Sweet Caroline

I first met Brendan when I was fourteen. As cliché as it may sound, the second I met him, I knew he was going to be something special. The way his eyes kind of glazed over when he started talking about music or playing his bass; every time he wrote a new song, the look he had while playing it was like a father looking at his newborn child. His passion, I think, is what drew me to him in the first place.

Our first meeting could be described as comical at best. My mom was driving me home from school on a sunny day in March when she told me about the people who had moved into the house down the street. With her exact wording, I didn’t understand what she had meant. She looked at me with raised eyebrows if I were supposed to understand some hidden meaning behind her words. But then she uttered “the house,” and raised her eyebrows further, and I finally understood what she was talking about.

“The house?” I asked. “The Cheney’s old house?” Mom nodded her head, her lips turning up at the corners in a small smile. The Cheney’s old house had been vacant for years. Tim, my brother, and I had played with the two younger Cheney kids, Rob and Rose, in elementary school, but they had moved away when their dad got re-stationed in Austin.

As one of the largest houses in the district, it had stayed vacant for almost four years. My surprise about the move, however, was not just because of its vacancy, but because I was shocked that the house hadn’t been trashed. I knew for a fact that the vacant house, which also included a small apartment over the garage, was used for parties by the upperclassmen at my school. I had been to one or two, having been invited by some friends, but had never really been too keen on the partying and drinking scene.

The fact that someone had actually purchased a house that had that kind of reputation confused me the most. To think about the things that went on late at night there made me shudder.

“They seem sweet as can be,” Mom continued. “I brought over the HOA paperwork earlier, and the mom is a total sweetheart.” Leave it to Mom to make the first introductions. “She’s a Mary Kay saleswoman, and her husband works downtown. She told me they have two kids-an older daughter who’s out at North Texas, and then a son your age that plays baseball.” I nodded, grasping the words she threw at me.

“Great,” I thought to myself; another jock in the neighborhood. We already had two of the varsity football players up the street, and an AAA baseball player back behind us. I did not need another teenage boy to deal with. If it’d been a girl, sure, but another guy who listened to way too much rap and wore baggy pants was just something I couldn’t deal with.

As we rounded the corner, I started to think more. I guess maybe it would be good to have another guy in the neighborhood for a few reasons. I mean, Tim would have another person to play ball with. And if he wasn’t snatched up by the jocks and jerks on the first day like they did to Brian, the baseball player, then maybe I could convert him into a nice jock. I looked up to the house as we passed it. People were still moving big brown boxes-nondescript and plain with rooms written on the sides-into the house from a large moving van. As we drove by, I spotted a tall boy with caramel colored hair carrying a flat screen into the house. He was wearing skinny jeans. This was a good sign.

Two hours later, after I’d finished my Geometry homework, Mom came and knocked on my door. I was sitting on my bed, listening to music through the speakers over my headboard, strumming out the chords to the song playing on my guitar, but turned it down as she walked in.

“Hey, I’ve got a plate of cookies for you to take over to the house down the street.” I rolled my eyes but complied, pulling my flats back on and giving my outfit a quick once over in the mirror. I wasn’t exactly a skater, but not a prep either. I liked style-sometimes I wore dresses, but most of the time I was in skinny jeans and Uggs. I chose comfort over style, gratefully. I had hazel eyes that changed colors, depending on how I’m feeling, and relatively straight brown hair that went a few inches past my shoulder.

When I walked downstairs, I was overwhelmed by the smell of chocolate. Warm and gooey and sugary, mixed with the smell of the Crème Brulee candle Mom had burning over the fridge. Yep, she had definitely made cookies. I grabbed the plate and my keys, and walked out, locking the door behind me.

When I arrived at the house, I followed a mover to the door, and to be polite, knocked on the door frame. The house smelled like fresh paint, and I could see places that had been re-coated in the kitchen, covering various stains and holes that I knew lied underneath.

“Knock, knock?” I said in a questioning tone. A woman dressed in paint splattered jeans and a loose tee shirt turned around from her place next to the fridge, where she was putting glasses into the cabinet. She saw me, and after a moment, recognition washed over her face.

“Oh, you must be Beth’s daughter!” She smiled and walked closer, asking, “Caroline, right?”

“We really look that much alike, huh?” She laughed at my small joke and took the plate of cookies, shaking my hand.

“I’m Mrs. Brightwell,” she said cheerily, tucking a curl that’d come loose from her ponytail behind her ear. I politely chatted with her for a few minutes before she led me to a back door. “I’m sure my son would be delighted to meet you. He’s setting up his new room above the garage-you’re welcome to go see him.” I said thank you and let her go back to stacking, and then walked across the small backyard and up the steps to the apartment. The first thing that hit me was the awesome guitar solo coming out of a set of loud speakers somewhere in the room. The second was the strong smell of fresh paint in there as well. When I climbed the final stairs, I looked to my right and started laughing uncontrollably.

The boy from out front earlier was standing on top of his bed, air-guitaring the solo that was playing. His face was scrunched up in concentration like he was trying to play each specific note with precision. His black and white plaid shirt flopped up and down at the bottom as he jumped up and down on the louder notes, and the flexibility of his black skinny jeans surprised me. When the solo and the song ended, his arms went over his head, both hands outspread. “Thank you Los Angeles!” he said quietly, and then faked crowd screams. This only made me laugh harder. The look on his face when he turned around, however, was more priceless then his one man show. His eyes popped out, his hands fell back down to his side, and for the first time I got a good look at the guy in front of me. His caramel colored hair wasn’t so caramel colored as it’d been outside. It was more of a chocolate color, with some blond pieces here and there. On a lot of people, it would have just looked trashy, but for some reason he could pull it off. He had a younger looking face- I don’t want to say baby face, because that’s somewhat condescending-with chipmunk like cheeks and a wide smile. To say that this guy was good looking was, in my opinion, a severe understatement.

Before I could stop laughing or even say anything, he tried to step off the bed, and tripped, falling against the wall and landing on the floor. I ran to his aid, still laughing.

“Whoa! Slow down there, Hendrix. Don’t wanna hurt yourself.” He laughed quietly, and grabbed his arm at the top where it’d first collided with the wall.

“Too late,” he huffed. I smiled and he sat back down on his undressed bed, looking up at me. “Who the heck are you?” he asked, his eyes, which I then noticed were a bright green, the color mine got when I was upset, searching my face.

“Uhm, your mom said it was cool to come up here. My mom sent me with a plate of cookies. We live up the street.” His face flashed recognition, and without hesitation, his hand went out for me to shake.

“Brendan Brightwell.” I smiled and shook it.

“Caroline-Ashley Madison.” He smiled back.

“Caroline, like the song?” he offered.

I rolled my eyes and answered, “As if I don’t get enough of that as it is.” I waved a finger at him, continuing. “Call me Sweet Caroline and you die.” He laughed loudly- louder than before.

“What about Salty Caroline? Or Sour!?” He laughed again and looked at me, probably thinking he was oh, so clever. I’ve gotten every Niel Diamond-related joke under the sun before. But his jokes made me smile. He seemed like a cool guy; funny, sweet, and from what I could tell, he had great taste in music. We scrolled through a few playlists on his computer before I went back home, and found we had a lot of the same artists; Three Days Grace, Panic!, Coldplay, even some Katy Perry. She’d been my idol since she first started on the music scene. I loved her “I don’t give a hoot” attitude but she’s always so happy and smiley; kind of like me. After the first twenty minutes of hanging out with Brendan, I knew that we would be great friends.