Dear Readers and Beetlejuice Fans,

Well, here it is, my second full-length fan-fic! Though it isn't as long as my first one, I still worked very hard on it and put as much love into it as I did in the first one.

This fan-fic is series based, though there are many references to the movie. I basically wrote this as a pre-series story that combines parts of the movie with elements from the series, and little bits I made up. Some dialogue is taken verbatim from the movie, such as when Lydia first meets Barbara and Adam. Just a heads up: Beetlejuice is seen very little in this fan-fic because it corresponds to "Third Time's a Charm", which says that Beetlejuice and Lydia met a year after Lydia moved to Winter River. There are also a few more differences from the movie. For example, Lydia starts out as ten years old to correspond with both my first fan-fic and the series. Delia Deetz is also Lydia's biological mother (I've derived from the series that Delia and Lydia are biologically mother and daughter, they just disagree on everything).

Despite these alterations, I hope that you all enjoy my fan-fic. Thanks!

-Arianna Summers (aka Lydia A.)

P.S. I do not own Beetle Juice (the movie) and/or Beetlejuice (the cartoon).

P.P.S. Please review! =)

Chapter One: Moving

Father told us at the dinner table. That night we picked at soppy noodles drenched in butter sauce that was too oily and contained too much garlic with overcooked broccoli bits mixed in. I scraped the stem pieces of the broccoli to the rim of my black square-shaped plate. When Mother cooked broccoli, or any vegetable for that matter, she managed to nearly completely drain out all of the flavorful color the vegetable once had. I barely sipped my water; somehow she managed to screw that up too.

Mother's plate was white, as was Father's. Each room in our New York City apartment was decorated according to a specific theme. The dining room's theme was black and white. The long dining table was stained with black and white vertical stripes. The chairs alternated between the solid colors. The legs of these chairs were modeled after chess pieces. I sat at the black bishop. The base color of the walls was black but strange white designs littered the darkness. The designs, I thought, were quite random. At one point they were quite simple and geometric, but in the next section they were complicated and lyrical with winding twists, spins, and swirls. It reminded me much of the entire floor we inhabited. Father owned the apartment building we lived in and the entire top floor was our house.

I wasn't exactly paying attention to the first part of Father's announcement. Instead I picked at my noodles with my black-stained fork. That's what really stunk about being an only child. When the parents wanted to talk about adult things, all the kid could do was sit there and stare at her food. I let out a heavy sigh. I always found Mother and Father's business discussions to be quite boring, as nearly every ten-year-old child would think. Once I actually tried listening in and fell asleep in my lobster bisque. I was about to have a face-full of butter and garlic, but Father's words stopped me in my tracks.

"We're moving."

I stared at him, eyes wide. The cold air of the dining room stung my dark brown irises, already commencing to suck the moisture out. Moving? As in going away? As in going away and never coming back? That kind of moving? My fingers let go of my fork, letting it hit my black square plate with a metallic "clack".

Mother didn't seem too thrilled, which also made me quite surprised. It wasn't like Father to be so…dominant. He sat up nice and straight in his chair and didn't shrink away when Mother looked at him questioningly. As far as I knew, Father shared everything with Mother.

"Charles!" Mother exhaled, her eyes bugging out. "When you said you bought property, I didn't think you meant that you wanted to move into it!"

"I don't see what the big deal is, Delia," Father replied, his voice as quiet and fidgety as always, though he continued to force his head erect. "It's located in a nice small town with no big buildings and such. It's the perfect place to relax."

"Oh, Charles, you can do that at any old spa!" Mother whined. "It's so boring up in Connecticut! I mean, Winter River? That's the middle of scenic Nowhere!" I hid a smile behind my napkin. Mother always looked so funny when she was angry. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head and her lips were always pursed in a silly manner. Her nose would squirm ever so slightly when she talked, and her voice would scale to higher pitches with each word that passed through her red-stained lips. They continued with their little tiff for another seven minutes or so before Mother finally lost and left the table furiously.

My gaze trailed straight to Father. He quickly dunked down the rest of the white wine in his glass. Though he was quite the mellow fellow, he was at least a little stressed every time I looked at him. Dark black circles hung under his eyes. His eyelids were drooping. His right knee bounced up and down nervously. Though he may have been rattled by the argument with Mother, I knew that we were still moving. Father never backed down from a deal.

