The first time Whitmore meets Draste Annon Velt, she is seven years old and trying not to scream.
It’s very loud in the bright and dazzling room—this is all some big party in an important person’s house that her parents are at for ‘important business,’ with a lot of other families also doing ‘important business,’ and they’re all having fun. Whitmore isn’t having fun. She’s even paler than usual, and sweat clings to her armpits. She is picking at the ruffles on the light pink dress her mother picked out for her, that her father gave an approving nod to, and she is in a quiet corner of the room trying to breathe.
If she looks down at the floor, at least, she doesn’t have to look up at the lights or other people.
After a while, a pair of small, shiny black dress shoes appear in front of her. Whitmore looks up to see a boy her age looking back at her. He has curly dark hair and brown skin and bright eyes.She’s been told a lot lately to say things that are helpful, and also to say compliments, so Whitmore tells the boy, “Your tie is crooked,” and then, “It’s got my favorite colors.”
The boy blinks.
Whitmore’s brain catches up with her mouth. Oh no. She said things in the wrong order. She should have said, Hello, my name is Whitmore Alexandria, what’s your name? first. Her fists clench. She squeezes her eyes shut, opens them.
The boy laughs. “I don’t care about my tie.”
Whitmore looks up to see him tossing it carelessly around his neck. “What?”
“My favorite colors are blue and green too.”
“Oh. That’s nice.” She’s not sure what to say next, so she says, “My name’s Whitmore Alexandria, what’s your name?”
The boy smiles and puffs out his chest a little. His tie swings around his neck. “I’m Draste Annon Velt. Just call me Annon, though.”
“Okay. It’s nice to meet you.” Whitmore holds out her hand, and Annon shakes it.
When they’re done, Annon grins and winks at her. “You wanna see something cool?”
Whitmore stiffens. “Depends. Will we get in trouble?”
Annon laughs again. It’s a loud noise, but it’s not so bad. It reminds Whitmore of the geese in the park, and Whitmore loves the geese in the park. She feeds them oats and birdseed. They waddle towards her every time she visits, even if it’s been months.
“We won’t get in trouble,” Annon promises. “I’m really good at sneaking.”
Whitmore draws herself up a little. “When I played hide and seek at Liza Howard’s birthday party, no one could find me.”
“Come on,” he says. Annon leads her through the crowded room of talking and dancing adults.
It’s pretty scary—there’s the chance that their parents could spot them at any moment—but the both of them weave and duck and move quickly. They even dive under a table at one point, “for fun,” Annon says, when Whitmore whisper-asks, and Whitmore holds her laughter in until they make it out of the big room with all of the suits and dresses and talking.
“Why’re you laughing?” Annon asks, and there’s that grin again, bright as anything.
“You don’t make sense,” Whitmore giggles, and she laughs harder as Annon ties his tie around his forehead.
He grins again. “Shh!”
“You shhh!”
“No, you!”
“No you—” Whitmore stops at the sound of footsteps coming their way from the big room.
They look at each other and run, down the hallway, hang a left, a right, and then— “Here!” Annon tugs Whitmore through a narrow door.
Whitmore catches her breath and coughs a little and looks around. “Where—?”
“Isn’t it cool?”
Annon is bouncing up and down in excitement, and Whitmore doesn’t really get it until— “Oh. Oh, wow.”
It’s basically a closet. There isn’t much in it besides some boxes, but it does have a window, and through the window, they both see the moon, whole and silver and beautiful.
“I found it all on my own,” Annon crows. “I thought it was the bathroom.”
Whitmore doesn’t say anything. She’s looking at the moon, the deep blue dark of the sky, the occasional star. The closet is small and dusty and makes her nose itch. There are windows in the big room too, and all over the house, but this…this feels like the best kind of secret. Like the moonlight is theirs, if only for a moment.
“Wow,” Whitmore says again.
“Wow,” Annon agrees.
“Thank you.” Whitmore holds out her hand again.
Annon shakes it and laughs a little. “You’re welcome, Whitmore.”
“You sound like the geese in the park.”
“What?”
Whitmore shakes her head. “It’s a good thing. I promise.”
“Okay.”
“Can…” This is a question Whitmore has asked many times. She is afraid of it. The answers have been very confusing and what her parents would call “unsatisfactory,” like the dirt on her best skirt.
Whitmore takes a deep breath. “Can we be friends?”
Annon nods so quickly that his tie practically smacks him in the face. “We already are!”
“Oh good,” Whitmore manages. There’s a lump in her throat. The moon blankets them both in soft silver.
They shake hands one last time before they part and find their parents before anyone worries about them. Both of their hands are sweaty. It’s gross, but Whitmore wipes her hand on her dress as soon as it’s over, so it’s okay, and besides, Annon’s hand was warm too, and that was nice.
Her mother smooths the ruffles in her dress, and her father puts his hand on her shoulder to introduce her to a colleague of his, which ends up being very funny, because he looks a bit like Annon, and Annon is there too. It turns out their families know each other and everything! What luck.
Annon’s tie is back on his shirt, but it’s still crooked. He smiles, and she smiles back. They are keeping the best kind of secret.
Whitmore rocks on her heels through the rest of the party. She knows that Annon gave her a gift, and not the kind that her aunts and uncles and cousins get for her on the holidays, the kind that her parents like and she forces herself to smile at. This is a gift that she’ll keep in her heart forever.
On the night she meets Draste Annon Velt, Whitmore makes two promises: