Neverland was more crowded than the first time I had been there. The magical silence that hung there at the time seemed to have been replaced with childlike joy - I saw boys and girls running after each other in a cheerful fashion, staff, neatly dressed in black and white attire, hastily walking around as if they had festivities to organize. I soon learned that this was usually the case. Michael Jackson was not often alone, especially not at Neverland. Families visited him, children from orphanages, even bed-ridden kids were given a chance to see that wonderful place up close. The place always had a special effect on anyone who entered its gates, as if they were forced to break down the walls of adolescence to celebrate childhood once again. When he witnessed that happening, a proud radiance could appear on Michael's face, as it did now, when he looked around for a moment at the delightful hustle and bustle on his property, and then saw me - a broad smile appeared on the dark face. (Once back at the stables, I quickly changed into a more clean attire, simple jeans and a white blouse.) Calmly he came towards me, his arms swaying along his body, the broad shoulders dropped in a relaxed way — always taking his time (very often I had wondered how such a productive man could sometimes move so slowly!).

"I'm sorry if I still smell of horses...!" I started laughing. He shook his head and took me into the house, a herd of children running after him as if he were their father. Certainly they considered him nothing less than that, and I was very much surprised to learn some of the children (who knew him longer then just one afternoon) did indeed call him dad. Again we were in the kitchen, because like in so many houses, the kitchen in Neverland was the substitute living room - where there's food, there's happiness.

"Every three weeks we have kids over, kids from hospitals or orphanages," Michael explained. In the meantime, he was busy with all sorts of things, handing stuff out to the children who in turn ran off. A sweet, intrepid girl asked me my name, and Michael introduced me, and with that I had officially become a member of the pack. How wonderful it was to be at Neverland again, and to see it now in its full glory!

"The rain didn't bother them?" I asked, and helped Michael with some frivolity.

"Oh, no! They were at the movie theatre just now. Watching Star Wars. Some of 'em ran off, crying!"

"I can imagine. How old are they, five, six? I didn't watch it until I was twelve and I was still scared!"

"What? Why!" But he had already turned elsewhere, started talking about other things — that he still had to show me around the ranch, the newly built theme park, and the plans he had for a zoo. We stepped outside, to lead the group back to the small theater - which was huge as a private property - and I was away from him for a moment. The same girl who had asked my name took my hand as if it was the most obvious thing, and my heart grew with pride and contentment. How could I have ended up here after all! It all seemed so far away from the village I called my home that I couldn't possibly believe that this piece of paradise was right across the street from my high school. Yet, in spite of my great wonder, I immediately felt at home, as if I had belonged here for years. While the girl was talking about her classmates, Michael looked back, his hair still damp from the rain that had just been pouring (the dark clouds above Neverland slowly left the sky, in deep contrast with the bright green of the park), laughed at the enthusiastic child and looked at me again for a moment. My heart jumped up with happiness.

While the group of some twenty kids endeavoured enthusiastically to watch the second round of Star Wars, Michael and I staggered behind a little, him guiding me around the premises like he promised he would. He pointed to the different attractions, told me how he got them (some of them were specifically designed for him!) and which one was his favorite, until suddenly I turned to him and asked:

"What in the hell brings you," and my arm stretched out over the wide area, "here?"

He had to smile, and with two hands he stroked the wild curls behind his ears which immediately jumped in front of his eyes again.

"Well, I actually saw this property for the first time in October 1983. We were...Paul and I...we were filming for this short film and he was staying here."

"You mean Paul McCartney?"

"Yeah..."

"Gosh!" He laughed shyly, eyes inspecting the grounds before him with the softest of gazes.

"So I visited him and I thought it was just beautiful. I used to live in Encore in a beautiful home, but right here it's much more secluded. That's what I liked about it especially."

"It was Sycamore Valley Ranch back then, right?"

"It was. But I renamed it Neverland. After-"

"Peter Pan's Neverland. I know."

"Oh, you watched it?"

"All the time with my little brother and my sisters' son! I have to sing this song...uh, I forgot what it was called...to Jeremiah, that's my little cousin, it goes like; the second start to the right, shines in the night for you..."

"To tell you that the dreams you plan, really can come true!"