Cautiously I began to push my chair back. I quietly stood and pushed it back in, taking my plate and cup with me. As I neared Father, he looked up at me.

"You excited about moving, Punkin?" he asked while he began standing.

"Sure, I guess," I replied lowly. In reality, I wasn't exactly sure how I felt. Well, at first I was kind of surprised, but now that the news had sunk in, I couldn't derive any emotions. I never really got attached to New York City. I wouldn't be leaving friends behind. My only friend, Percy the cat, would be moving with us. I didn't hate New York City, but I didn't necessarily love it either. As far as I could see, it was just a setting in my life, and settings are subject to change.

"I think you'll like it there," Father said as I followed him into the kitchen. "Our house is at the top of a hill and has a lovely view of the mountains and the town, but it's still sort of secluded. Plus the neighborhood's a lot safer." I tuned Father out as he rambled on about how great our new house was. Sure, Dad, it may have been a nice house, but was it a nice home?

Mother let out a frustrated cry from her art studio. Again I hid a smile behind my hand. Father let out an uncharacteristic chuckle, which caught my attention and made my head whip towards him.

"Diva tantrums," he muttered sarcastically, "you know I love 'em…"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I sat on my bedroom floor surrounding by a mountain of cardboard boxes. With a marker in my hand, I began labeling them.

"Lydia's Clothes". "Lydia's Clothes 2". "Lydia's Clothes 3". Mother recently went on a huge shopping spree and bought a cornucopia of outlandish outfits, washed in ridiculously bright colors and donned with frivolous decorations like lace, sparkles, and bows, which would make the average ten-year-old go gaga. I preferred to stick to my solids. Hopefully, I would be able to dispose of boxes two and three before moving day.

When I picked through those pieces, I could not find a single inch of fabric I wanted to use to make something more suitable for myself. My black frocks were once strange pants, shirts, skirts, and dresses, but with a few alterations I managed to make them fit my taste. The dresses I normally wore were black with a small V-neck. The sleeves were loose and ended about halfway down my forearm. The dress body was also quite loose, but the material would slightly hug my curves once I actually got some. The skirt reached down just below the knees. Under that I wore a pair of black footless tights. A thick purple and pink striped belt hugged my stomach. Contrary to popular belief, I was not utterly repulsed by the color pink, but too much of it was what turned me away. My pink and purple ponytail holder matched the three-striped belt. Mother didn't seem to approve the fact that I wore the same thing almost every day, but she never actually said anything, so I figured I was in the clear.

"Lydia's Toys". "Lydia's Toys 2". I had no more precious baby toys. They were all handed down to my cousin Bernie Junior, though I never actually saw him at family reunions, which brought me to the conclusion that Bernie Junior did not actually exist, and was just a lie my parents made up so I would give up my toys. Though I enjoyed them when I was young, I became more reluctant to receiving toys as I got older. Each Christmas and birthday, my parents insisted that each relative gave me a doll, or a stupid fake make-up kit, or a stuffed animal, or something else girly. I'm not sure if my parents had trouble grasping the fact that I was mature for my age or they completely realized that and wanted to dumb me down to age-appropriate things. Either way, I rarely ever received the gifts I actually wanted. When I asked for a voodoo doll, I got a Barbie. When I asked for a second voodoo doll, I got Ken and Barbie's dream car (which was pink, by the way). When I asked for a sewing machine to make my own voodoo dolls, I got a Barbie "Sew-with-Me" sewing machine, which was bright magenta and actually did not sew at all. But I can't really be upset with my family. Eventually, I did get the real sewing machine, and I also got a normal bike. I also hoped to get rid these two boxes of unwanted toys before the moving day.

"Lydia's Sewing Machine and Materials". I made sure to write FRAGILE in big, huge letters on all six sides of the box. I underlined each FRAGILE three times, hoping that the moving people would catch my drift.

"Lydia's Make-Up". This small box actually contained my voodoo dolls.

"Lydia's Jewelry". This small box contained the jewelry I wore and the make-up I used.

"Lydia's Voodoo Dolls". This small box actually contained the make-up Mother bought me. I knew that Mother was going to throw it out before moving day.

