2. Finn
TWO
Finn
I studied the painting carefully, drawn in by the bold colors and the passion radiating from each layer of thick paint.
Something about it struck a chord in me as if the artist had thrown every emotion they had onto the canvas, hoping something would stick.
The texture felt almost violent, yet there was a fragile vulnerability in how the colors clashed but somehow worked together.
The strokes were heavy, rough enough to nearly tear through the canvas.
It was as if the brush had been wielded with raw emotion, desperate to make a point.
A potent mix of chaos and intention I couldn’t stop staring at.
“Wow,” I said.
It was a house with an orange roof that slanted steeply like a witch’s hat.
The perspective skewed and impossibly challenging.
The sun in the corner looked furious, all jagged lines and angry yellow swirls.
A family was scattered in front of the house, and I loved the boldness and confidence in each imperfect line.
There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just raw, unapologetic creativity, the kind I wished I could channel before self-doubt crushed me.
I loved the passion, the energy, and the way the colors seemed to pulse with life—just as captivating as any old master.
It reminded me of Van Gogh’s wild brushwork or the emotional intensity of a Munch painting.
Art that didn’t just depict a scene but made you feel it.
That was what this piece did. It grabbed me by the collar and refused to let go.
“And that’s Muppet, my cat,” a paint-crusted finger pointed at a dark blob, which channeled Jackson Pollock.
“Wow,” I repeated, pouring as much genuine awe into my voice as I could manage, my enthusiasm never faltering.
“Is it okay?”
I lifted my gaze and met Jamie’s wide eyes as he awaited my opinion. His fingers were twisted in his purple shirt, and his expression was uncertain.
He’d been quiet all day, which wasn’t like him.
Sweet and angelic by name but a holy terror in every other way, the six-year-old would shove the paper in my face and demand I tell him he was brilliant.
I made a mental note that the male figure in the painting—dad, I assumed—was standing some distance from the mom and the two kids, plus, of course, Muppet, the cat.
Placing the dad apart like that could mean so many things.
Maybe Jamie had overheard an argument or the dad had taken away a toy or perhaps it was something bigger, like a family breakup.
I’d mention it at the end-of-day briefing to see if anyone knew anything because it might explain why Jamie had seemed off today.
One of the things I’d learned over the years was how much a child’s home life could appear in their drawings.
A house set apart, a family member drawn smaller or further away.
Sometimes those little details told stories kids didn’t know how to put into words.
It wasn’t always a sign of trouble, but I’d seen enough to know when something felt off.
Anyway, back to the art side of teaching a class of first-grade students.
“I’m going to pin it to the amazing wall of awesome,” I declared, and he beamed at me.
Little did the class realize, but everyone got their chance on that wall on rotation—no child left behind—and when they did make it up there, they lit up like fireworks.
Every piece my students created was amazing, even the sheets with just a splash of color in the center reflected their world, feelings, and imagination.
Jamie bolted back to his table, shouting to his best friend, “I told you he’d love it!” Now, there was the happy, smiling Jamie I knew.
I grinned and shook my head, turning my attention back to the classroom.
Twenty kids spread across mismatched tables, with pencils and crayons scattered like confetti.
The air buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the occasional shriek.
Some kids were deep in concentration, tongues poking from the corners of their mouths as they furiously shaded in rainbows or crafted stick-figure masterpieces.
Others shared crayons like traders at a bustling market, bartering for the best shades of red or blue.
This end-of-day art session was chaotic, but it was also full of life.
The kind of energy that made teaching feel less like a job and more like a privilege.
I made my way around the tables, offering help, praising color, breaking up a small fight over the last purple crayon, and frowning at the stain in the corner that had expanded since last night’s rain.
Gladwell Elementary, Rochester, was a tired old thing—all peeling paint and drafty windows—but I loved it here.
This was my third year of teaching, and I still felt lucky every day to walk into this room and see those eager faces.
I just wished there was a budget for remedial work to fix the wall.
Maybe I’d grab Connor over the weekend, and between us, we could paint over the stain as a shortstop and, perhaps, even figure out where the rain was coming in.
My big sports-playing brother might be an idiot at times, and the bane of my life, but he loved his DIY.
Teaching these kids was everything. If it meant less time for my art, that was life.
It was a work in progress. My parents had panicked when I mentioned being a full-time artist. “There’s no money in art,” they’d said in unison.
I was a good son who listened to his mom and dad, and compromised his fine art dreams, choosing a career in early childhood education, teaching for stability while creating art in quiet moments.
Weekends were for painting, and evenings were for class prep.
And my volunteer work—running art therapy sessions at the local community center and sometimes the hospital—was my way of keeping my passion alive.
Lessons complete, materials put away, one by one, parents whisked away my six-year-olds to their homes. I tried to catch Jamie’s mom’s eye, but she’d always been a run-and-no-stopping kind of mom, so I didn’t get a chance to talk.
The classroom fell into a rare silence. I padded around fixing things, putting the room to rights by straightening the paintings on the wall, wiping down a few desks, and gathering stray crayons that’d rolled under tables.
The quiet was oddly soothing, the calm after the storm of twenty energetic kids buzzing through my space.
Emma, a fellow teacher and friend, appeared in the doorway. She looked exhausted, her face pale with that familiar glassy-eyed expression I’d seen a hundred times before.
“I’ve got it,” she said dramatically.
I knew exactly what she meant. A cold. The one that bounced permanently between kids and teachers, no matter how hard we tried to dodge it. It was as inevitable as sticky fingers on freshly cleaned windows or someone spilling juice five minutes after lunch started.
I skirted her to get out of the classroom, crossing my fingers in front of me. “No, I don’t want it again!”
“Too late!” she rasped in her best zombie voice, arms outstretched as she staggered after me.
I laughed, dodging her grasp as we made our way down the corridor.
Kids’ coats still dangled from hooks, and an abandoned backpack slumped by the water fountain.
The school felt quieter, almost peaceful, but Emma’s dramatic performance kept the mood light.
We reached the hall for the post-day meet up. Our principal, Tonya Lewis, was a stickler for communication, a fact I appreciated more than I could say. Clear communication kept everything running smoothly, which was no small thing in a job that constantly balanced chaos and calm.
There were ten of us at Gladwell, ten teachers—nine women and me—and we stood in a loose circle, all giving Emma a wide berth.
Conversation buzzed around us, snippets of lesson anecdotes, laughter, and plans for the weekend.
Emma kept sniffling theatrically, wiping her nose with an ever-dwindling tissue supply.
When it was my turn to talk, I mentioned Jamie and the painting.
I kept my tone casual, but I described the details: how his dad had been set apart in the picture, how Jamie had seemed off today, and there’d been moments of stress over the last couple of weeks.
“He gets in fights with some of the others, but y’know it always blows over, and he’s back to happy-Jamie.
Might be nothing… but I thought I’d flag it just in case,” I added.
The meeting was done, and I headed for the car.
I loved my job, but there was something about Fridays that just made everything feel lighter.
That sense of release after a long week, knowing I didn’t have to prep lessons or break up fights over crayons for two whole days, was like a breath of fresh air.
Tonight, though, I wasn’t heading straight home. I had a brand-new art class lined up. Confidential. I didn’t have many details, but the man who booked me had assured me it was a small group of five, and I’d have access to whatever supplies I needed.
The NDA had been unexpected and unusual for a simple art class, but it only made things more intriguing.
Maybe it was for a prominent Hollywood actor, a politician, or a millionaire businessman.
Who knew? The mystery added to the excitement building in my chest as I drove away from the school.
The thought of fresh paint and eager people wanting to learn all the mysteries of art filled my mind.