"What is that?" she whispered, eyes wide.
It enveloped her, not cold, but a thick, honeyed warmth. And then she saw .
"That's a lie," she whispered. "I can't do that. I can barely draw a straight line."
The old janitor, Mr. Elara, was the only one who knew about the Bong Cloud. It lived in the disused greenhouse behind the high school, a shimmering, opalescent mass the size of a beanbag chair, smelling faintly of sandalwood and forgotten dreams.
"Show-off," Mr. Elara murmured, sweeping a pile of dead leaves. The cloud pulsed a lazy pink in response.
"What is that?" she whispered, eyes wide.
It enveloped her, not cold, but a thick, honeyed warmth. And then she saw .
"That's a lie," she whispered. "I can't do that. I can barely draw a straight line."
The old janitor, Mr. Elara, was the only one who knew about the Bong Cloud. It lived in the disused greenhouse behind the high school, a shimmering, opalescent mass the size of a beanbag chair, smelling faintly of sandalwood and forgotten dreams.
"Show-off," Mr. Elara murmured, sweeping a pile of dead leaves. The cloud pulsed a lazy pink in response.
