The Different Kind of Friend

Saoirse had exactly three best friends, and she kept them organized in her head like books on a shelf.

There was Maya, who could do a cartwheel with no hands. There was Priya, who knew every single capital city in Europe. And there was Lila, who once ate an entire lemon without making a face.

These were real friends. The kind you picked yourself. The kind who were in your class and knew the same jokes and liked the same things.

And then there was Ronan.

Ronan was six. He lived next door. He had a gap where his two front teeth used to be, and he said the word "spaghetti" wrong every single time. He called it "pasketti," and no matter how many times Saoirse corrected him, he just grinned that gappy grin and said it again.

Ronan's mum and Saoirse's mum drank tea together on Saturday mornings, which meant every Saturday, Ronan appeared at her door like a package she hadn't ordered.

"Saoirse! Saoirse! Do you want to see something?"

It was always "Do you want to see something?" And the something was always a rock, or a beetle, or a stick that looked — according to Ronan — exactly like a sword.

It did not look like a sword.

"That's just a stick," Saoirse told him one Saturday morning, arms crossed.

"It's a sword stick," Ronan said, like that settled everything. Then he swung it at a bush and made explosion sounds with his mouth.

Saoirse sighed the longest sigh she had. She looked through the kitchen window where her mum and Ronan's mum were laughing about something. They'd be ages.

"I'm going to read my book," Saoirse said.

"Can I read too?"

"You can't even read chapter books."

Ronan thought about this for a moment. "I can read some words. I can read the. And cat. And is."

"That's three words."

"That's loads!" Ronan said cheerfully.

Saoirse took her book to the big tree at the back of the garden and sat against the trunk. Ronan followed. He didn't sit next to her — he sat about two feet away, which was something at least. He picked at the grass and hummed a song that didn't have a tune.

She tried to read. She really tried.

"Saoirse?"

"What."

"Do you think ants have dreams?"

She closed her book with her finger holding the page. "What?"

"Dreams. Like when they sleep. Do you think they dream about big crumbs? Like, really enormous ones?"

Saoirse opened her mouth to say something sensible. But the image of a tiny ant dreaming about a crumb the size of a car floated into her brain, and she felt a smile sneak onto her face before she could stop it.

"That's ridiculous," she said.

"Big, enormous crumbs," Ronan whispered, holding his arms wide. "Like THIS big."

She did not laugh. She absolutely, definitely did not laugh. There was maybe a small sound, but it was not a laugh.

The next Saturday, Saoirse had a plan. Maya was coming over, and they were going to make friendship bracelets in her room and talk about important things. She had set out the beads and the string and even a little chart of patterns she'd drawn herself.

When the doorbell rang, she flew down the stairs.

But there on the step stood Ronan, holding a jar.

"There's a frog in here," he announced. "I named him Kevin."

"Ronan, I can't play today. Maya's coming over."

"Can I meet Maya?"

"No. We're making bracelets. It's a best friend thing."

Something shifted in Ronan's face. It was quick — like a cloud moving over the sun and then away again. He looked down at the jar. Kevin the frog pressed his tiny green hand against the glass.

"Okay," Ronan said. And he turned and walked back across the lawn to his own garden, the jar held carefully in both hands.

Saoirse watched him go. There was a strange heavy feeling in her chest, like she'd swallowed a stone. She shook it off and went upstairs.

Maya came, and they made bracelets, and it was fun. It was. Maya told her about a girl at swimming who could hold her breath for forty-five seconds, and Saoirse showed her the pattern chart, and they used all the purple beads.

But once, when Saoirse looked out her window, she saw Ronan in his garden, sitting alone by the hedge. He was talking to the jar.

The stone in her chest got heavier.

That night, Saoirse lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

She thought about how Ronan always brought things to show her. How he asked her strange questions. How he sat two feet away when she was reading — not because he didn't want to sit closer, but because he knew she needed space. And he'd rather sit two feet away from her than anywhere else in the whole garden.

She thought about the crumb dream, and Kevin the frog, and pasketti.

She rolled over and pulled the blanket up.

He was only six. He said things wrong. He couldn't do cartwheels or name capital cities or eat lemons without making a face.

But he thought ants had dreams.

And he'd named a frog Kevin.

Saturday came again. Saoirse was ready early. She sat on the front step with something behind her back.

The door next door opened, and out came Ronan, dragging his shoes on the ground the way he always did. He looked over at her a little carefully, like he wasn't sure if today was a "no" day.

"Ronan," she called. "Do you want to see something?"

His whole face changed. His eyes went wide. He broke into a run and nearly tripped over his own untied laces getting across the grass.

"What? What is it?"

Saoirse brought her hand out from behind her back. In her palm sat a bracelet — not purple like the one she'd made with Maya. This one was green and blue and had one wobbly yellow bead right in the middle because she'd run out of green ones.

"I made you this," she said. "It might be too big. I had to guess your wrist size."

Ronan took it like it was made of gold. He turned it over in his fingers. He held it up to the light.

"Is this a best friend bracelet?" he whispered.

Saoirse opened her mouth. She almost said no, it's just a regular bracelet. She almost said it's a different kind. She almost said a lot of things.

Instead, she looked at this gappy, sticky, pasketti-saying, frog-naming boy who always came back, even on the "no" days.

"Yeah," she said. "It is."

Ronan put it on. It was too big. It slid right down to his elbow. He didn't care. He held up his arm like a knight raising a banner.

"This is the best thing I ever got," he said. "Even better than Kevin."

"How is Kevin?"

"He escaped. He lives under the shed now. I still talk to him."

"Of course you do."

Ronan looked at her and grinned — all gap, all sunshine.

"Saoirse? Do you think frogs have dreams?"

She sat down on the grass and patted the spot right next to her. Not two feet away. Right next to her.

"Tell me what you think they dream about," she said.

And he did. He told her frogs dreamed about lily pads the size of trampolines and flies made of chocolate and rain that tasted like apple juice. He went on and on, waving his arms so big the bracelet flew off twice, and both times Saoirse picked it up and put it back on his skinny little wrist.

The mums drank their tea. The morning stretched out long and golden. And Saoirse thought that maybe friends didn't come in just one kind, like books on a shelf.

Maybe some of them came to your door holding jars, asking strange questions, saying spaghetti wrong.

And maybe those ones counted most of all.