hen I was six, I pinkie-promised my best friend that we’d go to prom together someday. Twelve years later, he arrived at my door holding my corsage. I was ready to leave when Mom pulled me upstairs, locked the door, and said I could go with him only after hearing the truth she’d hidden for years.
My mother locked my bedroom door on prom night.
That was the moment I knew something was wrong.
I knew something was wrong.
Downstairs, Noah was waiting for me in a navy suit and the bow tie he’d been talking about since November.
I could hear him chatting with my aunt through the floor.
Then Mom turned toward me.
“You can go with Noah tonight, Chrissy. But only on one condition. I need one promise from you.”
“But only on one condition.”
I stared at her.
“I know. That’s generally how dates work.”
“I’m serious.”
Her voice sounded strange.
“Okay…” I actually laughed. “Let me guess. Midnight?”
“No.”
“Eleven-thirty?”
“Christina.”
The fact that she used my full name wiped the smile off my face.
Mom’s hands were trembling.
Her voice sounded strange.
“You have to hear something first.”
“About what, Mom?”
Her eyes flicked toward the closed bedroom door.
“About Noah.”
My heart pounded.
“What about him?”
“And about me.”
She sat on the edge of my bed.
“What about him?”
Then she said something I never expected.
“I owe both of you the truth.”
***
Noah and I met because of raisins.
We were six.
Our first-grade teacher had given everyone those little red boxes during snack time.
I was quietly stuffing mine beneath a napkin when the boy beside me whispered, “That’s smart.”
“I owe both of you the truth.”
I looked over.
He was doing exactly the same thing.
“You hate them?” I asked.
“They’re old grapes.”
I considered this.
“They are.”
“Old grapes are gross,” he said.
That settled it.
By lunch, we were best friends.
Then dinosaurs helped.
By lunch, we were best friends.
