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.

"Don't-"

"I know. I won't go anywhere far, okay? I know you guys don't trust me with going to places on my own and that stuff."

-----/////-----

I had decided, quite spontaneously, that the best place to go was the Castellano's bakery. Although the main street that Orenda had cleverly introduced me to was definitely no place for a visually-impaired guy, much less a place for a visually-impaired guy named Finn who was way too cold to even swing his cane without turning into a block of ice. It also occurred to me that that was the second time I had walked out on my own in a week, and for some reason that made me feel all powerful and maybe even a bit normal. 'Cause that's what normal people do, right? Leave without someone looking after them.

Anyway, during the few times that Orenda and I went to the Castellano's bakery I had somewhat memorized the way to get there, which was something like: walk onto Main Street, take a left and continue until the smell of truffles or whatever sugar-spice-and-everything-nice hit me. Then, a right into the bakery. It felt strange to walk there alone without Orenda tugging me at every corner, or preventing me from bumping into old men (which happened a few times, admittedly), or using some foreign word that described almost everything perfectly.

Soon, I miraculously made it to the Castellano's bakery, which I determined by the hustle and bustle of people through the door and the mouth-watering smell that surrounded the entire premises. I maneuvered my way through the people and to the entry, where a mom shouted, "hold the door open for this blind man!" to her child or something like that. I don't know what surprised me more, her calling me a 'man' (even though I probably look like I'm ten, but who knows?) or myself thinking and even wishing that if I was at St. Hemling something like that would not have happened.

The inside of the bakery was warm and comfortable, unlike the chilliness that engulfed the outside, and I found myself standing in the front of the doorway just devouring the scents, if that was even possible.

"Finnegan?" I heard a voice say, and I immediately replied with, "yes?"

"Hi! It's me, Orenda's mom!" She patted my back and I practically flew onto a chair, and then was immediately disappointed by how uncomfortable it was.

"Hello, Mrs. Castellano."

"What are you doing here? Have you come for more tiramisu?" She chuckled, and I realized that her chuckle or laugh or whatever you called it was the kind that felt like a hug. It was a laugh that made you feel like there was really no sadness at all, and I loved that.

"Well, not originally, but that would be nice," I stifled a laugh and continued, "is-"

Mrs. Castellano interrupted, "did your parents speak to you about dinner in a few days? I'm so very excited to meet them again; we've really been pushing everything back, haven't we?"

"Yes, ma'am, I-"

"Would you like some biscotti and coffee? It sure is chilly out there today, eh? Quite cold for March weather, but this is Canada, is it not?"

"Oh, no thank you, I don't drink coffee."

"Some tea then, perhaps? On the house?"

"Um, sure, thank you," I fumbled around with my cane and then found a spot for it on the chair beside me.

"You know, you've really won Orenda's heart. She talks about you all the time!" Mrs. Castellano ruffled my hair and I laughed a laugh that was way too unnatural for her to not notice. Yet, I don't think she minded – and neither did I really. She said that I won Orenda's heart.

"Speaking of Orenda, is she around? I need to talk to her. Um, I mean, see her. Well, not see her, like just tell her something. Yeah. It's um... important."

"Sorry, no, she's at a doctor's appointment for her – YES I'M COMING, I'M COMING! Finnegan, I'll let her call you when – OH MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS YIKES QUICK IT'S IN THE CABINET!" I jumped with her sudden outburst and the next thing I knew, Mrs. Castellano was apologizing and screaming while running around, her heels clicking at the speed of lightning. The smell of smoke floated towards me and I quickly stood up, and that was followed by the sound of a fire extinguisher. A few people shouted things like: "OH MY GOD!" and a brief British "bloody hell" and a kid screaming "it's not toasted enough!"- which was pretty ironic, considering that if the fire hadn't been extinguished, we'd all be toasted, and quite enough, might I add.

I swiftly left the bakery, knowing that I was probably not going to see Orenda, nor was I going to get my biscotti and tea. Truly, there was something about Mrs. Castellano that reminded me of Orenda, in the sense that people want to get to know her, despite her random topics and interrupting people mid-sentence. It was their hippie ways, I guess. I kept walking and walking, but soon my ambling came to a stop when I registered what was going on in my brain – which was nothing. I didn't know where to go, honestly. I just started walking in the direction I believed was the way home, the way far far away from St. Hemling, and the way even farther away from Orenda.

