THOSE EARLY GRADE SCHOOL YEARS PASSED WITH Michael as a regular, if often unannounced, visitor to my family’s home in Hawthorne.

   In 1987, when I was seven, his seventh album, Bad, came out. Michael mailed us a copy of the album before it was released, we went to the concert, and my family watched the “Man in the Mirror” video on MTV when it first came out (and I watched it a million times afterward—this was back in the glory days when MTV ran nonstop music videos).

  Bad went on to sell over thirty million copies and was a massive worldwide success. Michael was on top of the world. Over the next few years, whenever we’d see Michael, he’d play us songs that he was currently working on, ask us for our opinions, and let us listen to the new directions he was taking musically. When Dangerous arrived in our mailbox four years after Bad, I was surprised to find that some of the new songs Michael had been playing for us weren’t included on the album—for example, a track called “Turning Me Off” and another called “Superfly Sister” (which was later released on the album Blood on the Dance Floor) . Dangerous sold even better and faster than Bad. As Michael cemented his worldwide following, my knowledge of his music was expanding all the time, but my friends remained mostly unaware of Michael Jackson. We were still at the age when most of us adopted our parents’ musical preferences, and my friends’ parents weren’t into Michael. But it was a different story with my parents; as far as they were concerned, Michael was a part of our family, and I was proud of his every success. Then, in 1993, my relationship with Michael reached a new level when, for the first time, he invited my family to visit him at his home, Neverland Ranch.

  For years we’d known that Michael had been building a residence in California. Often, as he was overseeing the construction of the ranch, he would say, “You should come to Neverland. There’s a movie theater, a zoo, some amusement park rides. There are no rules at Neverland. You can do whatever you want, just relax and be free.”

   I had no idea what I was in for. No. Idea. The reality was something I could never have imagined. I was twelve when my family took its first trip to Neverland over spring break. All my siblings had been born by then—my parents brought me, Eddie, my brother Dominic, my sister, Marie Nicole, my youngest brother, Aldo, who was just a baby, and my two cousins, Danielle and Aldo. Our family traveled regularly—even with all those kids— because my parents made a point of taking frequent trips back to Italy to see our extended family, but this was our first time in California. I didn’t have a concept of what exactly California would be like—Michael had said, “I have a Ferris wheel,” so as the plane banked to land, I, in my innocence, looked out the window expecting to see it down there on the tarmac. I had no idea the ranch was over two hours north, near Santa Barbara.

   We arrived in Los Angeles and spent a day at Universal Studios, but the ordinary tourist itinerary stopped there. Late the next morning, Michael’s superstretch black limousine picked us up at our hotel to take us up to Neverland. As an adult, I would become very familiar with that drive, but as a kid, all I knew was that it seemed to take forever. We kids (except baby Aldo) were zipping around the interior of that fancy limo like a bunch of fireflies caught in a jar.

   When we finally arrived at the gate to Neverland, we were met by security. The driver said, “We have the Cascio family here,” and the security guard opened the gate.

   As if the drive from Los Angeles hadn’t been enough of an endurance challenge for six young children, once we entered the gate we still had to travel the long road up to the house. Now, though, we were, at last, in Neverland, and it truly was another world. Beautiful classical music alternating with the soundtracks from Disney movies like Peter Pan and Beauty and the Beast played throughout the property. There were sycamore trees, flowers, fountains, and acres and acres of some of the most beautiful landscapes in America. The driveway curved past a train station on the right, a lake on the left. There were bronze statues of children playing, and we were surrounded by mountains on all sides. It was stunning. Neverland was by far the most magical place I’d ever been. It still is.

   The entrance to the Tudor-style house was filled with statues and paintings, and grand red carpets flowed across the gleaming hardwood floors. The house manager, Gail, led us in, past a gleaming wood staircase and the hallway to Michael’s wing, and down a corridor into the sitting room.

   “Mr. Jackson will be right out to greet you,” Gail said.

   Moments later, Michael arrived. “Welcome to Neverland,” he said simply. Then he added, “Just be free.” In one way or another, all of his guests were given this same instruction.

