Around me, the other Middles are picking up their paintbrushes and laughing as their Mommies and Daddies “help” them paint. At first, I try to follow Kris’s brushstrokes on his canvas, wanting to emulate them, but I get bored with how slowly the picture is coming together.
My mind wanders.
I reach for the pot of bright yellow paint and, after dunking my brush in it, spray a slash of yellow across my boring green and brown canvas. The deviation from following the instructions gives me a bit of a buzz, so I do it again, with a bit more energy.
“Daddy, what’s he doing?” the Middle to my right asks, and I turn to find them staring quizzically at my canvas.
“I’m being…expressionist,” I declare, slashing at my canvas again. The yellow turns green around the edges where it meets with the wet blue paint I added to the canvas to represent the lake.
The Daddy from the couple arches a bushy red eyebrow. “This is a landscape session.”
I roll my eyes. “Counselor Kris said to paint whatever scene we wanted.”
The Middle makes a face. “Why would you join the activity if you’re not even going to try doing it properly?”
I was trying, I want to protest.But it was slow. I couldn’t focus.
But I don’t owe them an answer, or a justification. I aim a smug smile their way and shrug. “I like it better this way.”
They scoff. Something inside me twists unpleasantly.
I swish bright red across my canvas this time andoops. A tiny splodge flies sideways and mars the middle of their painted lake. I know my look of shocked apology is exaggerated as I say, “Sorry! I got excited.”
The Middle narrows their eyes. Their Daddy places a hand on their shoulder and shoots me a reprimanding glower, which I take great pleasure ignoring.
“It’s okay, James,” Kris’s voice sounds out over my shoulder, instead of from the front of the group where he’d been the last time I’d paid any attention. He’s looking at the spot of red in the middle of the other canvas. “You can blend that in and make it look like deeper water.” He turns to me, his expression still warm, but there’s warning in his eyes, “You’re going to be more careful, aren’t you Benji?”
“Of course,” I nod, but my smile says ‘make me’.
He arches an eyebrow. I bat my lashes. His lips twitch. Then he looks at my canvas, and his smile is kind, “I like your creativity.”
Why does that give me butterflies?
Chapter Three
This one’s going to be trouble.
There’s a challenge in Benji’s eyes as I go back to finishing my painting. I volunteered to run this activity because, while I’m no professional, I know my way around a paintbrush, and it seemed like a low-energy, easy activity to run.
I should have known better.
I’ve been a Daddy for a decade; Iknowthat there’s usually a brat in every bunch. I just didn’t expect it to be the cute, blond twink who turned up on his own and looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his pouty mouth.
It starts with the paint flicking and sassing his neighbor. Then it escalates to snarky comments, but not enough to call him out for being mean to others. Most of them are funny, but he’s definitely doing it to get a reaction. To annoy. Unfortunately, the problem with that is that he’s disrupting other people’s enjoyment.
“Benji,” I warn, catching him leaning over to offer some “helpful” critique to Jane and Sarah on his left, “this is your last warning. Stay in your own bubble and let everyone paint the way they want to.”
“But they all look the same and it’s boring,” he complains. “They’re all very pretty,” he adds, then screws up his nose, “butboring.”
“If you’re bored, you can leave,” Sarah snaps at him, and I raise my eyebrows at her. I get that she’s protective of her Girl’s feelings, but I don’t believe that a caregiver should snap at someone in headspace. Clearly reading my feelings from my expression alone, Sarah clears her throat and softens her tone a bit, though she still sounds frosty and frustrated, “Maybe you should find an activity that interests you more.”
I wonder if Sarah has any experience with brats, because I know the second she offers the suggestion that Benji is going to dig his heels in and double down.
Sure enough, he steels his jaw and juts his chin stubbornly. “Ilikepainting. I just thought a bunch of Middles would be more interesting to paint with. I didn’t realize this was basically advanced paint-by-numbers.”
“Okay, that’s enough.” I set my paintbrush down and fold my arms across my chest. “Time-out for you.”
Some of the others giggle, only to be shushed by their caregivers. Benji doesn’t blush or seem at all surprised. He doesn’t argue, either. If anything, he smirks. “Sofirm, Counselor Kris.” He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the open lawn area. There are other groups scattered a little ways away, but none are close enough to hear us or for us to hear them. “How do I do time out here?”