I nodded, suddenly had to blush because of the intimate moment. Michael glanced at me from sideways, looking up and down, like he was inspecting me somewhat intensely and I was afraid he was suddenly wondering what on earth he was doing — walking with an unknown seventeen year old girl on his private property. It felt as if an iron fist was clutching around my heart that deprived me of breath. Maybe I was just a hindrance to him, was it the kindness which forced him to extend an invitation, and if he hadn't just brutally driven past me and involuntarily caused my horse to go bananas, everything would have all ended, I would never have seen him again, and the memory would be tucked away like a feverish dream...

"Anyways," I continued, my voice near trembling, "I have to sing that for him when he goes to sleep, he thinks it'll make him dream of Neverland."

"Awh! How old is he?"

"Only four."

He then mentioned something that completely threw me off, as if he'd read my doubtful mind.

"I'd love for your family to come up to Neverland...I don't know a lot of people in the neighbourhood yet! And it sounds like Jeremiah would love it here. He wouldn't have to just dream of it!"

I stood for a moment in astonishment, in the shadow of the dark wood gazebo. The sun was shining brightly in my eyes and I blinked, my eyes starting to water and I was afraid he thought I was getting emotional.

"Michael..."

"Yes?"

He had completely turned towards me, his face now much less dressed up than the last time I saw him, detached from all pretension, frank and supremely beautiful.

"Why are you so nice?" My foot was playing with a lost twig on the ground and I folded my arms in some useless defense mechanism.

"I mean...you're Michael Jackson. I still can't believe it. You're..." a sigh that enclosed my impossible stance escaped my lips, and I looked everywhere but the one around whom everything revolved, "the biggest star on the planet. You live in a paradise. And yet somehow...you're just like a nice neighbour."

He had put his hands in his trouser pockets and was wobbling on his feet. We were like two shy children who had to discuss something serious for the first time.

"I mean, it's not all who I am...I can be just that. A nice neighbour. I'm just Michael Jackson."

Unconsciously I had to smile. There was so much conviction in his tone that I could indeed accept him for nothing more than just that, a friendly neighbor. I nodded, looked at him slantingly from underneath my eyelashes and playfully he pushed into my shoulder, and I laughed out loud, my cheeks flushed with excitement.

"So, what do you say? Your family and you will have dinner here. Next week Friday? I'll be back from L.A."

"I haven't even told them you live here!"

"But that shouldn't matter...no doubt they'll know who I am," and Michael Jackson wiggled his eyebrows.

And so an hour passed that could not be long enough. In the short time we had, we discussed all kinds of things, his work, my school, my family life, and even his wish to have children someday. It felt as if we had known each other for years, and as if there was no age difference of fourteen years between us. It wasn't that he seemed younger and I older, but the concept of age disappeared like snow in front of a forgivable sun, allowing childlike friendship to blossom. I came to discover that Michael Jackson might have all the money and renown in the world, his soul was still like any other mortal being and it was yearning for love. We recognized in each other a sincere sense to heal the world, me in my little village with several thousand inhabitants, he all over the world. He told me about the hospital visits he made, about the last time he travelled the world for about a year and a half (turned out he'd been living at Neverland since April that year...and only now did I find out!). The cultures he had seen, the languages he had heard. To see so much...! How wonderful the world had to be outside American borders! I told him that I had only read about it, in books from my father's library, but that I wanted to see everything: Japan's flowering trees, Holland's canals, but especially Africa's Ivory Coast, where my mother was born. The freedom with which we talked to one anotherwas more disarming than anything I had experienced before. I was a reservedperson who only discussed things that were necessary and did not willinglyshare my life history with anyone. Not because I was terribly private, butbecause I felt it was not pertinent. The fact that I was doing it with ahigh-end celebrity was astonishing. For a moment, I wondered whether hiscelebrity status in itself invited this sincere frankness, or if it was simplyhis cordiality. I myself guessed the latter. Before I knew it, the chiming clock struck half past six and I realized it was time to go home - this time my heart was lighter than the day I last left, because the sweet promise of seeing him again made it all the more bearable. On my way home, in the same Range Rover with the same bodyguard, I wondered what exactly it was about him that made me feel so happy, but I couldn't find an answer: all I could bring before me was his pleasant face and gentle voice. Once I arrived home, once again thanks to that friendly security guy whose name I still didn't know, I marched triumphantly into the room where my family was already sitting around the dining table in complete ignorance of what was to come, and I proclaimed loud and clear:

"Clear your schedules for next week Friday. We're having dinner with Michael Jackson."