One Year Later - Spring in Forest Hills
The morning sun streamed through the kitchen windows of the Parker house, illuminating what could only be described as the aftermath of a breakfast battle that had clearly been won by entropy. Harry Parker, now a sturdy three-year-old with an impressive case of bedhead that seemed to mock the very concept of brushes, was sitting at the kitchen table wearing more scrambled eggs than he'd apparently eaten.
"Harry, sweetheart," May said with the patient tone of someone who'd had this conversation many times before, "the eggs are supposed to go in your mouth, not on your shirt. Or your hair. Or, somehow, your elbow."
She paused, genuinely puzzled. "How did you even get eggs on your elbow?"
"But they're more fun on my shirt," Harry replied with the unassailable logic of a three-year-old. "Look, it looks like clouds! And this part looks like a dinosaur! See?"
From across the table, Peter Parker—now a dignified five-year-old who took his role as older cousin very seriously—shook his head with world-weary disappointment. "Harry, you can't wear your breakfast. That's not how eating works."
"Says who?" Harry challenged, taking another bite and somehow managing to get egg in his hair despite the spoon being nowhere near his head.
"Says everyone! Says science! Says... says the Constitution!" Peter looked desperately around for backup. "Right, Uncle Ben?"
Ben Parker, who was attempting to read the morning paper while simultaneously preventing Harry from using his orange juice as finger paint, looked up with the expression of a man who'd learned to choose his battles carefully and had lost most of them anyway.
"Well," Ben said diplomatically, folding his paper with the resignation of someone who knew he wouldn't be reading it today, "I think the general consensus is that food works better when it's inside your body rather than decorating the outside of it."
"See?" Peter said triumphantly. "Uncle Ben agrees with me. He's very smart about these things."
"Uncle Ben is smart about everything," Harry agreed cheerfully, then brightened considerably. "But Peter, look!" He held up a forkful of eggs. "If I put it here..." He carefully placed the eggs on his nose, "then it's almost inside! It's like... pre-inside!"
"That's not—Harry, that's not how—" Peter looked around desperately for adult intervention. "Aunt May! Harry's being weird again!"
"Weird is Harry's specialty," May said fondly, approaching with a damp washcloth and the expression of someone who'd done this dance many times before. "Come here, you little mess maker. Let's see if we can find your actual face under all that breakfast."
"Is there treasure under there too?" Harry asked hopefully as May began the archaeological excavation of cleaning him up.
"Well, let's see... we've got egg, we've got what I think is jam from yesterday, and... oh my goodness, is that Play-Doh?"
"That's from my art project!" Harry said proudly. "I was making a sculpture of Uncle Ben!"
"You were making a sculpture of me?" Ben asked, looking touched despite himself.
"Yeah! It was gonna be really good but then I got hungry and ate some of it."
"You ate Play-Doh?" Peter stared at his cousin in horrified fascination.
"Just a little bit. It's okay, it tastes like... like purple."
"Purple isn't a taste," Peter said with five-year-old scientific authority.
"It is if you try hard enough," Harry replied with absolute certainty. "Everything can be a taste if you're brave."
Ben caught May's eye over the top of Harry's head and grinned. Harry's unique philosophy of life never failed to entertain them, even when it involved consuming art supplies.
"Speaking of weird," May said, glancing out the kitchen window while scrubbing what might have been syrup off Harry's cheek, "looks like we're getting new neighbors. There's a moving truck across the street."
Both boys immediately abandoned breakfast and scrambled to the window, Peter boosting Harry up so he could see over the sill.
"Big truck!" Harry announced with the enthusiasm he reserved for vehicles of any kind. "Really, really big truck! It's like a truck that ate other trucks!"
"Moving truck," Peter corrected automatically, then pressed his face against the glass. "That means new people are moving in. I wonder if they have kids."
"What kind of kids?" Harry asked with genuine curiosity. "Big kids? Little kids? Medium kids? Cat kids?"
"Cat kids aren't a thing, Harry."
"They could be. Maybe the new people are very advanced."
