Fair to Midland, Fair to Midland

My first best friend was Dawn. We instantly became friends because she had a crush on my brother, yet after a few months decided she didn't like him after all, and still came around to keep company with me. We talked about boys, learned to inhale cigarettes properly, drank our first booze together, which was her dad's homemade apple wine that had fermented into vinegar instead.

We were about twelve years old and in grade seven and I remember becoming concerned about going to junior high school and whether or not we'd still be best friends. This ached me tremendously, since I already experienced her cold shoulder, her fleeting presence whenever she felt like being with me because one of her other friends was too busy. My mom said she was a fair-weather friend, a saying I didn't grasp at first, as Dawn regularly called or came by on rainy days. But then, I didn't understand lots of things my mom said, things like "you made your bed, you lie in it", or "don't eat raw potatoes, they give you worms".


Dawn enjoyed watching me squirm and fret about our friendship, providing a sense of power and ownership, which she regularly exercised by turning off and on my tear ducts, emotions I couldn't hide by immaturity alone, or by her relentless intimidation of not being best friends.......but just friends. I liked the sentiment of having a best friend, the one who was superior above all, yet Dawn didn't view me as such, and our relationship would continue simply by events in her life; when she got mononucleosis, or when she needed a Maid of Honor for her wedding.


She was the same age as me, but in a lower school grade because she failed grade one. Our last summer together was spent in heedless youth and appearance, without the looming talk of makeup and brassieres. We played tether ball, and pulled legs off crickets to watch them wiggle, and we'd save the carcasses for the evening's bon fire at my folk's house, throwing them into the flames to hear them pop.

The days were long and there was a constant hiss in the air from a variety of fauna captured by the sun's heat, or hiding under huckleberry bushes or ragweed, the fields and bogs profuse of untended growth, as we impulsively trampled paths, not caring where they would lead us, not realizing we would never be able to go back again.


In the Fall I entered junior high school, leaving Dawn behind, and I met several new people and made many friendships, and began grappling with algebra and D.H. Lawrence, compulsory studies which would later abate from memory once the final test scores were tallied. I joined the Year Book Club and the Smoker's Club, now being addicted to nicotine, we teenagers met at each recess bell to drain cigarettes down with spasmodic sucks before next class.


I would often cite my daily activities to Dawn, my verbal diary, and she'd listen with open ears, astounded by such independence of personal lockers and a counsellor who'd talk to us about menstrual cramps and the importance of hygiene. She desperately wanted to go my school, hating the elementary antics of the kids in her class, hating being stunted from growing up and being left behind with armpit farts and the Partridge Family Christmas album.


Dawn was always looking at herself in the mirror, fanning her face to and fro, gazing at herself, right in front of me. I watched on, conversing with her reflection, as she stroked mascara on her lashes, feathered blush on her cheeks, and I'm puzzled why she thinks she's so bonny. She isn't ugly, but she's not spectacular either, she's skinny and has marbles for boobies, with big puffy hair and huge slices of gums mooring her teeth.


I'm not interested in makeup yet, but I'm drawn into her visions of glamour and model runways, how she's going to make lots of money and have fabulous clothes, then her face lights up and the pinkness of her mouth spills out into the mirror.


My new best friend is Joanne Lucas and we met in French class, where I purposely mispronounced words and phrases, garnering laughter from the class, which eventually got me abolished to study period. She began smoking with me at Smoker's Club and I liked her right away, her uncaring sense of what other's thought or teased about her curly mop top. We enjoyed each other's company, and began having sleep overs on weekends, getting to know the families, becoming family.


She lit fart missiles, scorching the crouch of her jeans in the process, and she played classical piano, lessons she dreaded taking, but was forced to do, along with bible study every Sunday morning. We had nothing in common, except the total lack of interest in ourselves and appearances, which was to say, I didn't think less of her playing fuddy-duddy music, and she didn't think less of me being a Protestant destined to Hell.


Dawn and I see each other from time to time, she invites me over for tea, but when I get there I'm tasked in making it. I know her house inside and out, where all the condiments are, where all the secrets are kept and why her mom stays in bed all day, occasionally getting up to peel potatoes for dinner.


Dawn doesn't like surprises, can't wait for Christmas morning to open presents, and sneaks into her parent's room to scavenge in closets and drawers, often to discover all the new clothes she'll be receiving, then models them for me. She thinks it's hilarious having beforehand knowledge of these gifts, but I feel sadness for her, for not knowing what it feels like to open up a box, to tear away at the pretty paper, unfolding the unknown amongst gleeful yells and the suddenness of surprise.


Dawn feels sadness for me, too, she says "I'm a frump, but have such a pretty face regardless of being chubby". She is embarrassed by my comical demeanor, deems it's unsophisticated, and often excludes me from her other friends, but it is my ability to make her laugh that keeps her calling me up for tea.


She is dressed down, the flaws on her face are visible and it doesn't matter if I see them, her words are not delicately chosen, she wears me like her mother's closet, a cognition keeping her grounded as she waits for me to pass the teapot, a thousand times of us and the easiness of summers keep her fair to midland, fair to midland.