Chapter 3: Off to Haneda Airport: The 14:00 Flight
If I'd known that 14:00 flight would carve a line between "how things were" and "how they'd be," I might've lingered a little longer by our apartment door.
The taxi's horn blared outside, sharp enough to jolt Mia from her last-minute rummaging.
"I'm coming! I just need my phrasebook!" she yelped, darting out of her room with a crumpled notebook in hand.
Her elephant keychain swung from her backpack zipper, clinking against the fabric. I'd recognize that sound in my sleep—she'd had it since the Thai fair.
I slung my own backpack over one shoulder, the star-patterned blanket Mom made me tucking against my back.
Inside my bag: passport, phone, and that dog-eared Thai history book. Its pages still smelled like the vanilla candle from our old room.
Dad grunted as he hauled the last box—labeled "Jax's Manga (DO NOT TOUCH)"—to the door.
"C'mon, slugger. This thing weighs more than you did at ten. Help me with the handle."
I grabbed it, my arms straining. "Hey, these are collectibles. You'd carry your golf clubs just as careful."
Dad snickered. "Touché. But if we miss the flight 'cause of your comics, I'm hiding 'em in the attic when we land."
Mia bounced on her toes, shoving her phrasebook into her pocket. "I can say 'airport' in Thai now! 'Sânàm bin'!"
She yelled it too loud, like she was showing off, and Mom rolled her eyes but smiled.
"Cute, but the driver already knows where we're going," she said, flipping off the apartment lights.
The room went dim, and for a second, I stared at the empty wall where our height charts used to be.
Fifteen years of pencil marks. Gone, just like that.
Mia nudged my elbow. "Quit moping. We're gonna eat mango sticky rice in, like, six hours. Remember?"
I nodded, but my throat felt tight. "Yeah. Let's go."
Mrs. Tanaka was waiting by her door, a tin of matcha cookies in her hands. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun, and her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
"For the plane," she said, handing the tin to Mom. "Better than that sad airplane coffee."
Mom hugged her quick. "We'll send photos, Yuki. Promise. Of the temples—and the lavender plant."
Mia wrapped her arms around Mrs. Tanaka's waist. "And I'll bring you a pink silk scarf! With elephants! The best one in Chiang Mai!"
Mrs. Tanaka patted her head. "I'll be waiting. Now go—don't let that plane leave without you."
We piled into the taxi—a beat-up white van, its seats worn but clean.
The driver tipped his cap, his English rough but clear. "Haneda Airport? 14:00 to Chiang Mai?"
Dad nodded, sliding into the front. "That's us. Thanks for waiting."
Mia and I squeezed into the back, our knees bumping. She pressed her face to the window, her breath fogging the glass.
Tokyo slipped by—tall buildings scraping the sky, crosswalks crowded with people in suits, cherry blossom petals swirling like pink snow.
"I'm gonna miss the 7-Eleven by school," she said softly. "The one that sells melon pan. Remember how we'd sneak one before class?"
I laughed. "You'd sneak two. And then blame me when we were late."
She poked my arm. "Liar! You were the one staring at the manga rack!"
Mom turned around, grinning. "You two never change. Wait till you try Thai street food—you'll forget all about melon pan."
Mia's eyes lit up. "Really? Dad said the satay has peanut sauce that's 'life-changing.' Is that true?"
Dad glanced at us in the rearview mirror. "Absolutely. I had it in Bangkok once—still dream about it. You'll beg me to take you to the night market every night."
Mia clapped her hands. "Yes! And I'm gonna learn to say 'more peanut sauce' in Thai. 'Mâak kráp!' Did I say that right?"
I shrugged. "Beats me. But if you mess up, we might end up with a bucket of durian instead."
Her face fell. "Ugh, durian. You're just scared it'll smell bad."
"I'm not scared!" I protested. "Have you seen the videos? It looks like it'd knock you over with one whiff!"
Dad chuckled. "We'll settle it in Chiang Mai. Winner picks dinner for a week."
The taxi merged onto the highway, and Tokyo's skyscrapers faded into trees.
The ocean glinted in the distance, blue and bright, and Mia pulled out her phrasebook again, flipping pages so fast I thought she'd tear them.
"Look! 'I want mango sticky rice'—'Khâaw nâaw má-muuaang'! I can say it perfect now!"
She pronounced it slowly, proud, and I had to admit—she didn't sound half bad.
"Not bad," I said, pretending to be bored. "But can you say 'Jax is the best big brother' in Thai?"
She stuck her tongue out. "No, but I can say 'Jax is a dork.' 'Jax pen kon ngôo'!"