   We were led into the dining room, where the staff brought us lunch, and we all ate together, catching up. After lunch, Michael gave us a tour of the property. We visited the animals in the zoo, rode the train, and took a spin on the Ferris wheel. Throughout the ranch, everything was in perfect working order and fully staffed: there were animal handlers and ride operators, all of whom seemed to emerge, as if magically conjured into being, at the exact moment their help was needed.

   The rides at Neverland were fun, but I was always more impressed by the zoo. It is an amazing thing to visit a private zoo. Michael had several specialists who looked after the animals: there was a reptile handler, someone else for the bears, lions, and chimps, another person for the giraffes and the elephant, and so on. The handlers would bring out the animals for us, letting us feed them and telling us about their habits. In the reptile house there were anacondas, tarantulas, a spitting cobra, rattlesnakes, piranhas, and crocodiles. The crocodiles ate only every week or so, and they would consume whole, fresh chickens. There were four or five giraffes. Michael was allergic to them, and to horses; he had to take medicine if he wanted to touch them, but I loved to pet the giraffes —up close, for some reason, their breath smelled like mint. The chimps and the orangutans were my favorites. They were always walking around fully dressed in diapers, shirts, and OshKosh overalls. The chimps, for some reason, were obsessed with small details. If, for example, I had a hangnail, the chimps would notice it right away, study it, fiddle with it, and kiss it. They drank juice straight out of juice boxes with straws. And their favorite candies were Jujubes and Nerds. They’d hold up each piece of candy and fully examine it before eating it. Now, I can’t swear that candy was the most nutritious, animal-rights-approved option for any of these animals, but I can tell you that the baby bear absolutely loved Skittles. He’d lick at his cage, asking for more. Oh, and the elephants loved to drink sodas and eat Starbursts. Much as pets are said to look like their owners, the animals at Neverland appeared to have developed tastes in food that were remarkably similar to those of Michael himself.

   The approach to the Neverland movie theater was remarkable for its elegance. Visitors strolled up a cobblestone walkway, passing a beautifully lit fountain with dancing water while gorgeous music played in the background, as it did throughout the ranch. After passing through two sets of double doors, they entered the theater, where, on the left of the entryway, they saw an animatronics display of the characters from Pinocchio that Michael had had custom-made by the people at Disney. It included a life-size, animatronic Michael, dressed in his attire from the “Smooth Criminal” video. In the little skit that accompanied the display, a voice would say, “Look, there’s Michael,” and the animatronic Michael would spring to life, moon-walking in a circle.

   On the right, across from Pinocchio and Michael, was an animatronic version of the Big Bad Wolf. And straight ahead was the ultimate candy counter, with every type of candy known to man. The concession stand also had a soft-ice-cream machine, a popcorn machine, and every drink you could want. Back home in New Jersey, if my siblings and I had been lucky enough to have free access to a soft-ice-cream machine for a couple of hours on a Saturday afternoon, it would have been cause for great celebration. Here, it was just one small element in a full-blown dream come true. A red carpet led into the theater. There were about a hundred plush red seats. On future visits, we would get Graveyard the orangutan all dressed up and take him to the movies with us. He’d sit between me and Michael, chomping popcorn and sipping his own soda. There were also two private bedrooms, one on each side of the theater, so you had the option of watching in the comfort of an adjustable hospital bed, if that should be your fancy. Over the years there would be many times when I went to watch a late movie and ended up sleeping in the theater all night.

   Neverland may have been a truly magical place, but it didn’t change my feelings about Michael. He was as humble at his home as he was at ours. I didn’t equate the splendor of the place with riches or power—I’d already seen Michael in concert, where his transformation to a megastar was far more dramatic.

   It may have been during that trip—certainly it was during one of them, and there were many—that while driving me around in a golf cart, Michael started talking about how his Neverland was going to be like Elvis’s Graceland. In a deliberately nasal tour guide’s voice, he began to narrate: “If you look to the right, you will see the water balloon fort. Michael won many a battle on that field…”

   “When do you plan on making this happen?” I asked.

