The Best Kid

I don’t really remember a life before Vince was in it.

I met him when I was six and he was seven. I was best friends with his little sister, and because we lived next door to each other, our families and our lives became woven together. We grew up side by side, all the way into adulthood. Somewhere along the way, Vince became so much more than my best friend’s older brother. He became the brother I never had.

Some of my favorite memories of childhood have Vince tucked somewhere inside them.

There were endless games of TV tag, jumping on the trampoline, running through sprinklers, riding bikes, Little League football and baseball games, playing “No Bears Are Out Tonight” with Scoob, Brookie and me being his eager assistants in the magic shows he would put on, and Christmas Eves spent watching him perform as part of The Madeleine Choir School.

There was the infamous curling iron incident. Vince jump-scared me while I was curling my bangs, and I somehow managed to imprint the word “CONAIR”  *backwards & directly onto my forehead.

So if anyone is wondering whether Vince left a permanent mark on my life… yes. Literally.

Just a couple of weeks ago, my daughter, mom, sister, nieces and I took a girls trip to Disneyland. We stopped in front of a magic store, and I shared with them one of my favorite Vince Romero memories.

It was probably 1998 when our families were at Walt Disney World. Vince wandered into a magic shop, and naturally, I followed him. He bought a magic trick, and suddenly the employees started leading us somewhere. I had absolutely no idea what was happening until we ended up in a secret room where they taught him how to perform the trick.

I remember being completely mortified that I was even allowed in there, like I had somehow accidentally been admitted into a secret society. I felt terrible that I was now in on this secret and promised him up and down that I would never reveal how the trick was done.

He was probably a little annoyed, but of course, he was never mean about it.

I don’t remember if I spilled the beans to Brooke afterward or not.

I really hope I kept my promise.

As we got older, he continued looking out for me. He drove me to high school for most of my sophomore year, and somewhere along those drives, he introduced me to Taylor Swift — a contribution to my life that probably deserves its own acknowledgment.

Vince was incredibly intelligent, even as a kid. He was always the one chatting with the adults, somehow completely comfortable holding conversations far beyond his age. He was curious about everything. He was great at everything he tried, yet humble.

And now that I’ve grown up and had kids of my own, I realize something else.

He was a GOOD kid.

The best.

In fact, last summer my sister and I were wondering how he got to be so good. We even tried this thing when our kids would complain or choose not to listen: “Be like Greg Romero.”

Stand firm. Set rules. Keep them.

All in the hope that maybe it would make them a little more like Vince.

It didn’t work.

Vince was one of a kind.

The best kid I’ve ever known.

One thing Vince always said was, “I appreciate it.”

He said it so often that eventually we started teasing him and saying, “We appreciate you, Vince.”

And now those words mean something entirely different.

I appreciate you, Vince.

I appreciate the little boy next door who somehow became family. I appreciate the brother I never had. I appreciate that I can’t walk past a magic store without telling the story about the polite boy next door to the people I love most.

I appreciate the rides to school, the baseball fields, the fact that you were never embarrassed that Brooke and I genuinely believed we were the captains of the cheer team for your Little League football team — pom-poms and all.

I appreciate the trampoline days, Garth Brooks, the banter, the laughter, and even the CONAIR scar.

I appreciate that because of 8481 & 8482 so much of my childhood has you in it.

And maybe that’s what makes this so hard.

Because losing you doesn’t just feel like losing someone I loved. It feels like losing one of the people who remembered the beginning of me.

But I still have the stories & laughter

I still have all those years where you were simply next door, never knowing how precious “next door” would someday become.

And I hope you knew how deeply you were loved.

Still cheering for you.

I always will.

We appreciate you, Vince.