Let’s say we’re in the park, playing a game of frisbee, even though I’d wanted to go swimming at Christie Pits that last weekend of summer, when my mom worked an extra shift for extra cash, and when your mom visited Niagara Falls with her boyfriend in hopes she’d one day earn the title of wife. We’d lie on our beach towels and bask in the sunshine, planning our first-day-of-high-school-outfits. Me, a short-sleeved knit dress. You, a miniskirt and crew neck sweater. Let’s say the guy with the blond ponytail and deep dimples cruised by in a vintage convertible, not riding a bicycle, hands-free, seemingly out of nowhere. We dared each other to talk to him and told him he looked familiar, and when he admitted to being the drummer of the indie band we’d seen on Much Music, we agreed to walk with him the several blocks to Dufferin Mall. He bought us frozen yogurt and told us wild stories of performing at Lee’s Palace, The Phoenix, and all the other places in the city we were too young to enter, so could only ever read about. Later, I caught his profile, and his hair looked less blond and more mousy-brown, and his dimples were flattened as if they’d never existed at all, so I whispered something to you about how I didn’t think he was who he said he was, and you got mad because I was ruining the fun, and then I got mad because you never listened to me, and then he got mad because we were being secretive, so we stopped talking. When I returned from the washroom, you had sunk deep into your seat, eyes downcast, while the guy helped himself to your frozen yogurt. I grabbed my tummy and made a diarrhea face and complained about having the worst period cramps ever and said we needed to go home before I bled all over the food court. 

In your bedroom, you told me the guy had cupped your breast, and I said we should tell our moms, at least tell someone, but you said we’d get in trouble for trusting a stranger, that people would ask what did we think would happen, and nobody would believe us anyway. I asked how people could blame us and not believe us at the same time, and you said that’s how the story goes. Let’s say, instead of dinner and a sleepover, we ordered Chinese food and went to the movies. Your mom’s boyfriend had proposed and wasn’t interested in teenagers. Said we were boring but then asked us a million questions as we did the dishes. Let’s say on the first day of school, you asked me what was wrong, why I wore baggy jeans and a turtleneck. I told you how I’d felt your soon-to-be-stepfather’s scratchy moustache, that his cologne reminded me of pine trees and sweat, and that his fingers were thick, his hands heavy. Let’s say, after that, we remained best friends.