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.
Ethan raised his hand.
“When I get married, I want chocolate cake.”
Mrs. Miller smiled.
“Excellent choice.”
“And the DJ has to play baseball songs.”
“There are baseball songs?”
“Yes.”
Nobody asked for examples.
Then a boy at our table named Tyler laughed.
“You’re not getting married.”
The room quieted.
Ethan looked at him.
“Yes, I am.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know. I’m six.”
A few children giggled.
Tyler leaned back in his chair.
“No girl is going to marry you.”
I remember Ethan’s face changing.
It happened so quickly.
One second he was smiling.
The next, he was studying the tabletop.
I felt something hot rise into my chest.
“Stop being mean.”
Tyler shrugged.
“I’m telling the truth.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Then you marry him.”
More kids laughed.
Mrs. Miller immediately stepped in.
“That is enough.”
But Ethan had already gone quiet.
After school, we sat on the curb waiting for our parents.
For several minutes, Ethan didn’t say anything.
Then he asked:
“Maddie?”
“What?”
“Do you think somebody could love me?”
Even at six, I understood that the question was bigger than marriage.
I kicked my sneaker against the pavement.
“Of course.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I love you.”
He looked up immediately.
“You do?”
“Yeah. You’re my best friend.”
He considered this.
Then said:
“So will you marry me?”
I nearly choked.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said you love me.”
“That’s different!”
“How?”
I had absolutely no answer.
So I reached for the first delay tactic my six-year-old brain could invent.
“We can’t talk about marriage until after prom.”
Ethan frowned.
“What is prom?”
“It’s this big dance when you’re almost an adult.”
“Do they have chocolate pudding?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why would we go?”
I laughed.
“Because everybody goes.”
He thought about it.
Then held out his pinkie.
“Okay. Prom first.”
I looked at his hand.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I hooked my pinkie around his.
