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.
