We got a new patient today. Her name’s Olivia and she’s from New York City. She’s wearing fancy designer jeans that make her legs look like matchsticks and has a shiny purse that probably cost more than Mom’s and Dad’s cars combined. The purse is orange and reminds me of the plastic pumpkins we take trick-or-treating.
Jean took the purse right away, though, like she took my phone when I got here. Olivia protested for like five minutes. I wonder if I used to sound like that.
Olivia sounds annoying.
She sounds scared.
I want to give her a hug and tell her it’s going to be okay. I want to tell her that they might seem mean here, but they really want to help. That she’s going to hurt at first, but she’ll feel better soon.
When I tried to talk to Olivia, though, she wrinkled her nose like I smelled bad. Which I don’t. I took a shower and put on body spray this morning, the same as any other day. I smell like soap and vanilla. Then Olivia looked me up and down and put her fingers on her chin like she was a fancy art critic appraising a new acquisition. Like Mom does when she’s cultivating her gallery.
Maybe Olivia hates the way I look.
Maybe she doesn’t like my body.
For a few seconds, I started hating my body, too.
Then I remembered the cool thing about art: everyone likes different styles. There’s a place out there for every type of art. It all belongs somewhere. I may never have my portraits displayed in Mom’s gallery, but they might end up in another one someday. Especially when I get better at art.
Especially when I get better.
Mom doesn’t have to display my art to like it.
I don’t have to win awards to keep drawing.
My pictures belong, just like I belong.
I hope Olivia learns that she belongs, too.
I drew a picture of Olivia this afternoon. I added a superhero cape and gave it to her after snack. She raised her eyebrows. “What’s this for?”
“To remind you of what you can do,” I said.
Brenna looked at the superhero and smiled. I smiled back.