About an hour later, the moving truck rumbles beneath me as we turn down an unpaved road full of potholes, leaving the flawless main street behind. This means that our trip is about to end.

When we drive past the few scraggly pines that line this ugly street, we hit pavement again, and immediately, my eyes seek out the coastline in the distance. And there it is: Celadon Bay; the beach that gives the city its name. It's obviously Celadon water—duh—and its white sand make it the perfect spot for summer vacations for people from all around the country. Sheesh... I already sound like one of those TV advertisements that go all, "Call now and get a second one for free!"

I blame this massive heat.

It's two p.m., and it's really hot, even for summer standards. You can actually see heat pulsing in waves off the pavement. And although the beach is a whole block away, it's plainly obvious it's bustling with people and movement, which makes sense, because it's one of those summer days when you sweat to your knees, and your clothes stick to your body like a second skin; one of those humid and heavy days that leave you gasping for air, secretly wishing winter would spontaneously decide to pay a visit. But it's perfect weather for the beach, only we're probably going to be busy hauling furniture around for the rest of the day, so I'm not holding my breath.

A few houses come into focus and the shore disappears, although there's still the smell of salt in the air, and I still hear the sound of crashing waves on the sand. Several modern-looking houses appear to have sprouted like mushrooms since I last visited, but I can still recognize the neighborhood. We're almost at my uncle's house; easy to recognize for the porch built on the side, and the stone that reads Aloha, leaning against the trunk of the pine tree on the front lawn. The white picket fence is new, and borders the front of the house, meeting up with the hedges on both sides.

Our truck isn't particularly big, but the driver takes his sweet time maneuvering it to park backwards in the porch's shadow, giving Uncle Owen and Aunt Sugar time to welcome us at the door. My cousin Alex is there as well. He's five or six years older than me if I recall correctly, which clearly means he gets to choose his own clothes, even if that means looking scary as hell. He's decked out in full 1970's British Punk attire and there are spikes of multi-colored hair sprouting from his head. The sleeves of his t-shirt are gone, and if it were up to me to guess, I'd say he probably lost them fighting a wolverine or some other wild predatory animal. It looks so old and ragged it hardly looks like a t-shirt anymore. His skinny, ratty jeans, boots, and generally spiky exterior, complete his look: choker, bracelets, belt, etcetera... you get the idea. My cousin Alex is the kind of guy who attracts trouble; if he sits harmlessly on the sidewalk with his friends, you can bet nine out of ten neighbors are going to call the cops. The tenth one will probably suffer a seizure on sight.

Despite Alex's scary looks, (and unless he's changed drastically since my last visit), he's a really nice dude. To prove it, he's the first one to welcome me when I jump off the back of the truck, his signature beacon-bright smile (a defining feature of the Jansen household), shining brightly as he lifts his balled fist in the air. I don't get the meaning of this, but I lift my own in the same manner, and he promptly bumps it against his. Of course he bumps fists. What kind of cool guy like him wouldn't? I ponder this as Alex walks past me to greet my parents.

Next comes Aunt Sugar, who is already all over me with hugs and kisses. Her real name is Alejandra, but nobody I know has ever called her that.

Her wide, motherly smile accentuates all her expression lines while she asks those things every aunt on earth asks their nephew when they haven't seen him in a long time. When did you grow up so much? How was high school last year? I bet you have a girlfriend already? Just did, good enough, and no. Huge no.

I can't really say it's the most pleasant moment of my life. Like I said before, it's really hot—too hot for hugs, and also, it's been three years since I last saw everyone, even though our house in Sunset Central was only an hour away. Aunt Sugar feels almost like a stranger to me, but she doesn't seem to feel the same way. I only know that she's a kind lady, that she's married to Mom's brother, and that she calls most kids 'Sugar' (even her own), hence her nickname.

I know even less about Uncle Owen. The few times I visited, he was usually too busy working at his restaurant. He makes an awesome pizza, though, and as far as I can remember, he and my Dad have always been friends. When they are together, they laugh like maniacs at jokes I never really understand.

"John, honey, you're in the way," Mom says. She is already in Mom Mode, carrying cardboard boxes inside at the speed of light. "See if you can find your things and then carry them to your room. Aunt Sugar will tell you where that is going to be."