   “I am planning it right now,” he responded. “But it won’t be opened until I’m dead.”

  

   DURING THAT TRIP, WE SPENT THREE OR FOUR DAYS AT Neverland, staying in what were known as the guest bungalows—a ranch-style house divided into four separate units. They were simple but elegant, with dark wooden floors and furniture and white linens on all the beds. The bathrooms had custom-made soaps engraved with the Neverland logo: a boy in the moon. (Dream-Works film studio has a similar logo, but Michael designed his boy-in-the-moon years before DreamWorks was an entity. Steven Spielberg must have been inspired when he came to visit the ranch.) The Elizabeth Taylor suite had a king-size bed. If I remember correctly, on that first trip my brother and I stayed in Bungalow Two, which had two double beds. That was one of the few times that I stayed in the bungalows; for every subsequent childhood visit, I stayed in the main house.

   In the morning, when we woke up, the chefs made whatever we wanted for breakfast, which they would either bring to our rooms or serve in the kitchen. They were on call twenty-four hours a day. Creeks bubbled across the land. The music played on. We used golf carts to get around the property—from the movie theater to the amusement park to the zoo.

   My parents loved the ranch. My father said it was like “walking through the gates of heaven,” and that it called forth the youth and innocence that lurked in all of its visitors. He would walk around the property happily smoking his cigar. Meanwhile, my mother, who was ordinarily one of those superwomen who never stop doing from morning till night, would finally slow down. Neverland was the only place in the world where she could relax and enjoy herself— especially at the movie theater. My parents were even known to take part in our water balloon fights from time to time.

   During the day, everyone wandered off on his or her own, but each night we reconvened for a big family dinner. One night we had dinner in the tepees. Michael had created a little Indian village with tepees and a big bonfire. We sat on the floor, wearing blankets, talking and watching the fire. It was so much fun that on every subsequent trip we made a point of having at least one dinner in the tepees.

   Another favorite tradition was taking early morning rides in the hot air balloon. For some reason—it must have had to do with the weather—we had to wake up at the crack of dawn. Still sleepy, but excited, we’d drive to a point on the property and climb aboard the balloon. Soon we would be floating high over Neverland, looking down at the lush landscape.

   Eddie and I spent most of our time at the ranch with Michael. It was a place where every visitor could experience complete freedom and be completely on his own, but there was no question that being able to experience Neverland with its creator, beside him and through his eyes, compounded the magic. We wanted to hang out with him. He was the spirit of the place.

   In Peter Pan, Neverland is a place where children never have to grow up. As a child, Michael had lived in an adult world—he worked from the age of five. He toured. His time was not his own. When he overheard the sounds of children at play, he wanted more than anything to join them, but it was not an option. As an adult, as he himself put it, Michael was drawn to the childhood he had never had. He’d say, “I’m ten years old. I never want to grow up.” Sure, growing up is a part of life, but Michael was determined to rediscover the best elements of his lost boyhood and to keep them alive. He loved the idea that we can hold on to innocence, joy, and freedom. Neverland was a world unto itself, where children could be free and any visitor could let go of his worries and be a child again. Once you passed through its magic portals, the world outside didn’t matter anymore.

   Michael designed every aspect of Neverland, and it was always a work in progress. He was a man of vision—sometimes crazy visions—and whenever he had an idea, he didn’t hesitate to move ahead with making it a reality. If he wanted tree houses, he planned tree houses. If he thought there should be a whole island filled with flamingos for guests to enjoy as they drove in, he would build an island and stock it with flamingos.

