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This book is dedicated to anybody who feels out of place, is out of place, or wishes they could be just like the others. This is for the people who think they are missing out and the people who wish they could miss out. This is for the people who wish they were extraordinary, and the people who wish they weren't so much. This goes out to the people who don't know who they are, and the people who know who they are - this book goes out to everyone.

Why?

Because you're worth it.

And you can create a masterpiece (it's guaranteed).

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YELLOW

Around the first month of my sixth year, I realized that I was unimaginably different from the majority of society.

        And it wasn't because I had twenty-seven toes, or that I was two-thirds llama or anything bizarre and stupid like that. 

My parents were the kind of parents that were incredibly social and about as popular as you could get among their group of 30-50 year olds, and that meant we (all three of us) would bolt to any gathering without hesitation. So, when the Castellanos invited us over to their house for Christmas dinner, we walked in the freezing Toronto wind and snow to get there. Well, because it was what we did. We went to other people's candle infused, air-conditioned houses and stayed there because we sure as hell didn't like ours.  

        I grabbed onto my dad's felt and rubber-lined glove, and he straightened my itchy hat that was beginning to slip off of my silky hair and onto the ground. My mom and dad talked the whole way there, but I kept my mouth closed because the wind was blowing right in our faces, and I had to prove to the rest of the world that I indeed could survive the bitterest Canadian winter - and choking on a snowflake would most definitely not be a heroic way for a six year old boy to die.

        I wanted to prove a lot of things, now that I think about it.

My dad carefully and cautiously guided me on the streets, holding me close to him, so close that I could feel his thunderous voice echoing throughout his whole body when he continued his chat with mom.

        "How are you feeling, Finnegan?" Mom asked, and I could smell her disgusting yet comforting tangerine scented lotion as she stroked my half-frozen cheek.

        "I'm cold."

        "I know. Only a few more blocks."

        "Will they have toys?"

        "They'll have lots of toys, but be..." she trailed off, waiting for me to finished the rest of the sentence, like we always did.

        "Respectful, joyful, and not a big fat handful." A smile formed on my lips but I quickly closed my mouth again; because of the snowflakes, of course.

When we had supposedly reached the front of the Castellanos' house, dad picked me up swiftly (he was not strong, so it was strange how he could pick me up with such ease) and straightened my glasses that were slipping off the end of my nose. My mom fixed my hair.

        "Hi! Hi! Welcome in, please, come in!" A very excited woman said to us, her Italian accent making me start to laugh, forcing dad to set me down on the ground. It took me a while to get my footing again.

        "Thank you so much for inviting us." My mom said. She held my hand and lifted me up, probably to help me get over the stairs. Stupid things, those were. I hated them immensely. She took off my hat and started to unbuckle my boots and I twirled my frozen finger around in her thick hair.

        "No problem, it is my pleasure." The other woman said, and she patted my head softly.

        "Here's some salad that I fixed up today," mom stood up and I heard the clattering of plates.

        "Thank you! You didn't need to-"

        "CAN I GO PLAY WITH THE TOYS?!?!?" I shouted at the top of my lungs, clearly forgetting the rule of 'not a big fat handful' and 'respectful'. I was pretty joyful, though, mostly because the Castellanos' house smelled like lasagna and it was comfortably warm.

        "Finnegan!" My mom scolded. I started running towards nowhere until I bumped into a wall face first. My nose throbbed.

        "I'm so sorry." Mom muttered as she helped me up and adjusted my glasses.

        "Here, I'll take him inside." My dad picked me up and swung me over his shoulder - the thing I loved the most. 

 He set me down eventually, on a rough, thick carpet, so thick that I could reach my fingers underneath the strands and bury my whole hand in it. I remained there, but soon I heard some screaming from a room far away. A little girl, I assumed. Sure enough, it was.

        After my dad talked over the 'top three rules' to me, and told me to remain right where I was, and to yell if I needed him, the girl that I heard screaming from the other room stomped her way right in front of me, a drafty wind following her. She smelt like flowers, the best kind of smell. 

        I stayed still as I took in her scent and reached out my hand cautiously.

        "I'm waving at you!" She screamed at me forcefully and with undeniable anger, as if I had just set off a bomb or something; instead of not replying to whatever 'waving' was.

        "Stop screaming!" I screamed at her, covering my ears that were still cold.

        "It's rude when you don't answer to waves and just stay there like a lump." She reasoned.

        "What's a wave?"

        "It's when you do this." She paused. I sat there.

        "Do what? Just say, hi, my name is Finnegan. That's what I say when I meet new people."