Did she just say, "My room"? Sign me in!

"Don't worry, Liz. I'll take care of him." Soon Aunt Sugar is all over me again, hugging me and rubbing my arm, seemingly oblivious to the now overwhelming heat and humidity. I can't stress this enough: she's making me feel so uncomfortable on so many levels. And yeah, I get that she's trying to do the opposite. Whatever. Moving on.

As I'm sure Mom knew, my suitcase is right there, its size quite intimidating, by the way, and close enough for me to grab. The thing is as heavy as a freaking corpse. A big, fat one. To make matters worse, it's one of those old-school suitcases with no wheels like the ones you see older people pulling around in airports. My fault, though. Dad suggested I pack everything into separate boxes, but I had thought that was unnecessary when it all fitted so neatly in this eighteenth-century suitcase.

I have to wrestle it out of Aunt Sugar's grasp, though, because she insists on carrying it herself, and I can't let that happen now, can I? Eventually, she gives up, and with my pride intact, I drag the corpse all the way past the living room and into the aisle, then follow my aunt's lead to the farthest door on the right.

She knocks twice before opening, then swings the door open without waiting for a reply. It's a small room; half the size of my previous one, and there's not much furniture: a desk, bunk beds—which is, no doubt, a bad sign—that run the length of the room, a bedside table under the window, and a four-door wardrobe against the other wall. That's it.

My cousin Martin—the younger one, the one you better steer clear of—sits on the floor next to the bedside table, his back against the bed, phone in hands as he quickly taps away, probably texting. He looks up, flashing me my second beacon-bright smile of the day. It's impossible not to notice his dimples; they're fully visible when he smiles like this. But if something about Martin were to catch your attention before that perfect smile; it would be his big, radiant, emerald eyes. Framed with thick, long and dark eyelashes, they are the sort of eyes which belong in a movie or a soap opera.

"I've been expecting you, John Austin Foster."

Honestly, I don't know why he's waiting for me, or why he's addressing me by my full name. Make no mistake here: while he may be good-looking, this kid is the weirdest human being I've ever met, period.

I remember clearly the Christmas I spent at my cousin's house three years ago. Martin and I had quickly discovered we were diametrically opposed. Like the moon and the sun. And even though I'm the blond one, he'd definitely be the sun. Does that sound cheesy? Maybe it does. I'll explain why later.

For now, let me give you a few examples to illustrate just how different Martin and I are despite the fact he's only a couple months older than me, having turned fourteen on Christmas Eve.

Ladies and gentlemen: I give you The List.

· We like very different music styles.

· We play different sports.

· Our favorite subjects at school are also different.

· He's very fond of his cellphone, but I could live without it as long as I have my computer.

· Even our hobbies don't match.

· For me? Traditional pizza with chopped olives, thanks. Not his extremely extravagant (and disgusting) pizza, which I won't disclose to save you from barfing on the spot.

· His motion versus my stillness, his charisma versus my innate shyness...

And the list goes on and on. We're like two drops of water, right? Well, I'm water. Martin is oil. Burnt oil.

Five minutes later, after trying unsuccessfully to find something we just might possibly have in common, Martin plopped down on the couch and ate chips; he was obviously in a bad mood. He came back every time something else popped in his mind, but it was all in vain. He just couldn't accept that two people could be that different. Except that, yeah, they could. We sure as hell were.

So I don't get why this kid beams at me like this. Or why he would be expecting me.

"Martin, sugar, remember I told you you'd have to share your room with your cousin John?" Aunt Sugar asks, and I feel a boulder drop into the pit of my stomach. I'm going to have to share a room with HIM?! I knew those bunk beds were a bad sign. No way I'm getting the bottom one, then. Just saying.

"I sure do, Sweet Mother." Martin's smile, if possible, widens. Like he knows I'm dreading this. He looks at me and grins. "Come on, leave that somewhere and get yourself comfortable. I'll get us something to drink. I bet you're thirsty."

"But..." I want to stop him, but he walks past me and within seconds, is already out of the room.

"Okay. Can I leave you with Martin, then?" My aunt asks me, and I nod my head instinctively. I'm about to tell her I'm going to be tagging along, but she gives me quite a noisy smooch, reminding me that I don't really want her this close, then she leaves the room and says, "You settle in, Sugar. Maybe we can go to the beach later?"