   In later years, when it was just the two of us on the property, we’d walk around and check on every detail. Sometimes we’d peek in on the guest units, and if the potpourri wasn’t to his liking, Michael would have it replaced. He’d move a clock two inches to the left to place it perfectly. He’d move furniture around. He liked the flowers to be freshly picked. He wanted the landscaping to be neatly pruned. As we ambled along, he’d get on the walkie-talkie, saying, “We need more flowers over here. Turn the music up” or letting management know if he couldn’t hear the bird soundtrack chirping its continuous melodies. This was his fantasy brought to life. He knew exactly how he wanted every element to be placed and maintained. He was an artist and a perfectionist in everything he did. Michael built Neverland to share with people, especially

  children, and as it became a more public place, visited by schools and orphanages, he set up magical experiences for his guests. Every moment was choreographed, from the instant guests hit the first gate. He would have the entire house staff line up on the stairs to greet new arrivals and welcome them to Neverland. They might be having breakfast and suddenly they’d see elephants, including Gypsy, a gift from Elizabeth Taylor, walking past the window or a llama walking around.

  That trip I took to Neverland with my entire family brought us all even closer to Michael than we’d been before. Until then, he’d been the family friend whose surprise visits were always welcome. Now, on his turf, we saw Michael’s true self. Neverland embodied Michael’s heart and soul, and we felt honored and privileged to be there in his company. As we all piled back into the limo and went down the long road back to the airport, it was simply unimaginable

   beauty. Not surprisingly, once I’d gotten a taste of Neverland, all I wanted to do was to go back and visit it again. But I had important things to do, like finishing seventh grade. Only when summer vacation rolled around did my parents finally say that my brother Eddie and I could return, this time all by ourselves, for a week or two. When Eddie and I stepped off the plane at LAX, a driver named Gary was waiting for us, holding a sign that said “The Cascios.”

   “Mr. Jackson is expecting you,” he said, and asked if we were hungry—we could stop and pick something up on the way. Maybe we were, maybe we weren’t. Either way, we said no. We just wanted to see Michael.

  The 1993 American Music Awards were scheduled for that night, and Michael was receiving the first-ever International Artist Award, so instead of taking us directly to the ranch, Gary drove us to a secret apartment that Michael kept in Century City called “The Hideaway.”

   The Hideaway was a three-story apartment that was a mini- Neverland of sorts. There was a whole floor of video games— Michael’s private arcade. On the walls were pictures of Michael’s idols—the Three Stooges, Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy—and images of Disney characters. There was music playing, of course. Michael loved to have music playing, wherever he was, at all times. When Michael met us, he seemed to feel bad about the fact that he would be busy receiving an award the very night we arrived, and told us that instead of leaving us with no one but his security guys for company, he’d invited a cousin to come over and hang out with us. (Michael, by the way, called anyone who was close to him a cousin, or a second cousin—as if he wanted to be surrounded by one big, extended family.) This “cousin” turned out to be a kid named Jordy Chandler, who was about my age.

   I went up and shook Jordy’s hand; he seemed like a nice kid. This wasn’t the first time I’d met another kid through Michael. Like my own, Jordy’s family was one of many families Michael befriended, although the Cascios were the only ones he called his “second family.” We Cascios were a big family ourselves, and we were more than happy to embrace Michael’s friends. There was always room for more. To me, Jordy and his family seemed pleasant and unexceptional.

   Right before Michael left that evening, he turned to me and said, “Applehead, what do you think I should wear to the show?” We’d seen an episode of the Three Stooges where Curly or Moe called somebody “Applehead.” From then on we called each other, and everyone else, Applehead. Everyone was an Applehead. We were the Applehead Club.

   I looked into Michael’s closet and picked out a white V-neck T-shirt, black pants, boots, and a jacket that he’d worn to a photo shoot for the “Remember the Time” video. When he walked out the door wearing the whole outfit I’d picked out for him, I could feel myself beam. He hadn’t changed a single thing.

   After Michael’s departure, Eddie, Jordy, and I were left to entertain ourselves, which wasn’t hard to do given the full arcade we had at our disposal. I got along with Jordy—he was into science and puzzles and I thought that was cool. Eventually we took a break from the arcade, and Jordy and I went out on the balcony to throw water balloons and try to hit the cars that were parked below. This was good fun for a while. Then Jordy was fooling with a slingshot. I don’t know what he put in it, but it definitely wasn’t a water balloon because before I realized what was happening, whatever he had fired with that slingshot hit a parked car’s window and shattered it.

