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

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?”

“Because the dinosaurs haven’t improved.”

“Still looks like a potato with arms.”

I laughed despite myself.

That was Noah.

He never gave speeches.

He just stayed long enough for whatever hurt to become bearable.

And when my first boyfriend dumped me three weeks before junior homecoming, Noah showed up with chocolate ice cream.

He sat beside me on the porch while I cried.

He just stayed long enough for whatever hurt to become bearable.

After 10 silent minutes, he finally spoke.