“Why is the grass purple?” Mother asks. Her voice sounds distant, and I continue to draw. From right where I am, I’m not too far away from her, but I don’t really want to pay attention. I sit at small wooden stool at that the only table in our house. Like everything else, it’s made of wood. Not that I mind. Nothing else really matters while I draw, it’s my quiet time. Well, sort of. Usually she does say something mean about my pictures, and I still draw no matter what she says. But Mother seems to have a different idea. Right as I’m almost finished coloring the grass in my picture of the forest, her hand swoops down. She holds the paper up to face and scowls.
“What exactly have you drawn, Navin?” She persists again. I shrug and glance out
“What exactly have you drawn, Navin?” She persists again. I shrug and glance out