Chapter 4 Tyler [The Past]
A week before my freshman year of high school, my parents finally purchased their first home.
"Never thought we’d get out of that apartment," Dad said as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "It’s something, huh, honey?" He pulled Mom closer and kissed her on her cheek.
They looked so happy, so accomplished while the movers worked in a steady rhythm, unloading the furniture from the truck. My dad nodded approvingly as they carried my mother’s favorite coffee table into the house. Then he grinned at me, his smile bright under the sun.
His business had finally taken off after years of hard work, and now we could afford a much nicer place than our two-bedroom hellhole in the poorest part of the valley that I hated with all my heart.
Dumb Mrs. Ringwald would always complain about my guitar practicing being too noisy.
One time, she even suggested I didn’t have a knack for music.
Old witch.
But this new house—it was bigger, with a yard, a porch, and a garage. But most importantly, no shared walls.
My parents loved every inch of it. So did I.
"Ah, there’s so much light," Mom commented, walking through the living room filled with carton boxes. She stared out the windows and smiled. "And I can finally have a small garden."
I looked around, seeing possibilities in the empty rooms and wide-open spaces.
"It's gonna be great, kid. You’ll be going to a very good high school." Dad ruffled my hair. "And you’ll have your own rehearsal space."
I didn’t care about the school. I'd never been great at academics, no matter how much my mother pushed me to study. My grades were passable at best. Ever since I saw an Eddie Van Halen video at the age of nine, I knew I was going to do what he did. I wanted to play my guitar in a band that I was planning on putting together. I didn’t know how yet, but I was hoping that if I behaved myself, I could maybe ask my dad to let me have the garage soon.
On the other side of the room, Mom was already imagining the color of curtains she’d get to match her throw pillows.
I felt a mix of nerves and excitement as I exited the house and crossed the driveway to pick up a box with my posters and band memorabilia. I carried it back inside, picturing how I’d decorate my room.
That’s when I saw him standing just behind the fence separating our yard from the neighbor's.
He seemed a little older. Maybe a senior. His presence was immediate. Maybe because of his height. Or his deep tan or dark long hair that hung loose. He was watching me intensely. With the stare like I could bet my damn pinkie toe he got all the girls.
I stopped, trying to get a better look, but he disappeared from sight.
Great.
This neighbor's kid better not be some weirdo, I thought to myself.
Later in the evening, I found myself outside again, testing out the new basketball hoop that came with the house. I wasn’t great at sports either, but it was a good exercise.
The ball hit the rim and bounced off, landing far from where I'd hoped it would. I chased after it to the sidewalk, feeling clumsy and out of place in more ways than one.
"So you’re the new neighbor, huh?"
I looked up to see the guy again, standing at the edge of the yard.
This time, he was close enough that I could see a small smirk playing on his lips.
I wasn't sure if it was friendly or teasing.
He wore dark-blue jeans and some faded off-brand sneakers, but I had to give him some credit for his Limp Bizkit T-shirt.
"Yeah," I replied, trying to play it cool even though I felt awkward.
"Kewl."
"You live here?" I pointed at the cream-colored house behind him as I picked up the ball from the ground.
"Yeah. I’m Adri," he said as if that explained everything. "What’s your name?"
"Ty," I answered, holding the ball under one arm.
"How old are you?" He leaned against the fence, and I got the sense that he wasn't easily impressed and was about to judge me based on my age.
I wanted to lie, but we lived next door. Sooner or later, he'd know. "Fourteen," I choked out. "You?"
I waited, and my heart thrashed in my tiny chest because this was the moment of truth. No older guy would want to be friends with a fourteen-year-old.
"Seventeen," Adri said, then added, "You suck at basketball." But it didn’t sound mean. His tone was lighthearted.
"I’m not like…into it," I muttered, feeling embarrassed.
"It shows."
"Are you gonna be a dick or what?" I blurted out. I didn’t take shit from anyone, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to let Adri’s skinny ass make fun of me.
"Nah, dude, chill out." He shrugged. "I meant you could use some lessons."
"Don’t need them. Just messing around, stretching my legs. I’ve got another thing going on."
"Well, if you do need lessons, let me know."
