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 asmall 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.
I arrived at the address, a modern community center in an affluent neighborhood, with floor-to-ceiling windows and fresh landscaping that still smelled faintly of mulch. The parking lot was lined with high-end cars. Sleek BMWs, a polished Mercedes SUV, and a striking red Audi that looked like it had never seen a muddy road. Even the less flashy vehicles had a certain gloss to them, the kind of cars that belonged to people who had them detailed every other week. If the cars were any indication, people with money were here. I patted the dashboard fondly when I parked my fifteen-year-old Honda Civic with its faded blue paint. “Don’t worry,” I murmured. “I still love you.”
Flustered and breathless, a young woman was waiting inside the door, her clipboard clutched tightly to her chest as if it might escape if she let go. Her hair, twisted into a messy bun, had strands rebelling in all directions, and her glasses perched crookedly on her nose. She looked like she’d just finished wrangling a herd of stampeding children or perhaps something wilder. “Mr. Carter?” she asked, her voice hopeful yet strained. I fished out my school ID and held it up. Relief instantly softened her face. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed, then jabbed her finger down a corridor. “Room seven. Good luck.”
I wanted to ask her what she meant, but she launched out the door and scurried away as fast as her Louboutins would let her. Only her words lingered, carrying just enough weight to makeme pause. Not ominous exactly, but enough to make me wonder what I’d walked into.
Okay, what could be worse than a room full of six-year-olds?
I stopped at the door, took a deep breath, and squared my shoulders. My rucksack of supplies dug into my back, so I adjusted the straps. Then, conjuring up my best “I’m ready for anything” smile, I grasped the door handle, steeling myself for whatever lay beyond, and walked in.
The room was in chaos. Five big men—broad-shouldered, muscled, and towering—filled the space. Each wore some variation of sweatpants and jerseys, but nothing was relaxed about the tension crackling in the air.
Two of them were locked in a struggle, shoving and swearing, their voices rough and sharp. The scrape of shoes against the floor was loud, and a chair skidded sideways with a loud clatter as one man shoved the other back. They were shouting and cursing—I think one of them in French—filling the room with a tension that made my skin prickle. One furious man had another pinned against the wall, his arm pressed hard against the other’s chest. Two others tried breaking it up, pulling at the angry guy and speaking urgently.
Near the back, a fifth man leaned against the wall, arms crossed, seemingly unbothered by the bedlam unfolding around him. His expression was impassive as though this was just another Friday.
I stood frozen in the doorway, my rucksack still slung over one shoulder, mouth slightly open in shock. This was definitely not what I’d expected from an art class.
“Coach!” the lounging man shouted, and the tension shifted instantly. The fight snapped apart, the angry one shoving his opponent away, sending him sprawling to the floor in a furious, sputtering crouch. The tension in the air didn’t disappear, though. It just crackled, shifting focus.
The angry guy turned, and his gaze locked onto me. He had blood on his face, a thin trail seeping from a cut above his eyebrow, and his expression was murderous.
I flicked my gaze around the room, taking in the mess of overturned chairs, scattered sketchpads, and the jagged tear in one of the canvas boards. Then, my eyes landed on the sign tacked to the side wall:
