Noah and I became best friends in first grade for two very important reasons: we both hated raisins, and we both loved dinosaurs.
Noah had Down syndrome, but that was never the thing I thought about when I looked at him.
To me, he was the kid who could remember baseball statistics from years earlier, argued about dinosaurs as if his life depended on it, and brutally criticized my drawings.
One day, he studied one of my pictures for several seconds before announcing,
“It looks like a potato with arms.”
I was furious.
He laughed until he nearly fell out of his chair.
That was Noah.
One afternoon, our teacher told the class she was getting married.
Everyone immediately started talking about weddings, dresses, music and cake.
Noah proudly announced that his future wedding would have chocolate cake and absolutely no “slow boring songs.”
A boy sitting across from us laughed.
“Who would marry you? Nobody.”
The room suddenly felt different.
I didn’t fully understand why the comment was so cruel, but I saw Noah’s smile disappear.
“That’s stupid,” I snapped. “Someone will love Noah.”
Noah turned toward me.
“Would you?”
At six, I didn’t understand the weight of the question.
So I shrugged.
“Maybe. But first we have to go to prom.”
His forehead wrinkled.
“What’s prom?”
“It’s a big dance when we’re almost grown up.”
Noah immediately held out his pinkie.
“Promise?”
I hooked mine around his.
“Promise.”
I forgot about the conversation not long afterward.
Noah remembered every word.
Over the next twelve years, our friendship survived almost everything childhood could throw at us.
Different classes.
Different interests.
Awkward teenage years.
My parents’ divorce.
His endless attempts to make me understand baseball.
My complete failure to make him appreciate art.
And eventually, my first heartbreak.
The night my first boyfriend dumped me, Noah arrived at my house carrying two containers of ice cream.
He handed one to me and smiled.
“I told you that guy was an idiot.”
I laughed even though I had been crying five minutes earlier.