"Lydia's Photography". "Lydia's Photography 2". "Lydia's Photography 3". "Lydia's Photography 4". "Lydia's Photography 5". All of my photo equipment was delicately packed in these large boxes. If I could only take one thing with me to Winter River, it would be my camera. It was my pride and joy. In fact, I planned on taking the first photography box in the car with me because I didn't trust my baby with the movers. Carefully, I opened the first box and gently lifted the camera out of it. It was black, very slightly shiny, and perfect. This camera was my China doll. It was my most prized possession. Not even Father, who gave it to me for my ninth birthday, was allowed to touch it. Since then, I was also given two more cameras; one that was small and that I used when we went on trips, and another that was a little smaller than my first one and produced instant pictures. I still preferred my first camera, which took photographs that allowed me to develop them. I found that to be half of the fun.

"Photography 5" contained my photo albums and scrap books. I never travelled without my albums. Inside the albums held my best photos (the ones I would use for my portfolio in college), photos from trips, and the ones that preserved my favorite memories. Most of those photos were of Central Park. I rarely went out with Father and Mother. I often rode my bike to Central Park just to take pictures of the beautiful landscape. I took pictures of people relaxing on the grass. I took pictures of trees swaying with the spring zephyr. I took pictures of rocks sitting in their designated spots. I captured life and non-life. I preserved memories. In my new house, in my new room, I would look at those Central Park photos and remember my days in New York City. I would remember good things, such as my ninth birthday, and bad things, like when Dad lost his nerves on Thanksgiving when I was four. Good or bad, they were still memories, bits and pieces of my life, and I think having those old friends to recall was what kept me alive.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I had no one in New York City to say goodbye to.

As I rode my bike through Central Park for the last time, I couldn't help but sigh. The rocks would not notice my absence. The benches did not realize my existence. The trees would not wave goodbye to me. The relaxing people in the grass would forget me, if they ever recognized my existence.

In this city, in this world in itself, I was just another face. I was just another body, another mind, another soul, one that was simply standing with the rest of the crowd. I was a part of the mass, yet at the same time I was isolated from it. I was exactly like everyone else, but so different simultaneously. I was perfectly present in life, yet invisible.

Goodbye New York.

Goodbye, Nobody.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything was packed and ready to go. I sat in the back seat of the car with my camera in hand. A large box titled "Good China" sat next to me. I prayed that my fragile photography equipment was safe and sound in the moving van. All I could do was wait and worry.

"Anyone have to go to the bathroom?" Father asked as he climbed into the driver's seat. Mother shook her head and turned away, still mad. I was thankful for this. Mother tended to break out into song spontaneously on family car trips. Her shrill voice always gave Father and me immense headaches. His eyes trailed to me. I shook my head slowly and sank into the seat, clutching my camera.

The engine hummed to life. Father left the parking lot of the apartment building. I glanced at Mother, who was staring sadly at the top floor, the house she worked so hard to decorate. Whoever moved there was going to ruin her "beautiful" work. A heavy sigh escaped her lips.

We sat in traffic for half an hour. Once we finally made it out, Father made sure to get us to the highway as quickly as possible. It was about nine in the morning, the time I usually woke up during summer vacation. My eyelids drooped tiredly. I had been up since five getting ready for the big move. Now that we were finally on the road, I failed to see what was so big about it.

I pushed myself into the proper seating position and glanced out the rear-window. Three husky moving trucks stalked us. My equipment was in one of those trucks. I prayed that the driver who kept switching lanes was not carrying my photography stuff.

Bored out of my mind, I began snapping photos. The bright flashes failed to bother my eyes. I decided to title this album "Backseat Blues". I took pictures of the "Good China" box using strange angles to give it an abstract look. I captured close-ups of the air vents. The light that bounced off of the metallic door handle gave a nice effect. But shortly enough, my fun ended.

"Lydia," Mother snapped, "stop taking pictures! The flash is hurting my eyes!" When I knew she wasn't looking at me, I stuck my tongue out at her. What else was I supposed to do? I couldn't sketch because my art supplies were in one of the moving trucks. I couldn't read for the same reason. Oh, a good Stephen King novel would've been perfect for the ride over! I let out a sigh and sank back into the seat. If it weren't for that stupid box of "Good China", I could have stretched myself across the back seat and slept. My mouth stretched into a vast yawn. I blinked a couple of times. The ride was going to be at least eight hours.

Whoopee.

Author's Note: I hope you guys liked it! I just finished the story today, but I'm going to post chapters in groups of two because I still have to revise some chapters. Thanks! =)