"Kids?" May repeated, joining them at the window. "That would be nice. The Hendersons moved out last month, and Mrs. Chen says the house has been empty too long. Empty houses make neighborhoods sad."
"How can a neighborhood be sad?" Harry asked, apparently finding this concept fascinating.
"Well," Ben said, coming over to investigate the commotion, "neighborhoods are like families. When someone's missing, everyone feels it a little bit."
Indeed, the large moving truck was disgorging what seemed like an endless stream of furniture and boxes, supervised by a moving crew that looked like they'd been at it since dawn. Professional movers with the kind of efficiency that came from doing this dance hundreds of times, carrying everything from couches to what looked like an unusually large number of books.
"They have a lot of stuff," Peter observed. "Like, a LOT of stuff. More stuff than us."
"Maybe they're stuff collectors," Harry suggested helpfully. "Maybe that's their job."
"Can we go see?" Harry asked hopefully, bouncing slightly on his toes. "Please? I want to meet the new people! I want to see if they're nice!"
"They're probably busy getting settled," May said gently, though she was clearly as curious as the boys. "Moving is hard work. Maybe we should let them get organized first."
"But what if they have kids and the kids are lonely and need friends right away?" Peter asked with the kind of earnest concern that made adults remember why they loved children so much. "What if they're scared because everything's new and different?"
"That's very thoughtful of you, Peter," Ben said warmly, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Tell you what—why don't we keep an eye out, and if we see any kids, we can think about going over to introduce ourselves."
"Or we could make them cookies!" Harry suggested with sudden inspiration, clapping his hands together and sending the last of his breakfast eggs flying. "Everyone likes cookies! Even sad people! Even scary people! Even people who don't like anything!"
"That's actually not a bad idea," May mused, already mentally reviewing her baking supplies. "I was planning to do some baking today anyway. Fresh cookies are a nice welcome gift. Very neighborly."
"Can we help?" Peter asked eagerly, his eyes lighting up. "I'm very good at stirring. And measuring. And not making messes."
He shot a pointed look at Harry.
"And I'm very good at eating!" Harry added helpfully, completely missing the subtext. "And tasting! And making sure everything's delicious!"
"I'm sure you are, buddy," Ben laughed, ruffling Harry's already chaotic hair. "But maybe we should focus on making enough cookies to actually give some away this time."
"What happened last time?" Harry asked innocently.
"Last time you 'quality tested' so many cookies that we only had three left to give to Mrs. Chen," Peter reminded him.
"But they were really, really good cookies! I was being thorough!"
"Thorough," May repeated with amusement. "Is that what we're calling it?"
The morning progressed with the usual controlled chaos that had become the Parker household norm. Peter, who was spending the day with Ben and May while Richard and Mary attended a conference in Boston, was in his element helping May with the cookie preparation while Harry provided enthusiastic but somewhat counterproductive assistance.
"Peter, can you measure out the flour?" May asked, setting up the mixing bowls with practiced efficiency. "Two cups, level."
"Two cups, level," Peter repeated seriously, climbing onto his special step stool. He approached the flour canister with the concentration of a surgeon performing a delicate operation. "Should I use the scooping method or the spooning method?"
"My goodness, someone's been paying attention," May said with impressed surprise. "Where did you learn about different measuring methods?"
"Dad showed me," Peter said proudly, carefully scooping flour. "He said precision is important in both science and cooking because they're basically the same thing, just with different equipment."
"Your dad's absolutely right. Richard always was smart about these things."
Meanwhile, Harry had assigned himself the crucial task of quality control, which seemed to involve tasting every ingredient individually with scientific thoroughness.
"Harry," May said, noticing him with his finger in the sugar bowl, "what are you doing, sweetie?"
"Making sure it's good sugar," Harry replied with complete seriousness, licking his finger thoughtfully. "We can't give bad cookies to the new people. That would be rude. And maybe illegal."
"Illegal?" Ben asked, appearing in the doorway with raised eyebrows.