   Yikes. We ducked out of view, and then sneaked back inside the apartment. We didn’t tell security what had happened. Poor Jordy was a wreck. He, like me and Eddie, was an adventurous, fun-loving boy, not a troublemaker. He paced back and forth, terrified that the police would come, fretting that Michael would be angry. He was shaking with fear. I tried to calm him. I said, “Just relax, don’t worry. It’s not a big deal, nobody’s going to be upset.” Finally, he went into the bathroom to wash his face. When he came back, we played more video games, the ultimate tonic for a freaked-out teenage boy.

   Later that night, when Michael came home and we were all together, we actually told him what had happened. I thought it was the right thing to do.

   “Are you guys okay? Did anyone get hurt?” Michael asked. We told him we were fine—but we weren’t so sure about the car. He wasn’t angry. He just said, “Let’s go out and see if it’s still there. If it is, we’ll tell the owner what happened, and we’ll find a way to replace his window.” We went out onto the balcony, but by now the car was long gone, and none of us heard anything else about the matter. That night my brother, Jordy, and I spread sleeping bags all over the floor, watched movies, and fell asleep. Slingshot antics aside, Jordy was a likable kid who seemed a lot like me. I didn’t notice anything unusual or disturbing in his relationship with Michael. The next day Michael took us to Disneyland with Jordy;

   Jordy’s mother, June; and his sister. I had never been to Disneyland before, but even so it wasn’t hard to see that because of our host we were getting VIP treatment. We went on every single ride without having to wait on a line.

   Michael, of course, was recognized by every person in the entire park. He made absolutely no attempt to disguise his identity. In fact, he was wearing his regular outfit: sunglasses, a hat, a red corduroy shirt, black pants, and penny loafers. He wore this almost every day. Later, when I knew him better, I would make fun of him as he got dressed. He’d stand in front of his closet, which was a sea of red shirts and black pants, saying, “Hmm, I wonder what I’m going to wear today. Mmm, maybe black pants and a red shirt. Maybe I’ll wear a fedora, just to change things up.”

   And I would say, “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you go crazy today and wear something totally different?” Then I’d take out … a different type of red shirt and a different type of black pants from those he usually wore.

   Anyway, as we walked through the park, the members of the Disneyland security force formed a protective circle around us because the park visitors were going nuts over Michael, seeking autographs and trying to take photos. A couple of times we had to take a car across the park and enter rides through side doors so we wouldn’t have to deal with the commotion the fans were causing. I was beginning to get a firsthand sense of how Michael was treated in the world at large. It didn’t mean too much to me. It was kind of like his job—that was just what Michael did when he was in public. At the end of the day we left in a white limousine, and if we thought the day’s fun was over, we were wrong. On the way home we got into a massive Silly String fight. Eventually we had to open the car windows because the fumes were becoming a bit much. Back then, I didn’t notice that Michael’s behavior wasn’t exactly what people expected to see in an adult. He’d been this way as long as I’d known him, and—maybe because of his example—I wasn’t in the habit of drawing precise distinctions between adult and childlike behavior. Even now, I have my childish moments. We all do; we all should.

   That night Michael brought Eddie, me, Jordy, and Jordy’s mother and sister up to the ranch. In his limo there were always movies playing, but we were all still too excited and too busy talking about the day we’d had to pay much attention to them. We had all bonded that day. It was clear to me that Jordy and his whole family loved Michael as much as my family did. They were like another family to him, and I felt like we had that in common. I didn’t feel jealous of the relationship. I’m not the jealous type. Truth be told, it was nice to have another kid around, particularly one who didn’t seem either especially impressed by or dubious about my relationship with Michael.

   Remembering my earlier visit, I expected the drive to feel like a long one, but soon enough we were at the ranch. This time we arrived at night, so I had a chance to see the way the trees and water features were beautifully lit. The music was playing. The train, most likely empty, was chugging along its cheerful way. And dinner was waiting for us.

