“What did he say?”
Mom swallowed.
“He asked me if you were broken.”
My throat tightened.
“Why would he ask that?”
“Because you weren’t eating. You weren’t laughing much. He said you were sitting alone more often.”
I stared at the floor.
Those lunches suddenly felt much closer than six years ago.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him you weren’t broken.”
Mom reached for my hand.
“And then Noah said something I’ve remembered ever since.”
“What?”
Tears appeared in her eyes again.
“He said, ‘Good. Because I don’t know how to fix people. I only know how to stay.’”
I couldn’t answer.
For a moment, I was twelve again.
I could see the cafeteria.
The untouched food.
The empty feeling in my stomach.
And Noah sliding into the seat beside me.
Sometimes talking.
Sometimes silent.
Never demanding anything.
Never asking me to become cheerful so he could feel useful.