"Whatev—"
"Adri!" a female voice shouted from the cream-colored house. A woman emerged on the porch. "Dinner!"
Adri rolled his eyes. "Okay," he drawled. "Coming."
"Are you the neighbor’s boy?" the woman—I assumed she was his mother—asked with a smile. She was small and had the same tanned skin and dark hair Adri did. The dress she wore was solid white with strawberries.
"Yes, ma’am," I replied politely, clutching the ball in the crook of my arm.
"Come on over and eat," she said and disappeared into the house.
"Mom made posole," Adri grumbled. It seemed like there would be more, but he didn’t say anything else.
"Is that like code for something?"
"She always makes too much and then invites everyone over to try it."
"Ha. My mom is the same. But with meatloaf."
"Yeah," he said, motioning for me to follow as he turned around.
He didn't wait for me to answer. He simply started walking. I hesitated for a second but then jogged to catch up with him. He had an easy confidence that made it hard to say no.
Inside his house, the air was warm with the smell of food. It was a comforting aroma I didn’t recognize but immediately liked. His mom came rushing out from the kitchen.
"Come in, boys. Wash your hands first. Adri, show your friend where the bathroom is," Adri's mom rattled off. She was a fast talker, but her voice was gentle and welcoming.
"Ma, this is Ty," Adri introduced me.
"I'm Letty," she told me. "Go on now. Clean up. Hurry. Hurry."
We washed our hands and then Adri took me to the kitchen.
There, at the head of the table, sat a stocky man with a mop of dark hair.
"And who is this young man?" he asked as we entered the room.
"I’m Ty. Nice to meet you…sir."
He laughed a little. "Been a while since someone called me sir." He had warm brown eyes, and I noticed they were the same as Adri’s.
"This is my husband, Jose," Letty explained while fumbling with some plates by the stove.
"Hope you're hungry," Jose said. "We always make enough to feed an army around here."
It was loud and lively with some tune crooning on the radio. It was nothing like the quiet I was used to during our family dinners.
"Is your sister coming?" Jose asked Adri as we settled into our chairs.
"She won't be home tonight," Letty said. "Don’t you remember? She's having a sleepover at Brittney’s."
"The Fenwick girl?" Jose grunted out.
"Let them be. School’s starting again soon. They won’t have time for these girls' nights anymore."
A bowl of steaming posole appeared in front of me. I’d tried it before at a quinceanera my parents were invited to a couple of years ago. Letty’s was the bomb, though.
The conversation at the table was easy, full of laughter and questions about where my family moved from and what my parents did. It felt like I'd known Adri’s parents longer than just an evening.
"How do you like the posole?" Jose asked when I finished my bowl.
"It’s great."
"Secret family recipe," Jose said with a wink.
Adri’s doorbell rang when it was getting dark outside. He and I were looking through his collection of CDs in his room while we listened to Red Hot Chili Peppers. He didn’t know that I played guitar yet, but it seemed like we were vibing on the same wavelength.
"—you seen my son?" a worried voice carried from the front of the house.
"Crap," I muttered as I sprung to my feet from where I'd been lounging cross-legged on Adri's cluttered bed. "That’s my mom."
Adri glanced at me, dropping the volume on his boombox so that the sound faded to a whisper in the background. "Are you gonna be in trouble?" he asked, his eyebrow raised.
"Maybe."
"It’s all good," Adri said. "I’ll tell her I kidnapped you."
"She’ll freak out more."
"Ty?" Letty showed up at Adri’s door. "Your mom is here."
We scrambled out of Adri’s room and headed down the hallway and into the living room, where Colette Brady waited for me with her fists on her hips. It was her angry pose.
"You should have told me you were going to be at your friend’s house, Tyler." She started fuming immediately.
"Sorry," Letty stepped in. "It was our fault. We thought he’d told his parents he’d be here."
I don’t know how Letty figured I’d done that since she’d literally seduced me with the promise of food. But I realized she was just trying to be helpful.
In the end, it all worked out.
My parents became friends with Adri’s parents—the Medinas. And I made my first friend too.
The only family member who remained elusive during those first couple of weeks after our move—always at her girlfriend's house or volunteering somewhere—was Adri's mysterious sister.
It took me a while to finish decorating my room.
