Lizzie is seven years old when she takes Charlotte’s hand and asks her best friend to marry her.
It’s recess and the autumn air is getting cooler, but Charlotte’s hand feels warm, and Lizzie imagines spending the rest of her life with her.
She also imagines her mom, relieved that she’s solved her husband search so quickly. Charlotte looks surprised, but her answer is yes.
“Perfect,” Lizzie says. “Neither of us has to bother with looking for husbands now.” She squeezes her friends fingers between her own, and pulls up closer to Charlotte. “This is so easy.
Why do grown-ups have to make everything so confusing?”
“You’re the one making a big deal of your Halloween costume,” Charlotte says. She laughs and tugs lightly on Lizzie’s long black costume sleeve.
“It’s not just this, Char,” Lizzie says, indignant. “Mom wants me to find a boyfriend – a
. Ew. Why would I want one of those? All the boys are gross.
” Lizzie and Charlotte glance across the playground to where Ricky Collins is playing kickball with the boys from another class, and they stick their tongues out.
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