“Eleven-thirty?”
“Christina.”
The second she used my full name, I stopped smiling.
Mom’s hands were trembling.
“What’s going on?”
She looked toward the locked door.
“You need to hear something first.”
“About what?”
Her eyes met mine.
“About Noah.”
My stomach tightened.
“What about him?”
Then she swallowed.
“And about me.”
I stared at her.
Finally, she sat on the edge of my bed.
“I owe both of you the truth.”
Noah and I became friends because of raisins.
We were six years old.
Our first-grade teacher handed out little red boxes during snack time.
I was secretly pushing mine underneath a napkin when the boy sitting next to me leaned over and whispered, “That’s smart.”
I looked at him.
He was doing exactly the same thing.
“You hate raisins?”
“They’re old grapes.”
I considered that.
“They are.”
“Old grapes are gross.”
That was enough.
By lunchtime, we were best