When I finally managed to organize all my posters and my collection of memorabilia, I invited Adri over.
He stepped inside, giving my space the kind of once-over that made me nervous.
It was like he was sizing up everything, examining my taste with a mix of curiosity and judgment in his dark eyes.
My walls were covered from top to bottom and looked sick. Still, part of me was terrified he’d find seeing Bon Jovi and Nirvana plastered all over them as cringey.
He was three years older, way cooler, and, apparently, a huge Limp Bizkit fan. And for some reason, he wanted to be friends with me.
Eventually, his gaze landed on my blue Ibanez that Dad bought off our old neighbor when I was ten. It was on its stand in the corner by the window.
"Wanna hear something?" I asked nervously.
Adri's face broke into a grin.
"Sure," he said, sinking onto the edge of my bed. "Are you any good?"
"I’m decent," I replied like it was no big deal. But his excitement made me feel like I was one of my idols.
I picked up my guitar from the stand and ran my fingers over the strings, enjoying the way his attention focused entirely on me. Then I plugged it into my amp and strummed a few chords, letting the notes fill the room.
"Your parents don’t mind the noise?" Adri asked.
"Mom sometimes gets pissed when I practice for a long time. Dad just says, ‘At least it’s not drugs.’"
He snorted out a laugh but then immediately schooled his features into something more serious. "Alright. Let me see what you’re made of."
I started on a riff I'd been working on. Adri watched, his expression shifting from skeptical to impressed. Gradually, I lost myself in the music. When I looked up, his eyes were bright, and he was nodding his approval.
I stopped because this was as far as I’d gotten with this piece.
"Not bad," Adri said, leaning back on his elbows. His gaze was still on me, weirdly intense. "For a fourteen-year-old."
I played some more, soaking in his reaction. It felt good, like I was doing something right. He seemed genuinely into it, tapping his foot along with the rhythm.
"You in a band?" he asked next.
"Not yet," I said, putting on a mock-serious face. "But someday."
He smirked. "Rockstar in the making?"
"Who knows?"
Despite the age difference, it was easy with him, the way we slipped into conversation like we'd known each other forever.
Adri pointed at the Metallica poster on the wall. "Can you play any of their songs?"
I rolled my eyes in a friendly way. "Who can’t?"
He raised an eyebrow, daring me.
I launched into a medley, my fingers moving across the strings with the kind of confidence only a kid could have. I observed his face from time to time as I played, enjoying the way he followed every note. Back at my old neighborhood, none of my friends cared for my music.
"Impressive," he said, and I could tell he meant it.
"Good audience," I replied, sitting next to him on the bed. The guitar rested across my lap, still warm from playing.
"Yeah, definitely not bad for a fourteen-year-old," he repeated, this time more teasing than before.
"Just wait till I’m older," I said, nudging him with my shoulder.
He shoved back, and laughter spilled out of both of us.
"You really think you’ll be in a band?" he asked.
I shrugged. "That’s the plan. How about you? Gonna be my roadie?"
"Maybe your manager," he shot back. "If you’re lucky. I’m expensive."
The back and forth went on, full of jokes and jabs that never felt mean.
I showed him my other guitar, a battered old acoustic Fender I'd had forever. I thought it’d been Dad’s.
Rumor had it, he’d proposed to Mom while playing a song for her on it.
But construction work had ruined his hands and he'd given up music and had stashed the guitar in storage.
He'd dug it out after I saw that Eddie Van Halen video. I’d learned all the basics on it for a year before finally getting the electric Ibanez.
Adri picked the guitar up, strumming a few awkward chords. We both laughed at the sound.
"I’ll stick to managing," he decided, setting it back down. "In any case, if you want to form a band, this kid, Jon Sheppe, plays drums. He’s pretty good. You should talk to him."
"How old is he?"
"Probably your age. You’ll meet him at school."
I saved this information in the corner of my mind.
We spent the rest of the afternoon talking music, trading stories about favorite bands and first concerts. Adri knew more than I’d expected. Despite that horrible nu metal obsession, his tastes overlapped with mine in surprising ways.
Eventually, he stood, stretching like a cat. "We doing this again?"
"Definitely," I said, the word easy and sure.
"See you around, Strings."