Transported

Ch. 1

THUMP

That was the door swinging open.

"Get up. You're leaving today."

That was my current, but soon to be previous, foster parent.

I was glad to be leaving. I didn't want to spend any more time in this place.

Where was I going again? Oh yeah. Tranquility, California. Closest thing to the fictional home of the fictional Sam Witwicky. I was a huge fan of the TF's, and even though I knew that none of the movies had actually been shot there at all, going there was actually pretty cool in my book. Sure, it was going to be a group home this time, which lacks foster 'parents', but that had to be better than here. I had recently been living in this foster 'home' with a family who was nice, but they'd had so many foster kids taken away from them that they had become numb. They didn't even try to reach out to me.

At least I'd be moving to a group home for foster children (Why didn't they just call it an orphanage?). Oh well. I'd had enough of 'parents', and I always did like staying with a big group of people my age; the roommate life.

On the downside, for the first time in my life, I'd have to leave my beloved Minnesota. I'd always been able to stay in the same general area. California would be a whole new thing. Why I was going across the country? God knows but I didn't.

All this I thought while I hadn't moved in bed. I was urging my body to get up, literally thinking to myself: Get up, get up. Finally it complied, though it screamed in protest. I sat up, hunched over with my head in my left hand for a second before turning to look at the clock.

7:00. AM.

I groaned and flopped back down onto the bed, thinking: Whyyyyyyyy? I hate getting up early. I didn't even get up this early for school!

Well, do you want to get out of here or not? I asked myself. Besides, it's not too horrible. I could be getting up earlier. This made me get up again, ready to go this time. I looked around for the pile of clothes I'd set out for today, which actually wasn't hard to find. For once, the room wasn't a complete pit. My messy rooms are different from most. Instead of a floordrobe, the floor of the room I stayed in usually was covered with papers. My papers. From stories that would never make it to the inernet, to sketches of figments of my overactive imagination, to info I had once thought important printed off from the internet, my room looked like a tornado had passed through a paper mill and had dropped everything it had taken up onto my floor. And all of it was far too important or far too sentimental to recycle. All of it. The only reason it was clean was because I'd packed every last one of my precious papers into an old totebag that I would be keeping with me on my flight. All the much less significant things, like clothes and toiletries, were packed into a single suitcase.

I don't care if my clothes are in style, which they aren't, I just care that they portray me as me, which usually meant baggy jeans, loose T-shirts, athletic shoes, an a cap. Some people think I look like a wannabe gangsta, but it's what I'm most comfortable in. Another thing I care about is that, if my shirts are going to advertise something, it had better be something I like. No Abercrombie & Fitch for me, not that I'd have them if I wanted them. I was a foster kid after all. I liked to show my favorite bands, favorite characters, Christ, favorite movies, etc., but I didn't have a lot to represent this stuff with, so I had to put my imagination to use.

For example: Today, in honor of my moving to a town named Tranquility, I had chosen to wear what I counted as my Bumblebee outfit. My outfit wasn't as obvious as it could be. What I had was a black T-shirt, a yellow hoodie, a pair of steel gray jeans, a pair of back athletic shoes, a yellow new era cap with a black rim and a big red Autobot insignia on the side, a pair of small plastic blue retro earrings for 'optics', and a silver Autobot insignia necklace to top it all off.