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Hello, friends, and welcome to Sleep Tight Stories.
Libby loves art, but when a boy in her art class is not very nice to her, she starts to doubt herself.
When she gets home she chats with Margarita about what happened in class, and then they work together to help Libby feel better.
Margarita helps Libby with her painting.
Libby trudged down the street, her arms full of art supplies and her backpack weighed down with books.
Normally, carrying her favorite things didn't bother her.
But today, they felt heavier.
The gray, gloomy sky seemed to match her mood perfectly.
As she walked up the path to her house and stepped inside, she let out an audible sigh, setting her supplies down carefully by the door before shrugging off her backpack.
Margarita, are you napping in your usual spot?
She called out as she kicked off her sneakers.
Her shoelaces had tied themselves into an impossible knot, so she flopped onto the floor with a huff to tackle the problem.
Margarita, hearing her human's voice padded over, and greeted Libby with a gentle headbutt and a soft meh, her signature way of saying hello.
Hi, Margarita, Libby said, scratching behind the orange cat's ears.
I hope your day was better than mine.
I bet it was.
You probably just napped and dreamed about pizza.
I would have much rather stayed home doing that instead of going to my silly art class.
Margarita curled up in Libby's lap, her purring steady and soothing a sound that made Libby's bad day feel just a little less terrible.
You know I like painting, right?
Because you helped me with my last exhibition, Libby continued, her voice softening.
And I love my art teacher.
She's super cool.
If I could have orange hair like hers, I'd be thrilled.
But you know Mom won't let me dye my hair.
Libby paused, stroking Margarita's fur.
Art class should be great because music...
Books and art make me happy.
I haven't had much chance to paint since we moved here, but there's this boy in class.
She sighed.
He's not very nice at all.
He keeps saying my art isn't any good.
He's said it more than once now, and it makes me feel like maybe he's right.
I mean, why else would he say that?
Libby tugged at her stubborn shoelaces, finally freeing her sneaker, as she added.
Do you think a snack would make me feel better?
I bet you'd like one too.
Margarita gave another soft meh, her green eyes watching Libby closely.
Come on, Libby said, scooping up Margarita and heading to the kitchen.
Would you like some tuna or maybe milk?
Or, she smirked, I forgot.
This is mom's game with you, right?
You don't eat that stuff.
I think I'll have pie.
It's been that kind of day.
Definitely with ice cream.
Libby set Margarita down near her bowl and grabbed a bag of pizza snacks.
And for you?
Some pizza bites.
Sound good?
Margarita circled her bowl and let out a louder meh, which Libby took as an enthusiastic yes.
As Libby reached for the pie, she paused, leaning on the counter.
You know, Margarita, she said, her voice quieter now.
What that boy Joseph said to me during art class? every art class, really bothers me.
I almost felt like crying today.
My friends tell me to ignore him, but that's hard to do.
Margarita tilted her head, her tail flicking as if she was already suspicious of this Joseph.
I mean, I know it's just his opinion, but it really got to me.
Libby admitted, sliding down to sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor beside her cat.
What if he's right?
What if I'm not good at creating art?
We have an exhibition coming up soon and what if everyone else thinks my work is bad too?
Margarita responded by patting over and pressing her forehead against Libby's knee.
It was her way of saying, don't be silly.
Libby smiled weakly.
This is just between you and me, okay?
I tell mom everything, but she's been so busy lately.
I don't want her to worry too much.
Margarita meowed softly, a sound that seemed equal parts agreement and reassurance.
Thanks, Margarita, for listening, Libby said, giving her cat a scratch behind the ears.
I guess maybe he's just being mean because he doesn't understand art.
I heard the teacher say she loved my painting in the last exhibition.
I don't know why he has to be so mean, though.
Margarita purred, her green eyes narrowing as if to say, of course he's jealous.
Who wouldn't be?
Let's have our snack, Libby said with a sigh, standing up to heat Margarita's pizza snacks.
Sometimes a treat gives you a new perspective.
And honestly, I could eat pie and ice cream every day if Mom let me.
Margarita meowed in agreement, circling Libby's legs in anticipation.
She didn't need perspective.
Pizza snacks were their own reward.
After enjoying their snack together, Libby felt slightly better.
She gave Margarita's head a gentle pat and said, Thanks for always being here for snack time.
You're the best listener, even if you're mostly waiting for pizza.
Grabbing her headphones from her book bag and collecting her painting supplies, Libby headed to her room.
Margarita followed close behind, her tail swishing with purpose.
Mom's going to be home late today, Libby said, setting up her canvas.
So I'm going to get started on my painting now.
My teacher said we need to begin tonight because we won't have enough class time to finish.
You're lucky, Margarita.
You don't have any deadlines or mean boys to deal with.
Libby carefully arranged her paints, brushes, and water cup.
But as she sat down and stared at the blank canvas, all the good feelings from her snack began to fade.
The white expanse in front of her felt intimidating. even unfriendly.
I don't know what to paint, Libby admitted, slumping in her chair.
Her thoughts drifted back to Joseph's comments, and her shoulders tensed.
Why would he say something so mean?
He never even liked art class before.
Then, suddenly, when the teacher mentioned my painting at the last exhibition...
He had to make it his mission to criticize me.
Margarita perched on the edge of Libby's bed, tilting her head as if she could sense the weight of Libby's frustration.
