At 6, I Promised My Best Friend with Down Syndrome We’d Go to Prom Together – 12 Years Later, Mom Said I Could Go with Him Only on One Condition
“I owe both of you the truth.”
I looked over.
He was doing exactly the same thing.
“You hate them?” I asked.
“They’re old grapes.”
I considered this.
“They are.”
“Old grapes are gross,” he said.
That settled it.
By lunch, we were best friends.
Then dinosaurs helped.
By lunch, we were best friends.
Noah knew an unreasonable amount about dinosaurs and had strong opinions about which one would win in a fight.
I drew them.
Badly.
The first time I showed him my Tyrannosaurus rex, he stared at the page for several seconds.
“What is… that? It looks like a potato with arms!”
” It looks like a potato with arms!”
I shoved him.
He laughed so loudly our teacher separated us.
Noah had Down syndrome.
At six, that mattered to me considerably less than the fact that he cheated at dinosaur trivia by memorizing the answers before asking me the questions.
Our friendship was simple.
Until another kid made it complicated.
Noah had Down syndrome.
***
One afternoon, our teacher announced she was getting married.
The class exploded.
Everyone had opinions.
Chocolate cake.
Vanilla cake.
Flowers.
Music.
Somebody insisted a wedding needed a trampoline.
Noah raised his hand.
“My wedding will have chocolate cake.”
Our teacher smiled.
“Excellent choice, Noah.”
“My wedding will have chocolate cake.”
“And no slow songs, Miss Veronica.”
“Why not?”
“They’re boring.”
A boy across our table snorted.
“You’re not getting married, dude.”
Noah looked at him.
“Yes, I am.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The boy laughed.
“Nobody’s going to marry you.”
I remember the exact second Noah’s smile disappeared.
“Nobody’s going to marry you.”
He looked down at his hands.
Something hot rose in my chest.
“That’s mean, Roger.”
The boy turned toward me.
“What?”
“Somebody will love Noah.”
“Then you marry him.”
A wave of giggles rippled through the classroom.
“That’s enough, boys and girls,” the teacher said, silencing the room.
“Somebody will love Noah.”
But I could see Noah was upset.
Later, after class, he looked at me with serious eyes.
“Chrissy… would you… love me?”
I considered it for a moment.
“Maybe I will,” I said.
Noah immediately looked up.
“Really?”
I suddenly realized I had talked myself into a very serious situation.
“Maybe.”
“Chrissy… would you… love me?”
He considered that.
Then I remembered something my older cousin had been talking about.
“But first we have to go to prom,” I added.
“What’s prom?”
“A dance.”
Noah frowned.
“We have dances now.”
“No. Prom is when we’re almost grown-ups.”
“Oh.” He held out his pinkie. “Promise?”
“What’s prom?”
I hooked mine around his.
“Promise.”
I forgot about it by dinner.
Noah didn’t.
***
Twelve years is a long time for a friendship to survive childhood.
Ours somehow did.
We didn’t always have the same classes. We made other friends. We developed different interests.
Noah became obsessed with baseball.
I forgot about it by dinner.
I became obsessed with art.
He tried teaching me baseball statistics.
I retaliated by making him visit art museums.
Neither campaign succeeded.
Then, when we were 12, my parents divorced.
That changed me in ways I didn’t understand at the time.
Our house became quieter.
Then, when we were 12, my parents divorced.
Dad moved into an apartment 20 minutes away.
Mom started pretending she wasn’t crying.
I started pretending I didn’t notice.
At school, I stopped eating much at lunch.
Noah noticed.
He never asked me to explain.
He just sat beside me.
Sometimes he talked.
Sometimes he didn’t.
He never asked me to explain.
Once, he spent 15 straight minutes explaining why our baseball team needed a new relief pitcher.
I understood approximately four words.
It helped anyway.
Years later, when I failed my first driving test, Noah appeared at our house carrying two ice creams.
“Why two?”
“One because you tried,” he said.
“One because you tried.”
I smiled.
“And the other?”
“Because you drove badly.”
I threw a pillow at him.
At 16, when I told him I wanted to quit art because a girl in my class had laughed at one of my paintings, he stole the ugliest dinosaur drawing I’d ever made.
“Because you drove badly.”
The next morning, I found it taped inside his locker.
“Noah!”
“What?”
“Why is that there?”
He inspected it.
“Still looks like a potato with arms.”
“Then take it down,” I demanded.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t quit yet, Chrissy.”
“Why not?”
