Sunspots and Raindrops

The new house that we were moving into was not modest, to say the least. Or at least it wasn’t compared to what I was accustomed.

It was two stories, not counting the basement and the attic. There was a two-car driveway (which was unnecessary since I didn’t have a car), but a one-car garage. In the backyard, there was a pool, hot tub, and a pond with a small trickling waterfall. A tall, wooden fence enclosed the entire backyard.

I assumed the previous owner was a bit of a rich shut-in, but I regretted the thought when I realized that, for whatever reason, he or she or they had left this place.

They could’ve left Vegas for the same reason I’d left Chicago…

My mom was playing the excited role well. By the time I made it back to the front yard, she was hollering at the men to start moving everything inside.

But I could see that wadded-up tissue in her hand.

I sat on the truck of the Camaro carefully and just watched the men come back and forth from the house, leaving with boxes and returning empty-handed only to pick up the next box and repeat the process.

I took this opportunity to take a look around my new neighborhood.

It was certainly different.

In Chicago, the boulevards had been lined with small oak trees and there were pine trees here and there. The houses had siding and the roofs were black to absorb the sunlight and warmth during the bitter winter months.

But in Summerlin, Nevada, there were palm trees everywhere and every few blocks, there was even a cactus or two. The lawns were green, but there were sprinklers running in almost all of them. The houses were mostly stucco and the roofing was tiled to help heat escape during the steamy hot summer months. Which, I guessed was year-round anyway.

And almost every yard had a swimming pool.

Needless to say, I felt very out of place.

My mom was calling me from inside the house and I noticed that they had already begun moving my things inside.

I guess my mom had staked a claim on her bedroom.

That night, I didn’t feel like unpacking and instead slept on the couch on the first floor. It had been my dad’s favorite couch in the house and in some places it still smell of his cologne despite the cross-country trip in the back of a truck.

I woke to the sound of cereal ratting down into a glass bowl. Then, the fridge opened, closed, and then someone sat by my feet and sniveled.

I sat up and looked my mom as she stirred the Lucky Charms around in the milk with a spoon.

When she noticed that I was awake (or at least alert), she handed the bowl to me.

“I made you breakfast,” she says weakly. “It would’ve been a bigger, more ‘welcome-to-Vegas’ breakfast, but the stove is not hooked up yet.”

Her eyes were brimming again, so I took the bowl and set it on the coffee table so that I could wrap my arms around her in a hug just in time for her to sob into my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Slim,” she sniffed as she tried to compose herself. “I’m not being a very supportive parent.”

I blinked away the tears that had rolled into my eyes at the sound of the nickname “Slim” that my father had given me when I was little. “It’s okay,’ I sighed. “I miss him too.”

And we sat there holding each other, neither of us quite ready to let go because we were both fully aware of how alone the other felt. And neither of us wanted to see the other crying, at that.

I honestly could have sat there all day and not have minded one bit.

But when my mother started leaning away, I did the same, and to hide my misty eyes, I turned my attention to the bowl of cereal.

“Hey, Sonny,” my mother says in a inquisitive tone. “Would you be interested in trading bedrooms with me?”

I looked up at her and quirked an eyebrow. “Why?” I asked and I almost sounded comical.

She breathed a laugh but there was no joy in it. “The neighbors’ kid is either in a band of completely deaf because there was music rolling out of that house last night at a volume that you would not believe!”

I pursed my lips before taking another bite of cereal. “Huh.” I said thoughtfully. Being a teenager in Chicago, I was in no way opposed to loud garage-band music. “Sure, we can trade.”

And that’s what the day consisted of: moving my mom’s belongings from her room to mine and vice versa. The room that I was moving into had some perks though. For example, I traded the walk-in closet for a bathroom and a king-sized bed for a queen. But being as I had no bathroom and a single bed back in Chicago, I was not taking what I had in Vegas for granted. It was all very nice.

Except for the heat. I could’ve gone without that heat.

But that didn’t bother me. What bothered me was that there was a window straight across from mine on the second story of the house directly next door. The light was out but the curtains were open.

I drew the curtains on the window in my room before beginning to put my belongings away…again. I turned up my radio and suddenly I was feeling lighter, a lot like my formal self, for a change.