Libby sighed, picking up a brush and twirling it in her fingers.
Maybe he's jealous because he didn't spend enough time on his own painting.
If he focused more on that...
And less on being funny, he'd do better.
But what if he's right?
She put the brush down, her voice softer now.
What if my painting isn't good enough this time?
As if sensing Libby needed cheering up, Margarita suddenly leapt onto the easel.
Her orange tail swished down, dangerously close to the water cup.
And before Libby could react, her paw shot out and knocked several brushes to the floor with a soft clatter.
Margarita, what are you?
Libby started but stopped mid-sentence as the cat stared intently at one remaining brush, a thick sturdy one, balanced precariously on the easel's ledge.
No, don't knock that off too, Libby warned, holding her breath.
But Margarita didn't budge.
Instead, she gave the brush a decisive swat, sending it tumbling down.
Libby groaned, bending down to retrieve it.
You're making a mess again, silly cat.
She paused, holding the brush in her hand.
It was one she didn't use often big and bold, the kind you'd use to paint something with broad, sweeping strokes.
Then it hit her.
She looked at Margarita, who sat on her back haunches, her green eyes gleaming with what Libby could only describe as pride.
Wait a second, Libby murmured.
Her face lit up.
That's it.
I'll use this brush to paint something bold and big.
Something that shows how I should feel.
And instead of moody colors, I'll use something bright and colorful like you.
Margarita meowed softly. jumping off the easel and settling onto Libby's bed to observe her work.
Thanks, Margarita, Libby said, her voice steadier now, a spark of determination in her eyes.
You're a genius.
Let's show Joseph, and everyone else, what real art looks like.
Who cares if he doesn't like it?
He wouldn't know art if it painted itself.
With a grin, Libby dipped the big brush into a vibrant shade of orange.
The thick bristle swept across the canvas in bold, sweeping strokes as she poured her emotions into her work.
Margarita, perched lazily on the bed, flicked her tail with an air of approval.
It was as if she already knew they were creating something special.
For the next hour, Libby lost herself in her work.
With her headphones snug over her ears, she painted freely, the memory of Joseph's words fading with each stroke.
Each movement of the brush seemed to sweep away her fear of criticism, replacing it with a growing sense of excitement and creativity.
The once blank canvas began to transform into a vibrant explosion of colors and textures.
At one point, Margarita hopped off the bed to investigate the palette, but quickly decided that lounging was far better suited to her skills as a collaborator.
Libby didn't notice her mother quietly step into the room.
She felt a gentle tap on her shoulder and nearly jumped, pulling off her headphones.
It's time for dinner, her mother said with a smile.
I picked up some takeout from the grocery store on my way home.
It's reheating now.
Your painting looks fantastic.
I love the energy in it.
Thanks, Mom.
Libby replied, glancing back at the canvas.
A proud smile spread across her face.
It's turning out better than I thought it would.
I can't wait to see what my teacher thinks.
I'll be right there.
I just need to finish this one last part.
Margarita jumped off the bed onto Libby's lap as she added the final stroke to her painting.
The orange cat purred loudly, her tail flicking in approval.
You know, Margarita, Libby said, setting her brush down.
It felt great to just create something, to make something the best way I can.
Margarita let out a soft meh, as if offering her agreement.
I might not become an artist someday.
Libby said with a small proud smile but painting makes me happy and that's what matters, not what Joseph thinks.
The next day at school, Libby still felt a bit nervous as she walked into art class, but she held her head high.
She ignored Joseph's snide glances and quietly set up her canvas.
When she showed her work to her art teacher, Ms.
Rumez, the teacher smiled.
Libby, this is wonderful.
Your painting is so full of energy and emotion, Ms.
Rumez said, her voice warm and encouraging.
You've captured something really special here.
Later, while the class was busy working, Ms.
Rumez sat beside Libby. and spoke in a quiet voice so only she could hear.
I noticed Joseph's comments after last class and I reminded him that art class is a space for learning and expressing ourselves, not for putting others down.
I also told him that he sounded unkind and didn't think he wanted to be like that.
It may take him a while but I think he will understand.
Libby nodded, feeling a little relieved.
Here's the thing, Libby, the teacher continued.
There will always be people who don't understand or appreciate your work.
That's true for everyone, no matter how talented they are.
But what's important is how you feel about your art.
If it makes you happy and helps you say something about yourself or the world, then it's already a success.
Miss Rumez paused, giving Libby a kind smile.
Keep up the good work, Libby.
The more you create, the more your confidence will grow.
And remember, the world needs all kinds of voices and perspectives, including yours.
Libby smiled back, her nervousness disappearing.
Thanks, Miss Rumez.
That helps a lot.
You're welcome.
Now keep going.
I can't wait to see what you create next, the teacher said with a wink.
As Libby picked up her brush, she didn't think about Joseph at all.
Instead, she thought about how proud Margarita looked helping her earlier, and how her teacher had reminded her that art wasn't about impressing everyone.
It was about expressing herself.
With a slight grin, Libby dipped her brush into a bright swirl of paint.
This one's for you, Margarita, she whispered, imagining her cat proudly overseeing the process.
Maybe... even demanding a slice of pizza as payment for her inspiration.
And that is the end of our story.
Good night.
Sleep tight.