Soon I decided to sit down on a bench in the middle of nowhere (after slamming my shin into it, I figured it was fate) and maybe even ponder about life or something deep in that sense. The only problem was that there was nearly nothing to ponder about because my thoughts became all one messed up train-wreck. I thought I smelled flowers for a slight moment, only to find out that it was just a flower basket above me surrounding me with its aroma. I brushed a few flower petals off of my hair and adjusted my glasses on my nose more comfortably.

After that I kinda sorta got sick of sitting on a lonely bench in the middle of nowhere – as people do – and I continued trudging through the cold atmosphere to my bungalow. I guess there wasn't much of a point to wondering about why I exist and why Egan wouldn't apologize and what the heck Orenda had to have so many doctors' appointments for and also why the bakery was (mildly) set on fire. They didn't really need to be answered anyway.

-----/////-----

The minute I got home, I expected a bombarding and abomination of parents-who-don't-like-a-kid-walking-out-on-them, but instead I was faced with my dad shouting, "FINN! SOMEONE'S ON THE PHONE FOR YOU!"

I collapsed my cane and felt my way over to the kitchen, shoes still on. I kicked them off aimlessly.

"Hello?" I said, fumbling with the bulky phone.

"Finn? It's me, Orenda!"

"Oh, hi."

"Well good golly you sure are excited to talk to me."

"Sorry, one sec."

I then felt my way to the kitchen table and sat on the end chair, listening to the silent rumble of the cars outside the window.

"Finnegan?"

"Hi, yes, I'm here." Orenda's voice sounded a lot different on the phone than in real life, so to speak, it was a bit more muffled and a lot more high-pitched, which actually wasn't too pleasant. I tangled the cord in my hands and sighed.

"You okay?"

"Metaphorically."

"Misuse of the word."

"Sorry, I'm not an English scholar."

She laughed. "My mom said you wanted to talk to me. It was, and I quote, 'um... important.'"

"I... I, uh, I have to go to school."

A bit of silence. "Cool."

"Not like, any school. St. Hemling. It's for deaf and blind people."

"That's great!"

"Eh."

"You get to be around people who understand you, Finn! That's pretty cool, if I do say so myself."

"I don't need people who are like me to understand me."

Silence. She sighed. "I like talking to you on the phone."

"Better than in real life?"

"Oh no. No way. Real life Finn is one of the best real-life people I've ever met."

I smiled and scoffed, feeling my cheeks become hot. I almost slapped myself.

"So... where'd you go to school before? I feel like I'm very disconnected from your education and stuff."

"Well, I had a tutor. His name was Barry, and he fell down the stairs, got a bit roughed up, and decided to retire. Which means I'm tossed out on the street for the next best thing – St. Hemling."

"Oh, that sucks. I totally understand."

"No, I'm not sure you do."

"I do, Finn. You gotta stop assuming everybody doesn't understand."

"Okay, um, here's something I don't understand; why did you go for a doctor's appointment again? I mean, didn't you just go a few weeks ago?" I chuckled (quite awkwardly) to ease up the tension.

"What's up with you changing the subject all the time?" Orenda teased.

"Oh, like you don't do that! I still remember the topic we started on – which was how I am a sad and vulnerably pathetic boy nobody understands."

"You're not pathetic."

"And you're not answering my question," I deadpanned.

"I went because... it was... it was girl stuff. Girl stuff! You wouldn't care."

"Girl stuff? Orenda May... are you pregnant?!?"

"NO! NO I'M NOT! Ugh, you're such an idiot. It's not important. Capisce?"

 "Alright." I sighed, defeated once again.

"I have to go. And, hey, if you really don't want to go to St. Hemling, maybe talk to your tutor or something. Barry, was it? Maybe he'll teach you for a little while longer and you can take your exams, and then find a school that you like better. There's only a little while until summer anyway. Maybe even find a new tutor for the rest of your highschool years, I dunno."

