“That’s amazing,” Robin coos to her.

“It really is,” says Frankie. “Where did you learn to be such a great artist?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. Sure, Penny’s good at art, but it’s not like she’s a superstar at everything.

“I’ve always loved to paint and draw,” Penny says, dipping her paintbrush into her glass of water to clean it and wagging her ponytail from side to side. “It comes very naturally to me.”

I roll my eyes. I can’t help it.

Robin and Frankie spend the rest of class fawning over Penny the Great. Penny the artiste. Penny the Picasso.

Who cares if she’s good at art and I’m not anyway? It’s not like I want to be a painter when I grow up. I’m going to be a judge. And you definitely don’t need to know how to paint roses to be a judge. You need to be smart and … judgy.

I spend the rest of class trying to salvage the blobby mess in front of me.

“I just have to sign it and I’m done,” Penny says after a while. She dips her brush in the black paint and writes her name with an annoying flourish.

“That painting could be worth a million dollars one day,” Robin says seriously.

I resist the urge to vomit. Although maybe if I threw up all over Penny’s precious painting, I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore?

Frankie and Robin pick up their paintings to put on the drying rack, but Penny leaves hers to set a minute longer. Then she goes to wash her hands at the sink near Mrs. Becker’s desk. I stay where I am and stare at my painting next to Penny’s.

I hate mine.

I love hers.

No. I hate hers.

Penny’s glass of water is really close to her painting.

Really close.

Too close.

And that’s when it happens. I knock the glass of water with my elbow.

On purpose.

Whoosh! Swoosh! The water gushes across Penny’s painting.

My heart stops. What did I do?

The colors mix. The paint runs. The petals melt into the leaves, which melt into the vase.

Oh no oh no oh no OH NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Maybe nobody will notice?

I hear a loud shriek.

“MY PAINTING!”

Crumbs. She noticed.

Penny runs over to our table. “Help!” she cries. “There’s water all over my paper! I need paper towels! Help! My painting is drowning!”

Robin and Frankie rush to get napkins and we all quickly blot the painting. But it’s hopeless. When we remove the paper towels, all that’s left is a blob of colors. A blob that looks worse than my blobs. Much worse.

“My painting,” Penny whimpers.

“Poor Penny,” Robin says, giving her a big hug.

“It was so beautiful,” Frankie says, also giving her a hug.