   Since we weren’t there with our parents, my brother and I asked Michael if we could stay with him in his room. That’s what we would have done at a regular sleepover with kids our own age, and we thought of Michael as one of us. Of course we knew he was a grown-up, but he felt like a best friend. A kid, but a kid with amazing power and resources. He had an amusement park in his backyard, for heaven’s sake. We wanted to hang out with him, and Michael couldn’t say no, not to us or to anyone else he cared for. Michael, Eddie, and I stayed up late that night talking. We lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, flipping through magazines while Michael filled us in on some entertainment-world gossip, telling us how he’d gone to Eddie Murphy’s house for dinner and how Madonna tried to seduce him. Mindful of our ages, he delicately tried to explain Madonna’s invitation to accompany her to her hotel room without resorting to words like “seduce.”

   “She … she asked me to join her in her bedroom.” He put his hands over his face. “I was so shy—I didn’t know what to do,” he confessed.

   “You should have gone for it. I would have done anything for one night with Madonna,” I told him. I was young, but already girlcrazy. Michael was the opposite, though. He wasn’t used to being put into these situations where he was supposed to feel or be romantic. He wasn’t gay. He was definitely interested in women, and anyone who saw him dance couldn’t help but recognize his powerful sexuality. But he was inhibited.

   This inhibition was, in part, a result of the road life Michael had had to live when he was young. That night, Michael told us about how, starting when he was five, he’d been on tour with the Jacksons. Sometimes the act before the Jackson 5 was a burlesque show. Michael, watching from the side of the stage, saw that the female performers were often badly treated by the men. After the show, he and Randy would hide under a bed while their older brothers brought girls back to the room. When Michael would start giggling, Jermaine would drag him and Randy out from under the bed and throw them out of the room. But not before Michael had seen and heard more than a kid his age probably should. Michael was always telling stories about his brothers. He told us some of these stories as if they were funny, but it’s now clear to me that they weren’t funny at all. Michael had been exposed to sex at too young an age, and the experience had deeply scarred him. As a result, when it came to women, it was as if he was frozen in time. Later on, after his brothers were married, the family members stopped being as close as they once were, and gradually this pulled the Jackson 5 apart. On top of his fears of intimacy, Michael didn’t want to fall into the trap of allowing something to distract him from his music.

   Starting from a very young age, work was Michael’s first priority. He was very professional. He was on point all the time. I think it’s because when he was working, he felt most comfortable, most in control. Even when his older brothers would be playing basketball or some other sport, he would just sit around and watch and sing melodies. He never joined in (and I can only assume he would have been welcome, even if it would have meant a two-onthree game). One reason was that his father never really wanted him to participate. He was more protective of Michael than he was of the other siblings. Of course, this might have been because Michael was, as I saw many times, shockingly bad at sports. I never could understand that. Here was the guy with the most extraordinary sense of rhythm in the world … and he couldn’t even dribble a basketball properly. He said he was even worse at baseball. But the point is, Michael didn’t want anything—not sports, and not women —to affect his work. As he got older, Michael would stay home to rehearse and choreograph dance routines. When his brothers came back, Michael would teach them the routines. He was the youngest of the Jackson 5, but also the most serious.

   Later that night our conversation turned to Jordy, who was staying with his mother and sister in the guest bungalows. I said, “Oh, he’s really really nice. Next time you come to New York, you should bring him to our house.”

   “Yeah, we should bring him to New York—he’s never been there,” Michael replied.

   “Why isn’t Jordy staying with us?” I asked.

   “I don’t know—Jordy never stays in my room,” Michael answered. “I like it to be just us so we can catch up.”

   So that night the three of us talked in front of the fire until around two in the morning, at which point we decided to raid the refrigerator. We went to the kitchen and warmed up vanilla pudding (one of Michael’s favorite snacks) in the microwave, gathered chips, orange Creamsicles, vanilla wafers, and juice boxes, brought them back to the room, and stayed up until four in the morning talking and listening to Michael’s fascinating stories.