"Well, if you give someone bad cookies, isn't that like... like lying but with food?"
"That's..." Ben paused, considering this. "That's actually a surprisingly sophisticated ethical question."
"I'm very sophisticated," Harry agreed solemnly. "But I need to test more sugar to be sure it's all equally good."
"Harry, sugar is sugar," Peter said, pausing in his careful flour measuring to stare at his younger cousin. "It doesn't have different parts. It's not like... like a sandwich where one end might have more mayo."
"How do you know?" Harry challenged. "Have you tested all the parts? What if this sugar is happy sugar and that sugar is sad sugar? What if they taste different?"
"That's..." Peter considered this with the scientific mind he'd inherited from both his parents, his brow furrowing in genuine thought. "That's actually a good point. Maybe we should test it more thoroughly. You know, for science."
"Oh no," May laughed, quickly moving the sugar bowl out of reach. "I'm not having both of you eating raw sugar. That's a recipe for disaster of the highest order."
"What kind of disaster?" Harry asked with genuine curiosity, apparently finding the concept of sugar-related disasters fascinating rather than concerning.
"The kind where you both bounce off the walls for three hours like tiny, adorable tornadoes and then crash so hard you sleep until tomorrow," Ben explained with the voice of experience.
"I want to bounce off the walls!" Harry announced excitedly, beginning to demonstrate with some experimental bouncing. "That sounds amazing! Do I get to pick which walls?"
"Trust me, buddy, it's less fun than it sounds," Ben assured him, gently catching Harry mid-bounce. "And your Mom would never forgive me if I let you turn into a sugar tornado."
"I wouldn't mind being a tornado," Harry mused. "Tornadoes are very powerful. And spinny."
As they continued their cookie-making enterprise—which involved a lot of flour getting places flour wasn't supposed to be, Peter patiently explaining proper mixing technique to an increasingly chaos-oriented Harry, and May performing minor miracles to keep the actual cookies on track—they kept an eye on the activity across the street.
Around mid-morning, Ben noticed a car pull up behind the moving truck.
"Looks like the family's arriving," he called to May, wiping cookie dough off his hands. "Want to come take a look?"
The whole household migrated to the living room window, where they had a better view of the street. A sedan had parked behind the moving truck, and they watched as a man and woman got out of the car—both looked to be in their thirties, the woman with auburn hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, the man tall and lanky with the kind of animated gestures that suggested he was already talking enthusiastically about something.
"They look nice," May observed, adjusting Harry on her hip so he could see better.
"The man's very tall," Harry noted with interest. "Like a giraffe person. I like giraffes."
"He's not a giraffe, Harry," Peter said, but he was studying the new neighbors with intense curiosity.
But it was what happened next that really caught their attention. The woman opened the back door of the car and helped out a little girl who looked to be about Peter's age. The child had bright red hair that caught the morning sunlight like fire, and even from across the street, they could see she was wearing a sundress that was clearly her favorite—the kind of outfit that had been chosen for comfort and beloved familiarity rather than impressing new neighbors.
"There's a kid!" Peter exclaimed, his face lighting up with excitement.
"A girl kid," Harry observed with the matter-of-fact tone of someone making a scientific notation.
"So?" Peter said, though his voice carried a slightly different tone than usual. "Girls can be friends too. Some of the best kids in my class are girls. Sally Martinez is really good at math, and Emma Chen knows everything about dinosaurs."
"I know that," Harry said patiently. "I was just being specific. Specificity is important."
The little girl was looking around the neighborhood with obvious curiosity, taking in the tree-lined street, the neat houses with their small front yards, the general suburban quietness of Queens on a weekday morning. When her gaze swept across the street, she seemed to notice the faces in the Parker window. She raised one small hand in a tentative wave.
Without thinking, all four Parkers waved back enthusiastically.
"She waved at us!" Harry announced with delight, waving both arms like he was trying to signal aircraft. "I like her already! She has good waving technique!"
"You don't even know her name," Peter said, but he was still staring across the street with unusual intensity, his hand pressed against the window glass.
