“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.