   As he would do again in future visits, Michael offered the bed to me and Eddie and said he’d sleep on the floor, but we ended up all sleeping on the floor. I loved to fall asleep near the dying crackle of the fire. From that visit until I was old enough to want privacy, whenever I went to Neverland I made my bed right next to the fireplace. Let me be absolutely clear: odd as it may seem for an adult to have “sleepovers” with a couple of kids, there was nothing sexual about them—nothing that was apparent to me then, as a child, and nothing that I can see now, as a grown man scrutinizing the past. They were harmless. Michael was truly just a kid at heart. The next day we slept until midday. Michael’s chef, Buckey, was famous for his burgers. We had Buckey burgers and fries for lunch. Then Michael said, “You have two thousand seven hundred acres. Be free. Do what you want.” He urged us to explore on our own, but what we wanted most of all was to be around him and to have him show us what to do. So we spent the day playing in the arcade and running around Neverland together. Michael was game for anything.

   That night, Michael suggested that we all go to Toys “R” Us. I wondered if his chauffeur was going to take us, but Michael said, “No, I’m going to drive.”

   So we piled into an ugly brown Dodge Caravan. I sat in the front, and my brother, June, Jordy, and his sister sat in the back. Michael Jackson, wearing a fedora, drove us to the store. I said, “I can’t believe you’re driving.” I had never seen Michael drive a car. It was quite a sight.

   When we arrived at Toys “R” Us, the lights were on, but the doors were locked. My heart sank, but then several of the staff members hurried to the door, unlocked it, and said, “Hello, Mr. Jackson, come on in!” They had clearly been awaiting our arrival. The store was completely empty of other shoppers. It felt like Christmas. Michael grabbed an empty cart and said, “Go ahead, get whatever you like.” We knew that this meant that we had the run of the whole store. There was no limit to what we could buy. But my brother and I weren’t comfortable just filling up a cart with toys. Jordy seemed to feel the same way. We zoomed through the aisles, relishing the feeling that the store was open for us. It was ours. But when it came down to making actual purchases, we just selected a handful of small items, nothing too crazy. We were extremely respectful. Besides, there would be plenty to enjoy when we got back to Neverland. Michael, meanwhile, had quickly stacked three carts full of toys that he wanted.

   Michael loved to collect toys. He didn’t necessarily play with them, or even take them out of their packages. But he sure loved to buy them. At Neverland he had a toy room full of unopened toys that he was saving as collector’s items. He also paid close attention to whatever new toys were coming onto the market. He was interested in what was popular—what kids were playing with, and why they were drawn to those particular toys.

   Michael approached most of popular culture with the same intense curiosity he brought to trends in toys. He studied the Top 10 music lists and he also followed the New York Times best-seller list for books. It was part of how he developed a remarkably broad— even universal—sense of what people wanted to see, hear, and experience.

   I was learning from Michael. He taught me to pursue knowledge. He encouraged me to study. He told me to be humble and to respect my parents, especially my mother. He warned me away from partying and using drugs and cigarettes, saying, “Have a drink, enjoy yourself, but if you can’t walk out of a place on your own two feet, you’re a bum.” He inspired me to be the best that I could be. Because he connected with me, I was receptive to his influence. At school, I was not a good student. Ever since kindergarten, I had been a daydreamer, lost in my own world. But Michael made me see that school wasn’t the only way to learn. He said that some of the most successful people in the world, like Thomas Edison and Albert Einstein, hadn’t done well in school. I could teach myself whatever I needed to know in order to become a master of my chosen craft. No matter what I did, Michael believed in me. I could be a leader and a creator. My parents saw the influence Michael had on me, and it was one of the reasons why they encouraged our relationship.

   As summer came to a close, Eddie and I returned to New Jersey. I was starting eighth grade. Eddie was starting sixth. Our parents had moved over the summer, and we came home to a new house in a new town. Meanwhile, Michael flew to Bangkok. Over the past year he had been touring internationally for his album Dangerous, and after a short break it was now time for him to go back on the road. Eddie and I said our good-byes, but we had no idea how long it would be before we would see our friend again, how far away from home we would be, and what unhappy circumstances Michael would be in.