“Let’s invite the neighbors to a get-to-know-you party!” I announced to my wife, Sarah, and our 11-year-old twins, Olivia and Holly, as we pulled into the driveway of our new house.

The idea had come to me the day we moved in a month earlier. Every time we passed each basketball field and garden, my excitement grew. Families! I could picture us all hanging out together.

Now, here I was at the end of that driveway, sitting in my camp chair, having serious second thoughts. What if we wait a couple more months to hold a get-together? What if we get to know a few folks first? Anyway, I made the final decision.

Sarah rearranged bags of chips and popcorn in a basket she’d set out. “I hope we have enough,” she said. Olivia and Holly threw the beanbags to each other to pass the time. A week earlier, Sarah had designed the invitations, “Hello! We’re new to the neighborhood. The Miller Family. We’d love to meet you. Monday, July 5, anytime between 6 and 8 p. m. It would be great fun!”

Sarah and the girls had gone house to house, putting an invitation in their mailboxes on Whitney Drive, namely the Parkers, a single mother Sally with two kids and Mr. Davis. Coming home, the kids excitedly talked about the Willsons’, an elderly couple they me t in the neighborhood, who seemed to be quite interested when they told them about the party.

However, we hadn’t heard a word since.   I checked my watch. 6:10. Maybe I’d misjudged. Sarah also had her doubts obviously. “Would we look silly sitting all alone in our front yard?” she said. “What if no one shows up?” I put my arm around her and drew her close. “We have to have faith,” I said. Then I took two bottles from the cooler I’d stored with juice boxes and cold drinks. Sarah and I clinked (碰杯) them together. “To our new neighborhood,” I said.

Another ten minutes dragged by and then my eyes widened.

Chatting with the old couple in the yard, we found more neighbors coming.

I was preparing side dishes to go with our Sunday barbecue when our daughter Rose stormed in the front door and rushed to her room. I glanced out the window and saw our neighbor Lucy walking back to her house across the road. As a mother, my feeling told me something happened between them.

“Rose, come in here. I need some help with dinner.” She came out of her room and stood beside me. She had a stubborn look on her face—the kind kids have when they know they are wrong but have persuaded themselves they are right. “I noticed that Lucy, your classmate, came over but didn’t stay long. Why?” I asked. “I don’t like her,” Rose complained. “I wish she would stop coming over here all the time. She dresses terribly, and sometimes she doesn’t smell good. Her nose is always runny, and her hair is in a mess. None of us like her.”

I knew that she referred to the popular crowd. It was a lot for a senior high student to deal with, trying to fit in with the popular crowd. It might be a shame if one of the girls in that crowd knew Lucy was playing with Rose.

I explained why I felt so sad for Lucy. “You see, baby,” I began, “I know how she felt today when you were sort of cold toward her. I know because that was me when I was in sixth grade. I was the poor kid with hand-me-down clothes, the kid who others looked down on. I also know what it was like to be hungry and see other families having a barbecue out and enjoying themselves. That feeling never goes away.” I went on to tell her that I didn’t want her to be that child or adult who looked down on others. I told her I wanted her to be kind and helpful, not judgmental and hurtful. I noticed Rose had tears in her eyes.

Minutes later, Rose went to Lucy’s house across the road.

I was sure everyone in my junior-high drama class saw the paper in my hands shaking when I stood up to audition for a lead role in the annual Christmas play. I was there, not by choice, but because teacher Alice wanted each of us to try out for a part.

As a “good” student, I did what I was asked, even if it was scary. I was small for my age, wore secondhand clothes and cried easily. At school, I was often the object of jokes and laughter and had few friends. I wanted desperately to shrink back into my seat and be invisible. But there I was, on stage. Reading was, at least, something I loved. So, I read.

I finished reading and rushed back to my seat. The spell was broken. I wanted to curl up and disappear. When the teacher read the cast list and called my name, I wasn’t paying attention. No one ever chose me for anything.

“Patty,” she repeated, “you are Star. Come and get your script.”

This is impossible! How can it be? With a pounding heart and cold, sweaty hands, I felt nearly dizzy, but incredibly happy. I walked up unsteadily to get the papers. On returning to my desk, I felt regretful. I should have refused. I felt as if everyone else were looking at and laughing at me. I buried my head in my arms. Gently patting my shoulder, teacher Alice said, “Be confident, Patty. You can do this. I know you can. I’ll help you.” With tears in my eyes, I raised my head and nodded firmly.

So, I practiced every day — while walking to school, at lunchtime, before bedtime, even on weekends. At first, I was worried about forgetting parts of a long monologue that took place in one scene, but I managed to memorize it. I felt more confident after that. At last, it was the day for the show.

Everything went smoothly until it was my turn to give the long monologue.

Fighting back tears, I continued my performance.