"Names aren't the most important thing," Harry declared with three-year-old wisdom. "What's important is that she waves back when you wave at her. That means she's polite. And probably nice."
"Names are important too," Peter corrected automatically, but he seemed distracted, still watching the red-haired girl. "I wonder what her name is. And where she's from. And if she likes science."
"Only one way to find out," Ben said, making a decision with the tone of a man who'd recognized the signs. "May, how are those cookies coming along?"
"First batch should be out of the oven in about ten minutes," May replied, reading the subtext in her husband's voice perfectly. "Second batch maybe fifteen minutes after that."
"Perfect. I think that's just enough time for us to get these boys cleaned up and ready to make a good first impression."
"Really?" Peter's voice cracked with excitement, his whole face lighting up. "We can go meet them? Right now? Today?"
"We can go introduce ourselves and welcome them to the neighborhood," Ben confirmed. "That's what good neighbors do. That's what makes a neighborhood feel like home."
"YES!" Harry shouted, doing a little victory dance that involved a lot of arm waving and what could generously be called spinning. "I want to meet the girl with the fire hair! And the giraffe man! And the other lady!"
"But first," May said firmly, looking at both boys with the expression of someone who'd learned not to underestimate the cleaning challenge ahead of her, "we clean up. And I mean really clean up. Peter, you've got flour in your hair and on your shirt. Harry, you somehow have what looks like cookie dough on your ear."
"How did I get cookie dough on my ear?" Harry asked, reaching up to investigate with genuine puzzlement.
"That's one of life's great mysteries," Ben said solemnly. "Right up there with how socks disappear in the dryer and why you can never find a pen when you need one."
"Maybe the cookie dough jumped," Harry suggested helpfully. "Maybe it's very athletic cookie dough."
Twenty-five minutes later, after what could only be described as a minor miracle of child cleaning and clothing selection, the Parker family stood at the end of their driveway with a plate of still-warm chocolate chip cookies. Peter had been scrubbed until he gleamed and was wearing his favorite striped shirt—the one that made him feel particularly mature and responsible. Harry had been contained in his second-best outfit (the first-best having fallen victim to breakfast) and his hair had been wrestled into something approaching order through the liberal application of water and determination.
"Remember," May said quietly as they approached the house across the street, "we're just introducing ourselves and welcoming them to the neighborhood. We're not staying long—they have a lot to do today."
"And we're being polite and helpful," Ben added, balancing the cookie plate carefully.
"And not too weird," Peter said, shooting a meaningful look at Harry.
"I'm always weird," Harry replied cheerfully, skipping slightly to keep up with the adult strides. "That's my job. I'm professionally weird."
"Harry's right," Ben said with a grin. "But maybe we can aim for friendly weird instead of chaos weird today."
"What's the difference?" Harry asked with genuine curiosity.
"About thirty minutes of cleanup time," May muttered under her breath.
The moving truck was still being unloaded, and the family was clearly in the thick of directing traffic—where boxes should go, which furniture belonged in which room, and the million other details that came with relocating an entire life. The tall man was gesturing animatedly at a moving crew, explaining something with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested he found the whole process fascinating rather than stressful.
"Excuse me," Ben called out as they approached, his voice friendly but not intrusive. "Sorry to interrupt—we're the Parkers from across the street. We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood."
The man looked up from where he'd been consulting with one of the movers about what appeared to be a very heavy box marked 'BOOKS - FRAGILE - VERY HEAVY - SERIOUSLY, IT'S REALLY HEAVY,' and his face broke into a genuinely warm smile.
"The Parkers! We were hoping to meet you. I'm Philip Watson, and this is my wife Madeline." He gestured to the auburn-haired woman, who was currently supervising the careful transport of what looked like a very expensive piano with the intensity of someone watching heart surgery.
"Careful with that! It's older than any of us and twice as valuable!" Madeline called to the movers, then turned to the Parkers with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, family heirloom. If anything happens to that piano, my mother will never forgive me. Or speak to me again. Or acknowledge my existence."
