The turkey is gross and she's allergic to peanut butter. Dad, she asks, can you take me to lunch?

Jared Osmond drives to Deerfield Elementary to find his wife got the call, too, and already dropped off a Lunchable. Dad and his first-grader head to Taco Time anyway.

"She works me," Jared shrugs.

Such is life in Utah County, a great place to raise your parents.

It's especially true in Cedar Hills, a fast-growing town where voting determines elections but not who has the most clout.

You see it in the neighborhoods, where nearly every yard sprouts a trampoline and basketball hoops are as common as mailboxes. And you see it in the houses themselves, which come in two styles: big and great big.

But mostly you see it in the grade schools.

Last year, a fight broke out at the school play when some parents attempted to reserve more than their share of seats for family members, some from as far away as Idaho.

"Sometimes we steal the show, but we don't always run it," explains 11-year-old Tanner Gillman.

Because if they did, things would be different around here. Right?

A suburban life

Utah County has one of the highest concentrations of youth in the country at 34 percent. Cedar Hills is Utah County on fertility drugs. Here, one in every two residents is younger than 18, according to the 2000 census, and many in Cedar Hills say the ratio has increased since then.

Once part of the historic Manila area in the northern part of the county, Cedar Hills is wedged between Highland to the west, Alpine to the north, and Pleasant Grove and American Fork to the south. All the cities are heavily Mormon, but Cedar Hills does not share their pioneer heritage.

Those communities were founded by a collection of LDS blacksmiths, doctors, farmers, ranchers and shopkeepers whose services and skills were essential to the growth of the town and to the spread of Mormonism. Cedar Hills is little more than a large subdivision invented by California developers in 1977. Instant communities, flourishing like sea monkeys in a fish bowl, are becoming more common in Utah County as well-to-do residents seek larger houses in quieter settings.

Saratoga Springs and Eagle Mountain are barely 10 years old and growing fast. They, along with Cedar Hills, are changing the definition of community and challenging the notion that a city must be self-contained or self-sustaining.

Cedar Hills' voracious residential growth - from 3,094 to 8,658 in six years - has periodically outstripped the city's ability to provide water and sewer services, and led to nasty annexation battles. The result is an Etch-A-Sketch border that has next-door neighbors residing in different cities. Some parents have been known to fly into a rage if their mail lists the wrong city.

Half of Cedar Hills' residents couldn't care less. They aren't old enough to remember the decades-old feud, let alone bear responsibility for the mess it created. Here in Kids Inc., only 3 percent of the people qualify for senior-citizen discounts.

Of course, they must go somewhere else to use them because Cedar Hills has no restaurants. Or Build-A-Bears. Or video arcades. Or toy stores. Or movie theaters. It does, however, have a golf course and an assisted-living center.

With no stores to generate sales tax, there is no money for swimming pools or libraries or soccer programs, and families often have to pay extra fees to participate in those sponsored by nearby communities. And so there exists a strange dichotomy in which kids from affluent families are, well, underprivileged.

"It's weird," says 12-year-old Evan Johnson, who moved from Peoria, Ill., last summer. "If I want to play tennis, I have to go to Orem."

In fact, residents spend so much time in their Durangos, Sequoias, Tahoes and Yukons that they have redefined suburban living.

There has been talk of forming a recreation district with neighboring cities. And Cedar Hills has a few dozen acres on the west end of town where someday a grocery store and other shops will be built.

For now, however, the nearest food store, like Evan's middle school, remains in Highland.

Evan says most kids don't mind, noting city boundaries are invisible and the necessities aren't far away. Although, says 11-year-old McKenna Jared, they could be closer. And when it comes right down to it, she would choose a grocery store over a library.

"I have cravings for candy," she says, noting a particular fondness for sugar-coated gummy circles called PGOs. "I can't help it."

Family values

The Johnsons and the Jareds live on Landmark Circle, a cul-de-sac where 44 kids and 40-degree-plus days equal instant recess.

Call it a family-friendly environment, but kids say it's simply a great place to make friends and make believe. Despite the lack of malls and movie houses, they are seldom bored.

Neighborliness is what lured people to Cedar Hills decades ago, before northern Utah County became an incubator for high-paying jobs making computer chips and medical devices and dietary supplements. There were more cows and orchards then, but today's majority doesn't mourn the loss of their rural lifestyle. They have other worries.

"I'm trying to learn what a prefix is," says Alexis Osmond. "Our teacher has told us and we studied it, but I just don't get it."

Alexis is 7, the oldest of three, soon to be four, and the greatniece of Donny and Marie. She lives in a gated community across the street from her school. Her house has a recording studio.

A typical day involves school, chores, practicing the piano and violin, switching her earrings and counting her money. She's saving for a car.

Her shirt says "ultra glam girl," but it's mistaken. Alexis hates Barbies and princesses and cheerleading. The car she wants is a PT Cruiser. And her ideal job? "I'm going to have to say waitress - because you get to serve people and get tips."

This is the second Cedar Hills home for Alexis and her family. Before that, they lived in Provo. Alexis loves her neighborhood, which she describes as "the biggest I've ever lived in." Ask what she doesn't like and the conversation turns to recreational opportunities and gender roles.

"I don't like soccer. People can kick the ball into your head and it really hurts," she says. "I play football. I play with the boys. Sometimes they make me be a cheerleader. I can't believe it. At school it was girls against boys and if the girls win the boys are dummies. But I was the only girl who showed up. It stunk. I lost." Then she bounds into the hallway. "I can do cartwheels in my bedroom. Wanna see?"

Reading, writing, politics

Kaden Caldwell also has an appreciation for majesty of open space and the quality of life it affords. The three vacant lots behind his house are excellent for riding four-wheelers and motorbikes. "There's a lot of terrain to go goofin'," he says, "and the mountains are right there if you want to go paintballing."

At 14, Kaden is the second oldest of six children, two of whom are adopted. He lives with his dad and "bonus" mom in Cedar Hills and spends weekends with his mother, who lives in Saratoga Springs. Kaden's family moved from Riverton to be closer to his private school, the American Heritage Academy.

Dressed in his school uniform - dark pants, white shirt, Superman cap - Kaden believes if kids had more say in politics, they would be more informed and engaged adults. During the last legislative session, Kaden and his classmates wrote letters to lawmakers urging them to ban alliances for gay and straight teens in public schools, he says. His class also took a field trip to the state Capitol and met with Gayle Ruzicka, a powerful lobbyist for conservative causes.

"I believe marriage is between a man and a woman because God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve," Kaden says. Besides, he says, "Schools are for reading, writing and arithmetic, not clubs."

If Kaden could vote? He'd push for a swimming pool and a veteran's museum. His brother, 9-year-old Kytan, would build more Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints temples.

Hannah Shill, a fifth-grader at Deerfield Elementary, also embraces clean living.

"In our schools, all the lunch ladies have hair nets and wash their hands. They're really nice. If we forget silverware, they'll get it for us." Hannah pauses, and then adds, "The parents are pretty good, too."

Sometimes, however, a mid-course guidance is in order. Last year, students at Deerfield Elementary signed petitions and got the school to loosen its lunchroom policies, which required kids to eat quietly and clean their plates before going out to play.

"Practically anywhere else, the adults have all the power," says one 11-year-old transplant. "That's why I like it here."

Then again, the resident's parents would not let him be quoted by name.

lfantin@sltrib.com