The Night Before the Big Trip

Celia had been counting the days since March.

She'd made a paper chain — one loop for every single day until the trip — and hung it across her bedroom wall like a caterpillar made of purple and yellow construction paper. Every morning, she'd rip off one loop, crumple it into a ball, and toss it into her wastebasket with a little cheer.

"Seventeen more days until the beach house!"

Riiip.

"Twelve more days!"

Riiip.

"Six more days!"

Riiip.

She told everyone. She told her teacher, Mrs. Huang. She told the mail carrier. She told the kid behind her in the lunch line who she didn't even know.

"We're going to Pelican Cove," she'd say, bouncing on her toes. "There's a rope swing over the water, and my cousin Marco says there are crabs that walk sideways under the dock, and my mom says I can have ice cream EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT."

Celia had packed her suitcase two weeks early. Then she unpacked it. Then she packed it again, better this time, with her goggles on top so they wouldn't get squished by her raincoat.

And now, finally — finally — there was only one loop left.

One single purple loop hanging on the wall.

Tomorrow morning, the whole family was driving to Pelican Cove.

Celia sat on her bed and stared at that last loop.

She did not rip it off.

She did not cheer.

Instead, she pulled her blanket up to her chin, looked around her room, and said, very quietly, "I don't want to go."

Her older brother, Danny, walked past her door carrying a pillow and a bag of pretzels.

"You ready?" he said. "Dad says we're leaving at six in the MORNING. Six! That's not even a real time."

Celia didn't answer.

Danny stopped. He leaned against her doorframe. "What's wrong with your face?"

"Nothing's wrong with my face."

"You look like you swallowed a marble."

"I didn't swallow a marble."

Danny shrugged and walked away, crunching a pretzel.

Celia lay back on her pillow. She looked at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. She'd stuck them up there last summer, and they were a little crooked, and one of them was actually on the ceiling fan, so when the fan spun, that star went around and around in a slow, dizzy circle.

She liked that star.

She thought about the beach house. She'd never been there before. She didn't know what the ceiling looked like there. She didn't know what the bed felt like. She didn't know where the bathroom was, or if the hallway creaked, or if the night sounds would be the same as her night sounds — the hum of the refrigerator downstairs, the soft click-click of their dog, Biscuit, walking across the kitchen floor.

What if it was too quiet there?

What if it was too loud?

What if the crabs were actually scary?

What if she didn't like it, and she was stuck there for a whole week, missing her room, missing the fan star, missing everything?

Celia rolled over and pressed her face into her pillow.

A few minutes later, her mom came in and sat on the edge of the bed. She smelled like the lavender lotion she always put on at night.

"Danny says you swallowed a marble," her mom said.

"I didn't swallow a marble."

"Good. Those are expensive." Her mom smiled. "What's going on, bug?"

Celia sat up slowly. She hugged her knees.

"I don't think I want to go to Pelican Cove anymore."

Her mom didn't gasp. She didn't say, What? After all that counting? She didn't say, Don't be silly. She just tucked a piece of hair behind Celia's ear and said, "Tell me more about that."

And so Celia tried, even though the feelings were slippery and hard to hold onto, like a wet bar of soap.

"I was excited," she said. "I WAS. But now everything feels... too close. Like tomorrow is right HERE, and it's big, and I don't know what it's going to be like, and—" She looked around her room. "I just really like it here. Right now. In my room. With my stuff."

Her mom nodded. "You know what? That makes a lot of sense."

"It does?"

"Mm-hm. Sometimes when something is far away, it feels like a fun idea. Like a bubble floating out there. But when it gets close — really close — it stops being an idea and starts being real. And real things can be a little scarier than ideas, because you can't control them."

Celia thought about that. "The bubble pops."

"The bubble pops," her mom agreed.

They sat together for a moment. From downstairs, they could hear Dad zipping up the big cooler and Biscuit's tags jingling.

"Mom? What if I don't like it there?"

"You might not like all of it. That's okay."

"What if I miss my room?"

"You probably will, at least a little. And your room will be right here, waiting. It's not going anywhere."

Celia looked at the glow-in-the-dark stars. The fan wasn't on, so they just sat there, glowing faintly green. "Can I bring one of my ceiling stars?"

Her mom reached up, carefully peeled the fan star off the blade, and handed it to Celia. It was small and light and a little dusty.

"There," her mom said. "Now a piece of your room is coming with you."

Celia held the star in her palm. She closed her fingers around it gently.

She didn't fall asleep right away. She lay there listening to the house — the refrigerator humming, Biscuit's claws on the tile, Danny arguing with Dad about how many pretzels he was allowed to bring in the car.

She held the little star against her chest.

She thought about the rope swing. She thought about crabs walking sideways. She thought about ice cream every single night — maybe chocolate, maybe strawberry, maybe both.

Her stomach still felt tight, like a fist. But inside the fist, there was a small, warm flutter. Like a little moth bumping around in there, trying to find the light.

She wasn't sure if it was excitement or nervousness.

Maybe it was both.

Maybe they were the same thing, just wearing different hats.

Celia closed her eyes. And somewhere between the hum of the refrigerator and the jingle of Biscuit's tags, she fell asleep.

The alarm went off at five forty-five in the morning, which, Danny was right, was not a real time.

Celia sat up in bed. Her room was still dark. Her suitcase was by the door, goggles on top, right where she'd left them.

She looked at the ceiling. There was a blank spot where the fan star used to be.

She opened her hand. The star was still there, stuck lightly to her palm. She peeled it off, walked over to her suitcase, and pressed it right on top of her goggles.

Then she picked up the last purple loop of her paper chain.

She held it for a second.

Riiip.

She didn't throw it in the wastebasket this time. Instead, she tucked it in her pocket.

In the car, with the sky turning pink and Biscuit's head hanging out the window and Danny already asleep with pretzel crumbs on his shirt, Celia pressed her forehead against the cool glass.

Her stomach was still doing the thing — that tight, fluttery, moth-bumping-around thing.

But as the houses and the traffic lights and the familiar streets slid past, she put her hand in her pocket and felt the crumpled purple loop.

A piece of home.

A piece of all that waiting.

She watched the road ahead stretch out long and wide, heading somewhere she'd never been before.

And she whispered, so quietly that only Biscuit's ears twitched, "Okay. Let's go."