"I'm Ben, this is my wife May, and these are our boys—Peter and Harry."
"Nice to meet you all," Madeline Watson said, wiping her hands on her jeans before shaking hands with Ben and May. "Sorry we're not at our most presentable—moving day, you know how it is. Chaos with a side of panic."
"We remember," May said sympathetically, thinking of their own move to Queens years earlier. "We brought cookies. Nothing fancy, but we thought you might not have had time for lunch yet."
"Cookies!" The little red-haired girl appeared as if summoned by magic, looking up at the adults with bright green eyes full of hope and what appeared to be chocolate smudged on her chin.
"And you must be...?" Ben asked gently, crouching down to be at her eye level.
"I'm Mary Jane," she said with the careful pronunciation of someone who'd been taught to introduce herself properly to adults. "But everyone calls me MJ. Are those chocolate chip cookies? They smell really, really good."
"They are indeed," May confirmed, offering the plate. "Would you like one?"
"May I please?" MJ looked to her parents for permission with the practiced politeness of a five-year-old who'd been well-trained in cookie protocol.
"One cookie," Madeline said with a smile. "We haven't had lunch yet, and I don't want you spoiling your appetite."
"But if they're really good cookies, won't they make lunch taste better by comparison?" MJ asked with five-year-old logic.
Philip laughed—a warm, delighted sound. "She's got you there, Maddie. That's sound scientific reasoning."
MJ selected a cookie with careful deliberation, examining the chocolate chip distribution with the seriousness of a quality control expert, then took a bite. Her face lit up with delight.
"These are really good! Like, really, really good! Did you make them yourself?"
"We all helped," Peter said, stepping forward with sudden confidence, his chest puffing out slightly with pride. "I measured the flour, and Harry did quality control on the ingredients."
"Quality control?" MJ looked intrigued, tilting her head with curiosity.
"I tasted everything to make sure it was good," Harry explained with complete seriousness. "It's a very important job. Someone has to make sure the sugar is happy and the chocolate chips aren't sad."
"Sugar can be happy?" MJ asked, her eyes widening with interest.
"Oh yes," Harry nodded solemnly. "Happy sugar makes better cookies. It's science."
MJ giggled—a bright, musical sound that made Peter stand up a little straighter and Harry grin with satisfaction.
"That does sound like very important work," MJ said seriously. "I like to help cook too. My mom lets me crack eggs, but I'm not very good at it yet. I always get shells in the bowl. And sometimes on the counter. And sometimes on the floor."
"That happens to everyone at first," Peter said with the wisdom of someone who'd mastered egg-cracking months ago and felt very sophisticated about it. "You have to tap them just right—not too hard, not too soft. There's a technique to it."
"Really? Maybe you could show me sometime?" MJ asked hopefully, looking at Peter with the kind of admiration that made his face turn slightly pink.
Peter's voice was carefully steady. "Sure, I could do that. If it's okay with your parents. I'm very good at eggs now. I hardly ever get shells in the bowl anymore."
"That's very sweet of you, Peter," Madeline said, and May noticed she was trying not to smile at Peter's obvious attempt to be impressive.
"How old are you, MJ?" Harry asked with typical directness.
"I'm five. How old are you?"
"I'm three, but I'm very mature for my age," Harry replied with complete seriousness, standing up as tall as he could. "Peter's five too. That means you're the same age, which is good for being friends. Age matching is important for friendship compatibility."
"Friendship compatibility?" Philip repeated with obvious amusement. "That's quite a concept."
"Harry reads a lot of books," Ben explained with a grin. "Sometimes I'm not sure where he gets these ideas."
"I think about things," Harry said matter-of-factly. "Thinking is one of my hobbies."
"Are you looking forward to starting school here?" May asked MJ gently.
"I guess so," MJ said, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. Her voice got a little smaller. "I miss my old school and my old friends. And my old bedroom. And the tree outside my old bedroom that I could climb to the roof."
"You climbed to the roof?" Peter asked, his eyes widening with a mixture of admiration and concern.