Now, after living in the chilly climate of Chicago all my life, I didn’t realize just how muggy it would get in my room or how quickly.

I cracked my window slightly, keeping the curtains drawn, and continued putting my belongings away, relishing in how fantastic the cool breeze felt.

After an hour or so, noon rolled around and my mom asked for my help in the kitchen. We hooked up the oven and dishwasher; put the silverware, appliances, china, and dishes in their designated drawers and cupboards; and we scrubbed the floor.

After a few hours, we were sitting on the living room floor, looking at the kitchen and basking in a good day’s work. The radio was playing on the refrigerator. My mom and I shared a love for music and we had the station dialed into an all-rock station.

Oldies were never too old and Tom Petty made the time fly.

By three or four, we had everything unpacked in the kitchen and the living room. We flipped off the radio and smiled at our developing home, but then noticed that the music didn’t stop. My mom and I exchanged odd glances.

“Did you leave your radio on upstairs in your room?” she asks.

I didn’t think I did, but then again, I couldn’t be sure.

I ran to my room, but sure enough m radio was off. But the music was louder upstairs. And as I crossed my room to my bedroom window, which was still open, I figured out where the music was coming from.

Next door.

I walked down the stairs again and when I passed the kitchen, my mom smiled knowingly. “Try sleeping with that right outside,” she said as I walked out the front door to investigate.

The music was noticeably louder outside and when I got to the end of the sidewalk, I could see the source of the noise.

There were four boys standing in the open garage, laughing and bouncing and playing away. Whatever song it was they were blaring (I had no idea), it was catchy, and after a while I found myself rooted to the spot strictly because of the sound.

There was movement and then, there was someone in front of the microphone. He had brown hair, dark eyes to match, and he had on black skinny jeans and a black and grey t-shirt.

He sang and even though I’d only been standing there listening for barely a minute, his voice fit the sound of the guitar, the beat of the drums, the humming of the bass, like a perfect puzzle piece.

They had some serious talent.

“Well, she’s not bleeding on the ballroom floor just for the attention ‘cause that’s just ridiculous,” he sang smoothly, his voice a flawless stream of audio bliss.

This boy (I wished I knew his name) had this presence—the entire group did. They played because they needed to. They didn’t seem to just play that song because they could; no, they played because the music obviously meant more to them than anything that could be said about it. They held themselves in such a way that said they knew they weren’t supposed to be doing anything else.

I got all of that from that first song alone.

When the music ceased, I looked at the four guys and saw that they were each abandoning their respective instruments momentarily. They were talking together and one sat on the couch against the far wall of the garage, scribbling in a notebook that he had picked up from the floor. Two of the others sat down beside him and read as he wrote.

My eyes were glued to the three boys on the couch until I noticed the vocalist was missing from the group. I felt someone looking at me and when I turned my gaze, I saw that boy standing next to his mic, looking at me curiously.

Suddenly a little put off and embarrassed, I turned and walked back into my house, but before I shut the door, I heard laugher coming from that garage.

Great, I thought as my face reddened and my stomach dropped. I’d barely been in Vegas a full day and I’d already mortified myself beyond ever showing my face around the neighborhood.

I went up to my room and shut my door, going straight to my bed and flopping down into my pillows face first.

The longer I was alone, the more alone I felt. I missed my dad. He would’ve gone next door and introduced us as the new neighbors and saved me from this humility.

Then again, I thought, if my dad were there, we would be in Chicago still.

My chest ached along with my eyes…

The music resumed outside and I could hear it perfectly. I rolled of the bed to my window and noticed that the light in the bedroom next door was on.

I thought I saw movement over there, but it was hard to tell, and after a few moments, I decided that I neither wanted to know nor cared at that particular moment.

So, I closed the window and latched it, drew the curtains, and returned to my bed for the evening. I would finish helping my mom unpacking downstairs after a long night’s rest.

The music eventually died away, but the light next door stayed on until late that night. So late, in fact, it could’ve been considered as early. But what I found odd was the room was uninhabited whenever I glanced its way.

But just before closing my eyes for the night, I saw a silhouette pass.

My curiosity flared into my imagination and subsequently into my dreams that night.