“But first,” I told Noah, “we have to go to prom.”
He blinked.
“What’s prom?”
“A dance you go to when you’re almost grown up.”
He thought about that for several seconds.
Then he held out his pinkie.
“Promise?”
I hooked mine around his.
“Promise.”
And then, being six years old, I forgot about it almost immediately.
Noah didn’t.
Twelve Years of Growing Up Together
Our friendship survived the things that often pull childhood friends apart.
Different classes.
Different interests.
New friends.
Teenage embarrassment.
Arguments.
Changing personalities.
The strange, uncomfortable process of growing up.
Noah became obsessed with baseball statistics.
I became obsessed with art.
He could spend twenty minutes explaining why a particular pitcher’s numbers were historically significant.
I could spend the same amount of time staring at one painting in a museum.
He dragged me through endless conversations about baseball.
I dragged him through galleries and museums.