"Only a little bit. And only when Mom wasn't looking. She doesn't like roof climbing."
"Roof climbing is generally frowned upon," Madeline confirmed dryly. "For mysterious reasons like gravity and emergency room visits."
"But Mom says I'll make new friends here," MJ continued, looking around at the Parker family hopefully. "She says New York kids are just as nice as California kids."
"You will make new friends," Peter said with sudden earnestness, stepping closer to MJ. "The kids here are really nice. Most of them, anyway. And if anyone's not nice to you, you can tell me and I'll... well, I'll think of something to do about it."
MJ studied Peter with obvious interest, her head tilted thoughtfully. "You'd do that? Even though you don't really know me yet?"
"That's what friends do," Peter said simply, with the kind of straightforward honesty that made adults remember why children were often better people than grown-ups. "And neighbors. We look out for each other."
Harry nodded sagely. "Peter's very good at looking out for people. He looks out for me all the time. Like when I tried to see if I could fly off the swing set."
"You tried to fly off the swing set?" MJ asked with fascination rather than concern.
"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Harry said philosophically. "Turns out gravity is very strong. And the ground is very hard."
"That's because you're not supposed to fly off swing sets," Peter said with the patient tone of someone who'd had this conversation before. "That's not how swing sets work."
"But how do you know until you try?" Harry countered.
"Because some things you can figure out without trying them," Peter explained. "That's called using your brain before you use your body."
MJ laughed again, and Peter's face went from pink to definitely red.
"I like how you think," she said to both boys. "You're both very interesting."
"MJ," Philip called from where he was directing the movers with what appeared to be an antique desk, "can you come help us figure out where your toys should go? The movers need to know which room gets the box labeled 'VERY IMPORTANT TOYS - HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE.'"
"Coming, Dad!" MJ called back, then turned to the Parker family. "Thank you for the cookies. And for coming over to say hi. It's nice to know there are friendly people here who make really good cookies."
"Anytime," Ben said warmly. "If you need anything—recommendations for grocery stores, doctors, the best place to get pizza, anything at all—we're right across the street."
"That's very kind of you," Madeline said gratefully. "Actually, I don't suppose you know anything about the elementary school? MJ will be starting kindergarten in the fall, and I'm a little nervous about finding the right fit."
"Peter goes to Forest Hills Elementary," May said enthusiastically. "It's a wonderful school. Really wonderful. The kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Rodriguez, is absolutely lovely. Patient, creative, great with kids who are still figuring out how to sit still."
"Really?" MJ perked up considerably. "Peter, do you think you could show me around the school sometime? So I know where everything is before the first day?"
"I..." Peter seemed to be having some kind of internal struggle between excitement and nervousness, his hands fidgeting at his sides. "I mean, yes! I could definitely show you around. I know where everything is. I could show you the library and the cafeteria and the playground and the art room and where the bathrooms are and which water fountains work best..."
"That sounds perfect," Madeline said with a warm smile. "Thank you, Peter. That's very thoughtful of you."
"And I could show you the really good climbing tree in our backyard," Harry added helpfully. "It's almost as good as a roof, but much safer. Mom approves of it."
"I approve of it with supervision," May corrected gently.
"We should probably let you get back to your moving," Ben said, recognizing the signs of a five-year-old who was getting overwhelmed by his own enthusiasm and might soon say something embarrassing. "But seriously, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you so much," Philip said warmly, his hands gesturing expressively. "It's wonderful to know we've got such thoughtful neighbors. Really wonderful. Makes the whole moving experience feel less... chaotic."
"Moving is always chaotic," Madeline said with a laugh. "But good neighbors make it bearable."
As the Parker family made their way back across the street, the adults chatting about practical neighborhood details—the best grocery store, the most reliable dry cleaner, which pizza place delivered—the boys were unusually quiet.
"MJ seems very nice," May said casually as they reached their own driveway.
"She's okay," Peter said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing completely.
"Just okay?" Ben asked with barely concealed amusement.
