Good Chickens Make Good Neighbours

When I was ten, I told my friend Kristen that I was born with a hole in my head. We had been playing basketball in my driveway. The ball ricocheted off the garage door and I blurted it out. She looked at me like my confession explained a lot. I suspect she went home and told her parents about my defect, which probably cleared up a few suspicions of their own.

For instance, one time I was playing with a quarter on our driveway, flipping it in the air and catching it because I was practicing for the Olympic coin tossing team. After a few gold-medal-winning moves, I accidentally flicked it into the neighbors' yard. The coin landed right under Kristen's bedroom window. Since you can't leave that kind of money lying around, I went to fetch it.

I hopped over the row of ivy and bent down to pick up my quarter. When I stood up, I could see Kristen's room clearly through the window. Sunlight blanketed the neatly made bed. The life-size Miss Piggy doll that I coveted was propped against the pillow, her purple satin gloves glistening and synthetic blond hair shining unnaturally in contrast to the floral spread.

I went back to practice, only to flick the coin next door again. And again. And again.

I don't know if her parents saw me from another room or heard me rustling around in their leaves, but they busted me on the fourth or fifth flick. When I stood up, Kristen's dad, who was a professional clarinetist, was standing at the window half dressed in a tuxedo and blocking my view. He yelled at me through the glass, Stop spying on us, you freak! and then snapped the shade down before I could explain myself. Now, without a good explanation for my eerie presence at their window, I looked like your average Peeping Tom or a member of the Manson family. This is probably how they remember me to friends, which I think is rather unfair.

As it turned out, I never did try out for the Olympic coin tossing team. I was much too busy with philanthropy to devote myself whole-heartedly to the sport.

My parents' anniversary was coming up, and I needed to get them a gift. For several years I had given to rummaging in the boxes in our basement for presents. The boxes had never been unpacked after we moved from our house on Wimpole Road, so I thought I'd do my parents a favor opening them, sorting through the contents, and presenting them with my finds on special occasions. This wasn't so much re-gifting as it was surprise reminders of useful things lost and forgotten.

After picking through mismatched long underwear bottoms, a leather key holder, and pens that didn't work, I realized that I had pretty much squeezed all the water from that camel's hump. It was time to turn on the old creative juices. What to do? Make them a card? Too generic. Buy them tickets to Jamaica? Not without a substantial increase in allowance, which basically would amount to my parents paying for their own trip, albeit via a second party. I decided to make them dinner instead.

Two problems immediately presented themselves: 1) I didn't know how to cook anything other than Cool-Whip parfaits, and 2) I couldn't ask my mother to buy the ingredients without spoiling the surprise.

I needed an adult to do the footwork. Rethinking my strategy, I reasoned that if my mother wouldn't do, somebody else's would. So I went next door, my pocket stuffed with ones and a lot of quarters, and had a one-on-one with Kristen's mom.

"Would you mind making my parents a special dinner for their anniversary? I'd do it myself, but I'm not allowed to use the stove," I said.

"You want me to do what?"

"I'll pay for it, of course," I said, patting my pocket.

"Let me get this straight. You want me to make your parents dinner for their anniversary."

"Yes. You don't have to get too fancy. A chicken will do."

Too stunned by my precocious altruism to decline, she agreed to help but refused to take my money. Frankly I was glad. It's not right for a grownup to take cash from a little kid. It's borderline prostitution, really. So after I made her swear she wouldn't forget or blow off our deal, she seemed in an awful hurry to get me out of the house.

Boy, was I excited. I couldn't wait for the big day. It practically killed me not to spill the beans to my parents. I avoided eye contact with them for days, because I was sure they'd suspect that something was up. It wasn't long, though, before I caved to the pressure of keeping that honking big secret to myself.

"You asked Kristen's mother to do what ?"

"Happy Anniversary! You and Dad have to dress up, okay?"

"You march yourself next door, young lady, and tell them thank you but we've made other plans. Get moving."

"No can do. She already bought the food."

That stumped her for a second before she said:

"Did you at least invite them to join us?"

