MY BEST FRIEND WITH DOWN SYNDROME WAITED 12 YEARS TO KEEP OUR CHILDHOOD PROMISE TO GO TO PROM TOGETHER. BUT THE NIGHT ETHAN ARRIVED AT MY DOOR WITH A CORSAGE, MY MOM LOCKED ME IN MY BEDROOM AND SAID, “SOPHIE, BEFORE YOU LEAVE WITH HIM, THERE’S SOMETHING I HAVE TO CONFESS.”
My mother locked my bedroom door on prom night.
That was when I stopped laughing.
Downstairs, Ethan Harper was waiting for me in a navy suit, wearing the bow tie he had apparently purchased four months too early.
I could hear him talking to my aunt through the floorboards.
Mom turned toward me.
Her name was Eleanor Bennett.
And her hands were shaking.
“You can still go to prom with Ethan.”
I stared at her.
“I’m glad we’ve established that.”
“Sophie.”
Something in her voice made me stop.
“But before you leave,” she continued, “I need you to hear something.”
“About what?”
Her eyes moved toward the locked door.
Then back to me.
“About Ethan.”
My stomach tightened.
“What about him?”
“And about me.”
She sat on the edge of my bed.
Then said:
“I owe both of you the truth.”
ETHAN AND I BECAME BEST FRIENDS BECAUSE WE BOTH HATED RAISINS
We were six years old.
Our first-grade teacher handed everybody those tiny red boxes of raisins during snack time.
I was trying to hide mine beneath a napkin when the boy beside me whispered:
“That’s smart.”
I looked over.
He was doing exactly the same thing.
“You hate raisins too?”
“They’re old grapes.”
I considered that.
Technically—
he had a point.
“Old grapes are disgusting,” Ethan said.
By lunch, we were best friends.
Dinosaurs made it permanent.
Ethan knew an absurd amount about them.
I liked drawing them.
Badly.
The first time I drew a Tyrannosaurus rex, Ethan stared at the page.
Then asked:
“What is that?”
“A T. rex.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He pointed.
“It looks like a potato with tiny arms.”
I shoved him.
He laughed so loudly our teacher separated us.
Ethan had Down syndrome.
At six years old, that fact mattered much less to me than the fact that he cheated at dinosaur trivia by memorizing answers before asking me questions.
Our friendship was easy.
Until somebody else decided it shouldn’t be.
ONE BOY TOLD ETHAN NOBODY WOULD EVER MARRY HIM
Our teacher announced she was getting married.
Every child immediately became a wedding expert.
Chocolate cake.
Flowers.
Music.
One kid insisted weddings required trampolines.
Ethan raised his hand.
“My wedding is having chocolate cake.”
Our teacher smiled.
“Good choice.”
“And no slow songs.”
“Why?”
“Boring.”
A boy sitting across from us laughed.
“You’re not getting married.”
Ethan looked confused.
“Yes, I am.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The boy laughed again.
“Nobody’s going to marry you.”
I remember Ethan’s smile disappearing.
I hated that.
“That’s mean.”
The boy looked at me.
“What?”
“Somebody will love Ethan.”
He grinned.
“Then you marry him.”
The entire table started giggling.
Later, Ethan found me after class.
He looked unusually serious.
“Sophie?”
“What?”
“Would you love me?”
I was six.
That felt like an extremely complicated question.
“Maybe.”
His whole face brightened.
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
Then I remembered something my older cousin had told me.
“But first we have to go to prom.”
Ethan frowned.
“What’s prom?”
“A dance.”
“We already have dances.”
“No. Prom is when you’re almost a grown-up.”
“Oh.”
Then he held out his pinkie.
“Promise?”
I hooked mine around his.
“Promise.”
I forgot about it before dinner.
Ethan didn’t.
TWELVE YEARS PASSED
Somehow—
we stayed best friends.
We weren’t attached every second.
Different classes.
Different interests.
Different friends.
Ethan became obsessed with baseball.
I became obsessed with art.
He tried teaching me batting averages.
I dragged him through museums.
Neither of us successfully converted the other.
Then, when we were twelve—
my parents divorced.
That was the year everything in our house became quieter.
Dad moved into an apartment across Bellmere.
Mom cried when she thought I couldn’t hear her.
I pretended I didn’t notice.
And at Willowcrest High School’s feeder middle-school campus, I slowly stopped eating lunch.
I didn’t consciously decide to.
Food simply stopped feeling important.
Ethan noticed.
He never asked me to explain.
He just sat beside me.
Sometimes he talked.
Sometimes he didn’t.
Once, he spent fifteen straight minutes explaining why Bellmere’s baseball team desperately needed a better relief pitcher.
I understood almost nothing.
It helped anyway.
ETHAN WAS NEVER GOOD AT BIG SPEECHES
When I failed my first driving test at sixteen, he came to my house carrying two ice creams.
“Why two?”
“One because you tried.”
“And the second?”
“Because you drove badly.”
I threw a pillow at him.
Another time, I wanted to quit art after a girl mocked one of my paintings.
The next morning, I found my terrible childhood dinosaur drawing taped inside Ethan’s locker.
“Ethan!”
“What?”
“Why is this here?”
He examined it.
“Still looks like a potato with arms.”
“Then remove it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t quit.”
“Why not?”
“The dinosaurs haven’t improved yet.”
I laughed despite myself.
That was Ethan.
He didn’t fix things.
He stayed until they hurt less.
When my first boyfriend dumped me three weeks before junior homecoming, Ethan brought chocolate ice cream.
We sat on my porch for ten minutes in silence.
Then he said:
“I told you he was an idiot.”
I looked at him.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I thought it.”
“That does not count.”
“It should.”
I laughed so hard I nearly choked.
SO WHEN SENIOR PROM CAME AROUND, I ALREADY KNEW WHO I WANTED TO GO WITH
Apparently—
Ethan wasn’t as certain.
One afternoon at Willowcrest High School, he found me beside my locker.
“Sophie.”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember first grade?”
I pretended to think.
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