"I mean, she seems smart. And she likes cookies. And she asks good questions. And she has very..." Peter paused, searching for the right word while his face reddened. "Very bright hair."
"Bright hair," Harry repeated thoughtfully, bouncing slightly on his toes. "Like fire hair. Like sunset hair. I like fire hair. It's very dramatic."
"It's not fire hair," Peter said quickly, his voice slightly higher than usual. "It's just... red. Really red. Pretty red." He paused, realizing what he'd just said, and his face went crimson. "I mean... I just meant... it's a nice color. A very... nice color."
"Pretty red?" May asked gently, trying to hide her smile.
"I mean... I just meant... it's interesting. Scientifically. Red hair is actually pretty rare. It's a genetic thing. Recessive genes and stuff." Peter was clearly trying to sound academic and scientific rather than admiring.
Harry, with the intuitive understanding that sometimes came with being three and not yet concerned with social complexities, reached up and patted Peter's arm consolingly.
"It's okay, Peter. I think her hair is pretty too. And she seems nice. And she likes cookies. And she wants to learn about eggs. I think she'll be a very good friend."
"Yeah," Peter said quietly, sneaking one last look back at the Watson house where they could see MJ helping her parents organize boxes on the front porch. "I think she will too."
As they reached their own front door, May caught Ben's eye with a look that clearly said *our little boy has his first crush* and Ben's answering expression that said *this is going to be interesting and adorable and probably a little chaotic.*
"So," May said as they settled back into the house, "I was thinking we might invite the Watsons over for dinner once they're settled in. What do you boys think?"
"YES!" both boys said simultaneously, though for clearly different reasons—Harry because he liked meeting new people and learning about their stories, and Peter because... well, because MJ had pretty red hair and a nice laugh and seemed to think he was interesting.
"I could show MJ my trains," Harry said excitedly, already planning the agenda. "And my books! And my room! And the backyard! And the really good climbing tree! And maybe the secret hiding place under the porch!"
"That's very thoughtful, Harry," Ben said warmly. "What about you, Peter? Anything special you'd like to show MJ?"
Peter was quiet for a moment, thinking seriously with the kind of concentration he usually reserved for particularly challenging homework problems.
"I could show her how to crack eggs properly," he said finally. "And maybe... maybe I could show her the really good climbing tree in the backyard. The one with the branches that go up really high where you can see the whole neighborhood."
"That sounds perfect," May said softly. "I think MJ would like that very much."
From across the street, they could hear the sounds of moving—instructions being called out, furniture being scraped across floors, the general organized chaos of a family making a new place into a home. And if they listened carefully, they could occasionally hear MJ's bright laughter mixing with her parents' voices and Philip's animated explanations of where everything should go.
"I hope she likes it here," Peter said quietly, still looking out the window toward the Watson house.
"I think she will," Ben said, putting a gentle hand on Peter's shoulder. "Especially with neighbors like us to help her feel welcome."
"And especially with a friend like you to show her around," May added, ruffling Peter's hair affectionately.
Peter smiled—not the self-conscious, embarrassed smile from earlier, but a genuine, warm smile full of possibility and the kind of quiet excitement that came with making a new friend.
"Yeah," he said softly, watching as MJ appeared in one of the upstairs windows of her new house, waving down at her parents in the yard. "I think we're going to be really good friends."
And as if she could sense his thoughts, MJ looked across the street and spotted Peter in the Parker window. She waved enthusiastically, and Peter waved back immediately, his face lighting up with genuine happiness.
It was the beginning of what would become one of the most important friendships of their young lives—though none of them knew it yet. For now, it was just a three-year-old boy excited about having a new playmate who appreciated the complexity of sugar emotions, a five-year-old boy discovering that girls could be just as interesting as science experiments and comic books, and a five-year-old girl who was already feeling less lonely about her big move to New York.
Sometimes the most significant moments in life looked exactly like ordinary Tuesday mornings in Queens, complete with chocolate chip cookies, moving trucks, and bright red hair catching the spring sunlight.
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