That afternoon, Noah showed up carrying two ice creams.
“One because you tried,” he announced.
I took one.
“And the other?”
He smiled.
“Because you drove terribly.”
I threw a napkin at him.
He ate the second ice cream.
Another time, I nearly quit art.
Someone had laughed at one of my paintings, and because I was a teenager, one careless comment felt like a final judgment on everything I would ever create.
I told Noah I was done.
The next day, I discovered that he had stolen one of the ugliest dinosaur drawings I had ever made and taped it inside his locker.
It was from elementary school.
The dinosaur had tiny arms, enormous feet, and something that looked suspiciously like a potato for a body.
“Why would you put that there?” I demanded.
“Because you can’t quit yet.”
“Why?”
He studied the picture carefully.
“Because your dinosaurs still look like potatoes with arms.”
