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.
