“It’s a good start,” Michael says. “Most Makers play at least one instrument.” No kidding. I’ve counted at least four instrument cases in this room alone. Most in vaguely guitarish shapes and one smaller square case that I assume is some kind of horn. “We should make sure you’re proficient in one song that you can perform. Do you write music?”

“I’ve dabbled.” Well, I helped Kor with some of his earlier songs, which kinda counts.

“Perfect. A well-practiced song of your own composition will be a nice touch. We’ll prioritize that.” He scribbles something in a notebook—the fancy kind with yellowish paper and a leather cover that ties with a cord. “We also know you’re good with plants. I’ll make sure you’re scheduled in the greenhouse and will inform your instructors to guide that strength.” More scribbling. “What are your other talents?”

This line of questioning grates on every one of my insecurities. How do I let him down easy about the fact that I’m generally untalented? I’m pretty sure that my snowboarding prowess is not what he has in mind. I settle on, “I like to write stories.”

He smiles as he takes this down in his notes. “Storytelling is a strength of my own guild, the Sophists. Definitely a good option for you. What about other art? Do you paint?”

I do like to paint. Well, I like to start paintings. I’m marginally better at drawing. Though the last time Kor tried to help me with my drawing, he said my work won’t improve until I learn to “observe properly” and am willing to have the patience to “develop the layers of the piece.”

“I draw, but I’m not that good,” I say to Michael.

He looks up at me, brows furrowed. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“What?”

“Downplaying your abilities.”

“I’m not downplaying anything. I’m fantastically mediocre.” I paste on an overdramatic smile. “Perpetual jack-of-all-trades, master of none, nice to meet you.” This is the last thing I want to admit to Michael, but better to get it out of the way rather than see his disappointment when he figures it out for himself.

He huffs. “You’re the farthest thing from mediocre. Do you even know the rest of that saying?”

“There’s more?”

“ ‘A jack-of-all-trades is a master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one,’ ” he quotes. “And do you know who it was referring to?” His tone is scolding. “A young upstart actor who was mocked for trying his hand at writing, better known as William Shakespeare.” His voice softens, and that earnest gaze meets mine. “Dabbling is encouraged here at Genesis.”

I swallow. It sounds good in theory. But he hasn’t seen how amateur my work is, never mind compared to those who have been developing their talents for years.