"Thanks counselor, but that's out of the question. My parents are rock solid about St. Hemling, I'm quite sure about it."

"I'm just trying to help."

"And I thank you for that." I could hear her laugh on the other side, and I absentmindedly started to peel away at the paint on the chair I was sitting on. Dried paint wasn't nearly as gooey as fresh paint, obviously.

"Okay Finn, I really got to go. It's late. And it's okay to be different, alright? Even though that sounds crazy cliché, it is. It's not like you're going to explode into fiery flame and fall into an abyss of some sort. Look, I don't know this Barry dude, but I do know that he practically raised you, and he did good. You're a good person, Finn. Also I don't really know what I can do to help other than tell you these things, and whether or not you actually hate St. Hemling or if you're just sad that your tutor is no longer what he's been your whole life. And different people get the best stories – which I know is something you want. And that's pretty badass, if you ask me." And she was gone.

The line was too empty for a while before I set the phone back in its home. A little part of me wanted to perhaps blow up a car and rip my shirt off or something hardcore because of how I didn't really have a say in anything at all. And the other part of me told me to keep my shirt on (because it was crazy cold... like, everywhere) and just try things out until I really couldn't handle it. Everybody had a breaking point, and what happens during one's breaking-point is pretty self-explanatory.

And so I ignored all the hatred and stupid stuff I had for St. Hemling and asked my dad to drive me to Barry's house, complete with my unfinished Braille assignment and 'Dotted Sidewalks' in my hands. I wasn't really sure why I wanted to see Barry so much, but maybe it was because I felt semi-bad for him. "Semi" meaning the good part of his career being over is that he no longer had to deal with the nuisance, aka me. Also it was the possibility that Orenda had knocked some sense into me. Plus, Barry was the closest thing I had to a friend at that very moment, which I find not that lame at all.

-----/////-----

As I rang the doorbell, I could hear Barry's wheelchair whirring towards the door and I anxiously stood there as the lock jiggled a bit too much. I fiddled with my cane and once the door opened I could feel Barry kind of realize it was me, because I figured he didn't really have that many people who would come and visit him.

"Hi, it's Finnegan Annson."

"I know."

"Can I come in?"

I immediately realized that the Swiffer Spray smell had vanished almost completely, but the constant jazz music was still there, maybe on a turntable, spinning around and around endlessly. Kind of like the string on my jacket I was attacking because of all my nerves.

"Why you here?" The answer kind of barged at me, and I gulped.

"I just wanted to say thank you. And um, see how you were doing."

"For what? You want water?" I didn't answer, but he seemed to know that I was pretty thirsty. I followed his whirring sound into what I believed was his kitchen, and noticed that my bulky shoes were still on. I started to kick them off, but figured that Barry wouldn't mind anyway, considering he lacked something very important – eyesight.

"Here's your cup." I could hear the rustling of his shirt but I couldn't pit-point exactly where the cup was, so I just flailed my arms around and eventually grabbed a cold, glass object when my hand hit it. I inched closer to the source of the cup. "Sink's right in front."

Quickly, I placed 'Dotted Sidewalks' and my assignment on the counter and found the sink then turned the water on, putting the cup underneath the stream of coldness. My heart pounded at the mere thought of Barry listening and critiquing how I get my water. Because that's what Barry did, he critiqued every little bit of motion or every little thought that ran past my head. I pulled the cup away once I felt the water on the tip of my finger.

"Anyway, my mom – well, my parents told me about um, your retirement. And I just wanted to come by and thank you for teaching and putting me up, I mean, putting up with me, for all these years. Yeah. Sorry about being a handful and all that." Sip.

"Don't thank me, it was my job."

"But, you helped me, a lot." I hope I didn't sound as scared as I felt.

He whirred somewhere else and inhaled (a bit too deeply) and said, "you're welcome Finnegan."

A brief – and really really awkward – moment of silence followed, complete with my occasional sips and his occasional huffs and puffs; they reminded me of Orenda. I racked my brain thinking about all the things I needed to thank Barry for, the thing Orenda requested that I should do, but the only ones that were honestly things I would like to thank Barry for were like 'thanks for spitting in my face' and 'thanks for giving me unearthly amounts of essays every week' and 'gee, thanks for slamming the door on your way out'.

