The Boy Who Became My Best Friend

To understand why Mom’s words scared me so much, you have to understand Noah.

We met when we were six.

And strangely enough, it happened because of raisins.

Our first-grade teacher handed everyone little red boxes during snack time.

I was secretly pushing mine underneath my napkin when the boy beside me whispered:

“That’s smart.”

I looked over.

He was doing exactly the same thing.

“You hate them too?”

“They’re old grapes.”

I stared at him.

“They are.”

“Old grapes are gross.”

That was it.

By lunchtime, we were best friends.

Then came dinosaurs.

Noah knew everything about them.

I drew them.

Badly.

The first time I showed him my Tyrannosaurus rex, he stared at the drawing.

Then he said:

“What is that? It looks like a potato with arms.”

I shoved him.

He laughed so loudly our teacher had to separate us.

That was Noah.

He had Down syndrome, but when I was six, I didn’t understand what that meant.

I only knew that he made me laugh.

And he never forgot anything.

Especially promises.

One afternoon, our teacher told us she was getting married.

Everyone started talking about weddings.

Noah announced that his wedding would have chocolate cake.

Then one boy laughed.

“You’re not getting married.”

Noah’s smile disappeared.

“Nobody’s going to marry you.”

The boy pointed at me.

“Then you marry him.”

Everyone laughed.

I didn’t.

I looked at Noah.

He looked down at his hands.

So I leaned toward him.

“Somebody will love you.”

He looked up.

“Really?”

“Maybe I will.”

His eyes widened.

“But first,” I added, “we have to go to prom.”

“What is prom?”

“A dance when we’re almost grown-ups.”

He held out his pinkie.

“Promise?”

I hooked mine around his.

“Promise.”

I forgot about that promise before dinner.

Noah didn’t.