Bodhi’s eyes went wide. He leaned back, shoulders tensing. “You wanna punch me?”
Now it was my turn to frown. “What? No. I want to put makeup on it.”
His posture loosened immediately, and he exhaled through a quiet laugh. “Right.” The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “You should probably choose your words more carefully.”
I tilted my head, replaying what I’d said, then cracked a grin when it clicked. “Okay, fair point,” I chuckled. “So... can I use your face? No violence necessary, I promise.”
Bodhi tugged his lower lip between his teeth, the movement dragging my gaze downward. He stayed quiet long enough that I was sure he’d turn me down.
But then he mumbled, barely above a whisper, “Sure.”
My smile widened, and I hopped off the table with far more enthusiasm than necessary. “Great, thanks! I’ll just grab my supplies from my room.”
I spun around, and stepped straight into Darren’s pudgy chest.
“Iggy, I told you,” he drawled, raking a hand through his thinning hair. “You can’t use makeup for art therapy.”
My hands balled into fists as I planted them on my hips. “You told me I can’t use my own face.” I waved a hand in Bodhi’s direction. “And I’m not.”
“I also said you needed something to look at, to?—”
“Reflect on, Iknow.” I was one huff away from stomping my foot like a tantrum-throwing toddler. “So, we can take a photo, and I can reflect on it to my heart’s content.”
Darren closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, probably counting to ten in his head. “Makeup isn’t an art medium.”
I growled under my breath and scanned the room, refusing to admit defeat. When I spotted the bottles of poster paint on a nearby table, the exact kind given to kids who still tried to eat glue, I let out a triumphant squeak.
“Fine, then.” I flounced past him, adding a flick of my hair because the moment deserved some drama. Scooping up the paints, I marched back to Bodhi and Darren, dumped them on the table, and gave Darren my smuggest smile. “I’ll use these.”
Bodhi watched silently as I grabbed an empty paint palette from the middle of the table and squeezed a generous blob of red onto the wooden surface. I’d just reached for the yellow when Darren stopped me.
“Iggy—”
“What, Darren?” I snapped, my temper officially hitting boiling point.
“You can’t use poster paint on someone’s face. Just...” He exhaled hard and dragged a hand down his own. “Wait a minute.”
He headed towards a cardboard box perched on top of a bureau near the conservatory doors. I could hear him muttering about me under his breath—almost certainly not compliments—while he rummaged through it. Eventually he lifted out a rectangular box and returned, offering it to me with a weary sigh.
“Use these instead.”
I ran a finger over the faded lettering. A pack of face paints. Twelve colours. My bad mood evaporated in an instant. When I looked up at Darren, who now seemed genuinely, spiritually exhausted, shame curled low in my stomach.
“Thanks, Darren,” I murmured, gripping the box a little tighter.
“Just remember to take a photo.”
I nodded, and he left us to check on someone else, probably questioning whether he was paid enough to babysit a brat like me.
Shaking off the guilt, I pasted on a bright smile and turned to Bodhi, holding up the face paints like a puppy proudly presenting a stick it found in the park. “Ready?”
“I guess,” Bodhi mumbled.
I slid into the seat beside him and motioned for him to turn towards me. Once he shifted into place, I grabbed a cup of water and a paintbrush, and opened the box. Most of the colours were barely touched, some not touched at all.
At least I wouldn’t be giving Bodhi conjunctivitis. A win in my book.
I sat back, taking in his face while considering exactly what I wanted to create on my unconventional canvas. It wasn’t going to be anything Picasso would rise from the grave to applaud, but art was apparently subjective, and this was infinitely more appealing than smearing paint on paper.
