“Okay.”
By recess, we were inseparable.
Ethan had Down syndrome.
At six years old, I understood that mostly as a fact adults occasionally mentioned in lowered voices.
To me, the more important facts were that Ethan could name nearly every dinosaur ever discovered, hated peas with unreasonable passion, and cheated at memory games by peeking when he thought nobody was looking.
He also laughed harder than anyone I had ever met.
Especially at his own jokes.
We spent most of first grade arguing over dinosaurs.
Ethan insisted the velociraptor was the greatest dinosaur ever.
I argued for the triceratops.
“You only like it because of the horns,” he told me once.
“It has three.”
“Yes.”
“That’s better than zero.”
“That is not science, Maddie.”
“You’re six.”
“So are you.”
That ended the debate.
At least for ten minutes.
Then one afternoon, our teacher told the class she was getting married.
Every child suddenly became a wedding expert.
Someone suggested balloons.
Someone wanted pizza.
A girl named Sophie demanded a horse-drawn carriage.