"There's this girl," I began.

"Oh?"

"And I feel really bad about saying this, but I think I'll feel even worse if I don't. I kind of didn't really care about you, and she knocked some sense into me through the phone. So basically I'm here because of her, and I completely get it if you hate me, 'cause honestly I hate myself too sometimes."

"It's not a problem, Finnegan."

"Also I racked my brain dry thinking of things I could thank you for, but nothing came to me. Also, if I was to be truly honest about my intentions, I've been angry at you for my entire life. I don't know why. I felt like you were limiting me, maybe, but really, in the end I was just barring myself up. Stupid, huh?"

"It's not stupid," he shifted his position and whirred a few times.

"And now I have to go to this even worse school that spends every second of every day telling me it's alright for me to be me. And I get it, more than anything, really. Which is the terrible part because it's starting to sound fake and like I'm basically not even human anymore. 'You can do whatever you set your mind to, Finn!' 'you are a STAR, Finn!' 'just because your eyes are lacking their eye-ness doesn't mean you don't have potential, Finn!'"

"Sometimes a little help can... help."

I scoffed.

"What's her name?"

After all that I told him, that reply scared me the most. A rush of cold sweat zipped through all of my nerves and I found myself shaking the glass of water so hard that droplets were spilling over onto my hand. It was the first time Barry had shown any interest in me, my life, or my feelings even, so it was extremely strange. I wiped my hands and set the glass down.

"Her name's Orenda."

"I see. Anything else about her that you want to tell me?"

I clenched my jaw and we sat quietly for a little while, until I finally managed to find the courage to speak up. "You know that book you gave you for the assignment on metaphors and symbolic meanings in literature?"

"'Dotted Sidewalks'?"

"Yes, that one. Well, you see, I always hang out with Orenda on Saturdays and this one Saturday she dragged me to this big tree that's a little bit symbolic of stuff – anyways, that's not important – and told me to paint."

"Paint?"

"Paint. And of course, I thought she was crazy... like, I'm visually impaired, so of course I can't paint. But here's the weird part – I did paint. I took the paintbrush and I dipped it in the gooey paint and we – wait for it – dotted the sidewalks. In a literal sense. And so that part really made me feel like the boy from the book and how good it really feels to dot the sidewalks, regardless if it is literal or not. What I'm trying to say is: I think the boy could've made his world, and a lot of other peoples' worlds, really freaking good. Oh, sorry about that. I meant really good. And it made me sad because sometimes I feel like it's a waste of time for someone like me to dot the sidewalks instead of someone as great as Orenda May, purely for the fact that I can't see and can't function in the way a lot of others do. In the end, it kind of dawned on me that, hey, I'm missing something, but the world is missing a whole lot more, which means that I still have something to offer, huh?"

"That's very insightful, Finn."

"Also, that's the part of my essay I didn't finish. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, it's no longer due, and you've earned yourself a solid 90 percent."

"Oh, thank you."

He cleared his throat.

"Really. Thank you." I was starting to mean it more and more and more as I sat there on his couch.

"There's a sequel to 'Dotted Sidewalks'. I can't remember what it's called, but I know where it is," he whirred away for a while and came back, still whirring, but with a book. "You can have the two books."

"For real?"

"I've memorized the whole collection anyways."

"I'll have to say thank you again." He set the books on the spot beside me, and I fumbled around until I got a hold of them. 'Dotted Sidewalks' slipped between my fingers but the other book was extremely bulky, and suddenly, a lot of hope was restored. I didn't even know that I had missing hope, but it came back in the sense that the boy maybe will be with the girl. Maybe he would dot some mean sidewalks.

"You know, you're a way better person than a tutor, Barry." I said, tracing my fingers softly over the cover of my new book. 

"And you're a much better person than a student, Finnegan."

I laughed and stood up, quickly gave him a hug and left, the jazz trailing away slowly. And I swear I heard Barry almost laugh – and to be honest I felt like the day (or life in general, really) wasn't so crappy after all.