Maya reached out a trembling finger.
"It's a Bong Cloud," Mr. Elara said, not bothering to hide it. "Don't touch it unless you're ready."
He’d found it years ago, a wisp left behind by graduating seniors. Most days, it just hung there, a silent, gentle ghost. But on certain afternoons, when the light slanted just right, the Bong Cloud would do things. the bong cloud
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.
He’d seen it work on a terrified freshman who’d wandered in once. The cloud had billowed around her, and for ten seconds, she’d seen herself giving a flawless poetry reading on the main stage, not stumbling over a single word. She’d walked out with her shoulders back, and the next week, she’d tried out for the play. She got a small part. Maya reached out a trembling finger
"That's a lie," she whispered. "I can't do that. I can barely draw a straight line."
She didn't say thank you. She just ran out, back toward the art wing, where she knew a pottery wheel sat unused in the corner of Ms. Gable's room. "Don't touch it unless you're ready
Maya looked at her shaky hands. She looked at the cloud, now a soft, encouraging gold.