Now, why on earth would I invite Kristen and her family over for my parents' anniversary dinner? That was totally unnecessary and a real intrusion on what was meant to be a private affair. Kristen's mom was to deliver the meal as instructed and leave immediately after, quietly padding back to her house and letting us alone to enjoy the rewards of my hard work. This was my show, and no reed-blowin', chicken-cookin' neighbors were going to steal my thunder.

Mom threatened to boycott the whole shebang unless I invited them over. I prayed they'd refuse.

They didn't.

I spent a good hour setting the dining room table that night, seething at the unjust law of good manners. Muttering bad words under my breath, I broke out the nice tablecloth, the fancy blue dishes, and matching blue water goblets. I set out a couple of trivets and returned the blue vase filled with fake flowers to the center of the table, measuring whether it would be tall enough to hide Kristen's face.

At six o'clock they showed up with bird in hand. The mother carried a black and white-speckled roasting pan through the back door to our kitchen. Kristen, who in her cute skirt and tiny red apron looked like a caterer for the seven dwarves, followed with the side dishes. The whole house lit up with the succulent smell of hot meat.

While the neighbors busied themselves in our kitchen, I formally announced that dinner would be served shortly and invited my parents and brother, Kevin, to retire to the dining room. I returned to the kitchen and told the help to get crackalackin', everyone was ready to eat.

It was a little awkward watching those three set the food on the table and then sit down with us, especially with Kristen wearing that stupid apron. Who did she think she was, Julia Child?

The food was good and my parents said so.to Kristen's mom. I couldn't help notice that no one acknowledged my efforts to make it all happen. I was the one who thought up the idea. I was the one who planned the menu. Where was the awe, for goodness sake? I mean, how many ten-year-olds would have thought to convince a neighbor to cook her parents dinner?

After the Cool-Whip parfait (courtesy of yours truly), instead of suffering a bout of botulism and leaving quickly as I'd hoped, those three stayed- well beyond their welcome. Frick, Frack, and Hazel filed into the living room, where Kevin and I had planned to perform a magic show for Mom and Dad. Kevin was to make the magic and I would be his beautiful assistant, Katherina.

Someone suggested that Kristen join us on stage, which really chapped my hide. She still wore that infernal apron. Magicians' assistants don't wear aprons, I wanted to say. Unless she planned to get sawed in half, she'd better whip off that maid's uniform but quick.

Kevin began to dazzle the audience with his disappearing coin trick, while the two of us stood ready in the wings to pass him a handkerchief or hold his wand. Kristen smiled stupidly, her plump cheeks pink, and it seemed that all eyes were on her. I decided to work the crowd a bit, lighten the mood that had waned at, oh, around six o'clock. I wildly flourished my arms in presentation. I cartwheeled across the floor but misjudged the space and fell into the gold chair. Eventually I leaped into the middle of the room and loudly announced Kevin's next trick. Mom, Dad, and Kristen's parents rubbernecked to see what was going on behind me. By then I was exhausted. Defeated, I sat for the rest of the show in the chair I had bashed into earlier. Kristen never did take off that friggin' apron.

Looking back, I realize that the only plan ruined was mine to get attention. We celebrated my parents' anniversary with the meal that I had intended; it was tastier than anything I could have spooned out or burned. I should have been happy, right? Not bitter. Ringing Kristen's doorbell was more a desperate call to be noticed than a good deed. If anyone was the do-gooder here, it was Kristen's mom. Bless her heart, the woman took pity on me. For one evening she sponsored a cranially challenged child who played with loose change. Granted, her time might have been better spent helping little Julie up the street, who had Down syndrome and ate her own boogers. But perhaps little Julie already had a sponsor.

If only I could have held the hole in my head accountable, or at least a mild form of autism. The fact is, we're all born with holes in our head. It's not just one. There are a bunch of them, and they're called sinuses. What I should have said-what might have elicited more sympathy than horror-was that I was born with a hole in my heart . It's called a septal defect and is quite common. According to the American Heart Association's website, these holes often close up by childhood or adolescence. Mine healed before I turned two. I realize that's a lot less exciting than, say, spina bifida, but at least it's the truth.