        "Okay, okay, okay." She giggled a high-pitched giggle. "Hi, my name is Finnegan."

        "You say your name, though, silly." I laughed so hard that I rolled onto the ground, because that was the funniest thing that had ever happened in my whole life. Right there, on that carpet with the girl that smelt like a garden. Right there.

        "You say your name, though, silly!" She mocked me, and I laughed even harder. "Anyway, hi, my name is Orenda May. But you can call me Orenda. It means," she took a deep breath and her voice shifted into a monotonous sound, "a mystical force present in all people that empowers them to affect the world, or to effect change in their own lives." 

        "That's cool. Do you have toys?"

Orenda did have toys, and she had the best kind. There were stuffed animals, toy cars, and even a kitchen set that made kitchen sounds when you pressed down on something. I was particularly fond of her stuffed animals, mostly because they didn't hurt like burning rocks when you stepped on them accidentally, a whole lot different than toy cars.

        After Orenda and I had played on that carpet for a good hour, my dad picked me up and carried me over to the table. A million of smells that I just couldn't decipher hit me like a truck, and I had an urging feeling to eat very single thing I could get my hands on. It just smelt that good. 

        Just like every single dinner, my dad propped me up comfortably on his lap and slowly fed me my food bite by bite, either telling me "open" before the spoon hit my lips or just lightly tapping the cold silverware against them. I could hear Orenda not too far from me, but I was too hungry and engaged with the hearty lasagna to bother talking to her.

        "Why don't you eat by yourself Finnegan?" I heard her say. "I do, it's easy, but I'm five years old and you're ALREADY SIX YEARS OLD," - she emphasized that part particularly - "and I can eat all by myself already." 

        "I dunno." I muttered, hurt beyond compare that a five-year old could actually do something that I - a then six year old - couldn't have done.

When I had gobbled down my body weight in lasagna (and completely ignored mom's way-too-healthy salad) dad carried me back to the carpet and Orenda jumped over to me, each jump making a satisfying THUMP on the ground. Like any curious and energetic six-year old would, I got up and jumped along with her, not caring if my glasses were falling off of my face. In fact, I took them right off and chucked them into the dark abyss.

        Then she screamed.

I didn't know what she was screaming at, so I laughed, naturally. I mocked her and continued jumping but I could hear her running away from me, and her small voice in the other room saying, "Finnegan's eyes are SCARY. Really SCARY." Every time she said SCARY, I felt closer and closer to tears. What were eyes? I thought. 

        My dad's footsteps neared me and I started walking in the direction that I believed was the direction to my dad. He scooped me up and put my glasses back on. "What are eyes?" I ask him, my little innocent voice quieting down everyone else.

        "Finny, bud, you... you don't need to worry about that." He brushed his shaky hand through my hair and sighed. I could tell he was sad. I was young, but I was not stupid.

But, I still wanted to play. So, Orenda and I continued our playing on the carpet. She suggested 'tag', which was something I was familiar with. All I had to do was run and try to feel the other person, without bumping into anything and falling. My self-esteem lowered though, because she was five and I was six, was I not? And she could catch me much faster than I could catch her, and she wouldn't fall either. Soon I caught up to her and slapped her proudly (a bit too hard, might I add) on her shoulder. "You're it!" I shouted triumphantly. She said, "ow," but she didn't cry. That was my favourite part about her, she always had courage, and she always got right back up.

        After what felt like a few seconds of 'tag', my mom picked me up and got me bundled up, and ready to leave the Castellanos' candle and lasagna scented house and into the chilly Ontario air.

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We never went back to the Castellanos, because they had moved. They moved to a place that was better, and much farther away from us. And my life continued, but I knew what was wrong with me. Dad begged me to never say that it was something 'wrong'. Unfortunately, it was obvious that I had something wrong with me, because it wasn't right.

        I would like to say that I didn't think about Orenda May Castellano after that, but nevertheless, I did. I though about her much more than a person should think about a girl he met on Christmas in his sixth year of living, even to the point when I started to doubt my sanity. Perhaps it was because her name flowed together smoothly, like honey, or it was just because I was in desperate need for a friend. I wished upon the so-called 'stars' with my head sticking out my window, every night, that maybe she would come back. Maybe I could say sorry for scaring her with the eyes that I didn't have.

        Yet, I would've never guessed that on the 25th of January, 1999, two exact months after my 15th birthday, that a garden-scented eccentric girl would tap me on the shoulder and whisper in my ear, slowly and smoothly, with a hint of laughter, "You're it."