I didn’t paint that painting, mom

At the end of eight grade, my mom had a painting I did in Mrs. Schmidt’s art class framed. “I love this painting so much,” she said as I held it out in shame before me. The only problem was I didn’t paint it. Nor did I have the courage to tell my mom the truth. I had no idea how long this one little white lie, meant to cover my tracks from a single missed assignment, would follow me throughout my life: from my teens to my twenties, thirties, and beyond. To back up for a moment and reveal the true artist behind the painting. A Pillow did paint the painting, but his name was Ben, not Jeff. Unlike yours truly, Ben did the class assignment. Not only that, he painted an extra — of which I became the heir to one. “Everyone turn in your homework,” Mrs. Schmidt had said that fateful Monday back in 1993. “Oh, shit,” I said under my breath. Looking toward Ben who sat next to me in art class, I searched for someone else who’d failed to do their art homework over the weekend. But as Ben and…