Celadon Bay - Book One

A new beginning

John

"John, honey!" That's Mom's cheerful voice calling me, most likely from the living room. "We're leaving in five minutes, let's go!"

"Coming!" I shout back over my shoulder, then turn back to my bedroom. It's completely empty and ready to stop being mine. We're moving today, and I'm not sure yet how I feel about it, because I've always lived here, ever since I can remember. I know every inch, wall, and corner of this whole apartment, and I know this room best of all, even now, when it looks so big and different without all my stuff. My eyes scan the corner of the window I cracked with the RC chopper I got for Christmas a few years ago, the glass exposed now without the curtains. I find the footprints on the wall where my desk used to be. The slightly raised floor tile where the door drags, and the hook where I used to hang my punching bag, because yes, I do own a punching bag; I practice my karate moves on it when I have nothing else to do, which is basically fifteen hours a day during summer. Finally, there is the busted outlet Dad never got around to fixing near the bed.

Seeing that outlet reminds me I didn't charge my phone, not like it matters, but I pull it out of my pocket and check it out regardless. It's almost 1 p.m., and I have 26% battery left. There are no messages; no surprise there. The only one who might have texted me is Steven, but he's spending his summer vacations overseas. His last message was nine days ago, when he landed in France. Yup, fancy vacations, right there.

These croissants are worth the headache

He also attached a picture of a couple of croissants that don't look much different from the ones Mr. Schroeder sells at the bakery two blocks over, but since that's not the kind of thing you say to someone who just flew across the ocean, I just didn't answer. Steven should be used to it by now; I rarely reply to any of his messages anyway, mostly because I never have anything worth saying. I guess you could say it's worth mentioning I'm moving away, but one, he already knows, and two, I'm moving to Celadon Bay, which is relatively close so it's not that big of a deal. Anyway, I plan on visiting him often when he gets back.

I don't know anyone in Celadon Bay except for my cousins. One is too old to hang out with, and the younger one is best kept as far away as possible, hence, I have no plans to get too cozy around them, even though I'm moving to their house.

It sounds crazy, right? Leaving your own apartment to share a house with some random relatives? But that's how Mom and Dad explained it to me a couple weeks ago. They called me for dinner and sat down side by side facing me, which is weird, because they usually sit at both ends of the table.

"So, John." Mom's voice alerts me that something's about to happen. She pauses, building the anticipation; doesn't say anything as she serves up some mashed potatoes, adding a juicy steak before passing me the plate. Another red flag: my favorite food. "How do you like Celadon Bay?"

I purse my lips and glance at my parents quickly before cutting into a piece of meat. I don't really know what she means by, 'how do I like Celadon Bay', but she's most likely asking for summer vacation reasons, and to be completely honest, I'm not thrilled. My cousin Martin alone isn't worth the trouble, but I don't say this out loud. God forbid I ever go against my mother. Instead, I tell her what I actually like about the idea, which is hard, because there's not a lot.

"It's a great beach, I guess." It's not like we don't have beaches in Sunset Central; ones which are far closer than Celadon Bay, by the way, but they aren't quite as nice, granted. We never go to the beach anyway, so it doesn't really matter to me.

Mom and Dad share a glance, like they've forgotten how to talk to me. Dad groans a little and takes a more direct approach.

"Champ, it's like this: the three of us are moving to Celadon Bay next month."

"Thomas!" Mom's horrified by Dad's bluntness, but truth be told, I'm glad someone finally spilled the beans.

"Okay," I say before Dad can counter her. Because what else am I supposed to do? Refuse?

"We're going to be moving in with Uncle Owen and Aunt Sugar," he adds, and that's when my face hardens a little. Suddenly, I feel like I'm chewing boulders.

"Okay," I say again, though this time I really want to say one or two things against it. Still, like I mentioned earlier, God forbid I ever go against my mother. Now, it's not like my mother is a monster or anything, but her disappointed frown holds some mysterious powers I would rather avoid.

Dad nods. "See, Liz? I told you it would be fine. Thirteen is old enough to understand, right Champ?"

Mom reaches forward to hold my hand, squeezing it lightly. "It's only going to be temporary, honey."

So, she knows I'm not loving the idea.

"How temporary is this temporary thing, anyway?"

"That, I can't really know," Mom replies, scrunching her face a little. She gives my hand another squeeze. "The idea is we'll be working at Uncle Owen's restaurant until we can manage to rent a place of our own again."

OK. I get it; this is because the factory where Dad was working before went bankrupt or something, so we can't keep our apartment anymore.

"John! Come on, Champ!" Dad's voice booms from the living room, bringing me back to the present, and, subsequently, to my empty room. I turn on my heels to leave, but I give it one last glance. It's hard to believe I'll never come back to it, that it will no longer be home.

Yeah, that's exactly how this feels. Like I'm going to be homeless.

I drag the door one last time over that tile on my way out. Mom is waiting for me at the front door with a paper bag and a suspiciously cheerful smile.

"Are you ready, honey?"

I nod and head out without looking back, taking the paper bag from her. I notice how Mom takes a couple of seconds before locking the door for the last time. When I look at her, her smile is gone, and for the second it takes her eyes to meet mine, I wonder, does she feel homeless, too? Maybe she does.

"Can I jump in the back of the truck?"

"Sure thing," she says, and points at the paper bag in my hand, rebuilding the fake-looking smile. "Make sure you eat that, all right? You like meat pie, don't you?"

Leftovers from dinner. Great. One last taste of home, I suppose.

I ride in the back with our furniture, as the engine rumbles to life. I take my lunch out and bite into the meat pie as we roll slowly through the streets where I grew up. There's Mr. Schroeder's bakery, with his not-quite-French croissants. And Mr. White's dojo—now on summer break—, complete with Allan, Spencer and the other kids who consistently hated me for winning every single kata and kumite tournament ever. Not going to miss them, that's for sure. I mean, it's not my fault that they don't practice at all.

We drive past Crescent Barks Middle School, a place I shared with the aforementioned kids, my only friend Steven, and Leah—a girl so dead set on following me, I had to search for nooks and crannies all over school to hide in. Definitely not going to miss that, nor the chats with Ms. Campbell, the school's counselor. Those were more like monologues really, because I'm apparently too shy to engage in social interaction. No comment, pun intended.

But as Dad drives through our familiar town, I realize I'm not going to miss anything out here in the wild. Nope. What I'm really going to miss is that empty room with the cracked window and the raised tile—the safe place I could escape to after dealing with all that other crap. But what's gone is gone, right? There's no point in dwelling on it any further.

What I wonder, though, is what my room in Celadon Bay is going to be like. I don't remember my Aunt Sugar and Uncle Owen's house having many guest rooms, but it's been a while since I last visited; maybe they have an empty one waiting for me; maybe it will be just like the one I'm leaving behind. Maybe one with a lifted tile, where the door drags.