ETHAN AND I BECAME BEST FRIENDS BECAUSE WE BOTH HATED RAISINS
We were six years old.
Our first-grade teacher handed everybody those tiny red boxes of raisins during snack time.
I was trying to hide mine beneath a napkin when the boy beside me whispered:
“That’s smart.”
I looked over.
He was doing exactly the same thing.
“You hate raisins too?”
“They’re old grapes.”
I considered that.
Technically—
he had a point.
“Old grapes are disgusting,” Ethan said.
By lunch, we were best friends.
Dinosaurs made it permanent.
Ethan knew an absurd amount about them.
I liked drawing them.
Badly.
The first time I drew a Tyrannosaurus rex, Ethan stared at the page.
Then asked:
“What is that?”
“A T. rex.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He pointed.
“It looks like a potato with tiny arms.”
I shoved him.
He laughed so loudly our teacher separated us.
Ethan had Down syndrome.
At six years old, that fact mattered much less to me than the fact that he cheated at dinosaur trivia by memorizing answers before asking me questions.
Our friendship was easy.
Until somebody else decided it shouldn’t be.
ONE BOY TOLD ETHAN NOBODY WOULD EVER MARRY HIM
Our teacher announced she was getting married.
Every child immediately became a wedding expert.
Chocolate cake.
Flowers.
Music.
One kid insisted weddings required trampolines.
Ethan raised his hand.
“My wedding is having chocolate cake.”
Our teacher smiled.
“Good choice.”
“And no slow songs.”
“Why?”
“Boring.”
A boy sitting across from us laughed.
“You’re not getting married.”
Ethan looked confused.
“Yes, I am.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The boy laughed again.
“Nobody’s going to marry you.”
I remember Ethan’s smile disappearing.
I hated that.
“That’s mean.”
The boy looked at me.
“What?”
“Somebody will love Ethan.”
He grinned.
“Then you marry him.”
The entire table started giggling.
Later, Ethan found me after class.
He looked unusually serious.
“Sophie?”
“What?”
“Would you love me?”
I was six.
That felt like an extremely complicated question.
“Maybe.”
His whole face brightened.
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
Then I remembered something my older cousin had told me.
“But first we have to go to prom.”
Ethan frowned.
“What’s prom?”
“A dance.”
“We already have dances.”
“No. Prom is when you’re almost a grown-up.”
“Oh.”
Then he held out his pinkie.
“Promise?”
I hooked mine around his.
“Promise.”
I forgot about it before dinner.
Ethan didn’t.