And that's when Aunt Sugar wins me over. I mean, this is Celadon Bay, after all. The one and only thing I like about this place is that goddamned beautiful beach, so of course I want to go. I smile stupidly, but she's already gone.

That's when I turn around to take a closer look at the new prison cell, the one I refuse to call mine. The bunk beds make sense, but even so, I feel as though I must have done something horribly wrong at some point in my life, and now I'm being punished for it.

I immediately open and shut the door, but no luck there either. It swings smoothly, back and forth, all the way, with no dragging at all, and not the slightest sound. I immediately hate it, and this whole room, and my own life.

Not a minute later, Martin rushes through the noiseless, drag-less door, double checking the aisle before locking it behind him. Then he sets two long glasses over the empty desk and hides something in the narrow space between the bed and desk, so it can't be seen from the doorway. Whatever he's hiding there is something we're definitely not allowed to drink. It's the first time my cousin makes me break out into a cold sweat. I'm willing to bet it won't be the last.

"Please tell me, before this all becomes a big waste of time and effort, that you've never had a beer before." His eyes are hard and serious, and he's looking at me in a way that makes me feel like I've just been caught swearing in court.

"Uh... I have never drunk beer before."

"Yes! Perfect!" He celebrates to himself as though he's just scored in the World Cup finals. Then he produces a beer bottle from his cache and quickly fills both glasses.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. I don't think so, buddy," I reply, waving my hands in front of me. "Hard pass."

"Oh, come on, Johnny. You can't tell me you're not thirsty. Or curious."

"Of course I'm thirsty, but if my mother opens that door and finds me drinking from that bottle, which, just so you know, I'm NOT curious about, I'm going to be dead meat, so there's no way in hell I'm drinking it. Sorry... not sorry."

He considers my words, and realizing I've made a valid point, gives me a little nod.

"It's alcohol-free," he informs me, lifting the bottle for me to inspect. I study the label, and it does say as much in some pretty, golden text on the front label.

I look at the bottle, and then at him. His eyes grow impatient and restless, and my resolve starts to crumble, because that bottle is already covered with condensation, promising that its content is going to be deliciously cold.

"Come on, John. Don't be such a Cassandra."

"I'm not...! Okay, but just a sip," I say, lifting my glass and inspecting the brown thing, watching as a few strings of micro bubbles rise up in an endless procession.

Martin lifts his own glass in a toast.

And then we both have a sip. Martin almost chokes on it, most likely surprised by its bitter taste. I have mixed feelings. In a way, it's so cold, it feels amazing. On the other hand, it tastes kind of like dog pee. Not like I've ever had dog pee before, but this horrible taste clinging to my mouth has to be close to dog pee. I have another sip just to be sure. The gesture earns Martin's respect; he doesn't want to be left behind. It's like a mutual challenge, and we both manage to endure the whole ordeal, finally emptying our glasses.

We exchange glances. Our faces are contorted in disgust, and it's so hilarious that we end up doubled up in laughter. It takes us a while to stop laughing, but when we finally manage to tone it down, I ask him why it was so important for him to know I'd never had a beer before.

"You don't see it yet?"

I look at him in wonder. I really have no clue what he's up to. But as usual, his beacon smile lights up the whole room.

"We did it, John. I think we've finally found something we have in common!"

"You're kidding."

"Nope. I'm not."

"I mean, I remember us not having anything in common and stuff, but I never expected you to hold onto that for such a long time."

"I know, right?" he replies. "I've been thinking about this non-stop when my mother told me you were moving in two weeks ago."

"Well..." I say, serving up some more beer for both of us. "If it counts for something, I found out I was moving here about two weeks ago as well."

This time I get a different grin, and this one looks like he bought it online and had it delivered straight from the fiery pits of hell. Hell probably froze over a minute ago, but it's been definitely re-kindled now by that smile alone.

"Don't think for a second this will be the last thing we have in common, cousin."

Then he proceeds to take a million selfies of us holding up our half-filled glasses.

Boy. What the hell did my parents get me into? It only took me five minutes sitting beside this guy to break my first rule. Mom's definitely grounding my ass if she finds out.

Therefore, it's decided. I need to stay away from him; as far away as possible. Even though, to be fair? I kind of had fun.