Yellow (editing)

The Art of Surviving in a Half-Okay State

After every incident that has ever happened in my short and utterly boring life, I have learned one thing: I was never a good "bad news taker"... or whatever you call it. I'm pretty sure the majority of the world isn't either, but I was particularly sucky. Like, there was this one time in grade five when Egan's beloved hamster Nibbles passed away after his birthday, and he was completely and utterly devastated, and he visited me to cry and reflect of Nibble's entire existence. And so obviously I sat and listened to him explain to me how much Nibbles really mattered to him, even though I hated that little thing. But the most cringe-worthy thing was this – when he told me that Nibbles passed away because he was pooping too much, I laughed. I laughed at Nibbles' death. He didn't even mention Nibbles after that incident.

Point is... I was a bad "Bad News" taker.

So when my mom called me for dinner on Friday, her curly hair batting my face every moment I reached out for a napkin (I usually needed a lot of napkins, considering I don't know where to locate my fork half the time) and she said, "we have some bad news, Finnegan," I panicked. Which, consequently, resulted in a conversation like this:

Me: "What?"

Mom: "It's about Barry, Finnegan."

Me: "He's going to teach me now?" I tried to hide the sadness in my voice, but clearly it leaked through.

Dad: "Quite the contrary! He's retiring."

Me: "From?"

Dad: "Well, to put it lightly, you."

Mom: "Honey, this is not a joke." She held my hand in hers. (It suddenly occurred to me that my hand was now bigger than my mom's.) "His health is declining, and the broken leg has really set him back. He's old, Finn, and it's time for him to retire."

Dad: "Yeah, bud, how 'bout you visit him some time?"

Me: "He's not exactly the friendliest guy on the planet, dad. He won't like me visiting. He doesn't even like me breathing."

Mom: "That's not exactly my point honey," my mom's hand slid away from mine and I sat back in the rickety chair a bit. "You've still got to go to school and study."

Me: "Please don't say what I think you're going to say."

And all that resulted in was the terrifying six words that I had never wanted to hear ever in my entire life: "You're going back to St. Hemling."

Me: "But I hate it there."

Dad: "I thought you weren't very fond of Barry either."

Me: "Well I hate St. Hemling even more!"

Dad: "Well you'll learn to love it."

Me: "That's what you said about spinach and look where I am now."

Mom: "Tone, Finnegan."

Me: "Forget it."

And so I dropped my fork, the silverware clattering on the table, and stood up. It's not that I hated St. Hemling purely for the reason that it was St. Hemling; it's just that the place makes you feel different. Not good kinds of different, obviously, like 'wow you can run at unimaginably high speeds and camouflage better – even amongst chameleons' different. It was the kind of different you feel when the people teaching you how to cope with something you don't have has that certain something – and in the end they aren't really coping at all so why should it even matter. It was that kind of different.

"Finnegan Annson, where are you going?" My dad said, his voice thick.

"Somewhere that's not here," I replied dryly, grabbing my cane and feeling for the doorknob. I carefully unlocked the lock.