 28 of Diesel

Around me, people reached for their brushes. Ollie grabbed his with shaky fingers, dipping it into the paint and spreading it across the top of his canvas in smooth strokes. The color went on evenly, covering the white surface without streaks or gaps.

I looked down at my own setup. Brushes of various sizes sat in a cup next to the easel. Paint tubes were arranged in a neat line. The blank canvas stared at me like it was daring me to screw this up.

Grabbing the largest brush, I dunked it into the orange paint. Too much came up on the bristles, dripping back into the container. When I tried to apply it to the canvas, the paint went on thick and uneven, leaving globs in some places and bare spots in others.

“Wonderful start, everyone!” Miss Patty moved between the rows, her skirt swishing against the easels. “I can already see such beautiful energy flowing through your work.”

She stopped next to Ollie, leaning in to examine his canvas. Her hand went to the crystal around her neck, her fingers curling around it.

If she tried to hypnotize him, she was eating this paint.

“Oh my,” she said, her voice taking on that singsong quality again. “This is lovely. You have such a natural feel for color blending.”

“Thanks,” Ollie said.

I was the one hypnotized. With the way I felt about him, my wolf should’ve chosen him already. What was it waiting on?

“Truly gifted.” She squeezed the crystal once then made her way over to Gerald.

His canvas looked even better than Ollie’s, the orange fading seamlessly into pink at the edges. Smug satisfaction radiated from every line of his posture.

“Gerald, as always, your technique is flawless.” Miss Patty’s fingers tightened around the crystal again. “Such dedication to the craft.”

“Thank you, Miss Patty.” Gerald’s smile could’ve powered a small city with its smugness.

She moved on to Karen and Susan, offering the same singsong compliments, but this time, it hit my ear wrong. Then Tom and Linda, more praise, more crystal-squeezing. More fakeness.

Stop. You’re here to have fun with Ollie, not scrutinize.

Finally, she reached my easel.

The silence stretched for three full seconds while she stared at my canvas. The orange paint had dried in uneven patches, looking less like a sunset and more like something a toddler had smeared during a tantrum.

“Well,” Miss Patty said, her smile straining at the edges. “This is certainly…bold.”

“Bold,” I repeated.

“Yes. Very…primal. Almost like cave paintings, but with more...modern sensibilities.” Her hand gripped the crystal for the millionth time. “Everyone has their own journey with art.”

I refused to acknowledge the sting.

Behind me, someone made a sound that might’ve been a suppressed laugh.

“Keep going,” Miss Patty said, her voice a little too bright. “Remember, there are no mistakes!”

Coming here had been a mistake.

She moved on, and I caught Ollie pressing his lips together to keep from grinning.

“Don’t,” I muttered. I couldn’t take it if he laughed.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m thinking your painting has character.”

“Your painting looks like it belongs in a gallery. Mine looks like I murdered a sunset.”