Mom laughed. "Okay, you two. Save the bickering for the plane. We're almost there."
Sure enough, a few minutes later, Haneda Airport loomed ahead—huge, glassy, planes taking off and landing with a roar that shook the van.
My heart skipped a beat. This was it. No going back.
Dad paid the driver, and we hauled our boxes out. Mia stared up at the "Haneda Airport" sign, her mouth hanging open.
"Whoa. It's way bigger than I remember."
"We were here when you were seven," Dad said, slinging a box over his shoulder. "You cried 'cause you wanted a Hello Kitty plush from the gift shop."
Mia's face turned red. "I did not! That was… uh… Jax!"
I gaped. "Me? You're the one who threw a fit when Mom said no!"
Mom shook her head, smiling. "Let's go check in before we start a war. Lines get crazy this time of day."
Inside, the airport was a zoo—business travelers in suits rushing by, kids yelling about planes, families taking photos by the departure boards.
The air conditioning hit us like a cold wave, and I shivered, even though my backpack was heavy.
Mom went to the check-in counter, her passport and tickets clutched in her hand.
Dad stayed with the boxes, and Mia tugged my arm. "C'mon! Let's get snacks!"
We wandered to a vending machine, our pockets stuffed with yen.
Mia bought a green tea soda, the can cold in her hand, and I got a chocolate bar—matcha filling, my favorite.
We leaned against the wall, watching people rush past.
"Can you believe we're actually doing this?" she whispered, sipping her soda. Her voice was soft, like she was scared to say it out loud.
I shook my head, peeling open my chocolate bar. "Nope. But it's gonna be cool. New schools, new food, new… everything."
She nodded, a small smile on her face. "Yeah. New everything."
I stared at the departure board, where our flight—NH837 to Chiang Mai—glowed in bright letters.
This wasn't just a trip. It was a reset. A chance to stop being "the kid from the apartment by the 7-Eleven" and become someone new.
Mom waved us over a few minutes later. "All set! Gate B17—boarding in 30 minutes. Let's go before we get lost."
We grabbed our carry-ons and followed her, weaving through the crowds.
Mia stopped to stare at a shop window—Thai silk scarves in pink and gold, tiny elephant statues—and I had to nudge her to keep moving.
"Jax, look!" she said. "That scarf would be perfect for Mrs. Tanaka! Can we come back later?"
"Later," I said. "We gotta get to the gate. Promise we'll come back before the flight."
She pouted but kept walking. When we reached gate B17, the screen flashed: Tokyo (HND) to Chiang Mai (CNX) – Boarding at 13:30.
Dad pulled out his phone. "C'mere, you two. Photo for the album."
Mia slung her arm around my shoulders. I grinned. She made a silly face—eyes crossed, tongue out—and Dad snapped the picture.
"Perfect," he said, showing us. "Someday we'll laugh at how nervous we were."
"I'm not nervous," Mia said, but her fingers twisted her keychain.
I nudged her. "Sure. That's why you've checked your phrasebook five times."
She stuck her tongue out, but she was smiling.
Then the announcement blared: "Attention passengers for flight NH837 to Chiang Mai. Boarding now at gate B17."
My chest tightened—excitement, not fear. Mia grabbed my hand, squeezing it tight.
This was the line. The moment "before" ended, and whatever came next began.
We walked toward the jet bridge, our shoes clicking on the floor. The flight attendant smiled as we handed over our passes.
"Enjoy your flight to Chiang Mai."
We stepped onto the plane, and the first thing I smelled was citrus—fresh, clean, nothing like Tokyo's coffee-and-exhaust air.
Mia darted to our seats, by the window, and I followed.
She pressed her face to the glass, staring at the tarmac. "Look at the planes! They're so big!"
I sat down, buckling my seatbelt. Outside, Tokyo's skyline was still visible, faint in the distance.
For a second, I felt a twinge of sadness—like I was leaving a part of myself behind.
But then Mia nudged me. "Hey. When we land? First stop: mango sticky rice. Deal?"
I laughed, squeezing her hand. "Deal."
The plane's engines roared to life, and the cabin shook. Mia grabbed my hand again, and I squeezed back.
We taxied down the runway, faster and faster.
Until suddenly—we were lifting off.
Tokyo shrank below us, tiny and bright. I watched until it blurred into the clouds, then turned to Mia.
She was grinning, eyes wide. "Thailand," she breathed, like she was testing the word.
"Thailand," I repeated.
And somewhere in the hum of the engines, I knew—nothing would ever be the same.