Snow Angels

by Rebecka

God, I hate the snow. When I was 14 years old, my best friend and I were trapped on a bus in a snow storm. It was the middle of January, the temperature was arctic (even before the snow), and I'd already seen more snow than an Atlanta girl was used to seeing in a decade. The problem was, I was no longer in Georgia.

"Minnesota sucks," I grumbled.

Paul, the boy who sat beside me and who was my de-facto boyfriend, laughed condescendingly. "Wus. You haven't lived until you do it on the side of a ten foot snow-drift."

I showed my disapproval by elbowing him in the ribs. "Asshole," I added, when he laughed again. The truth was, I was utterly miserable being cold.

The snow had begun as a gentle flurry around ten, and had grown into a howling monster by the time school let out early at two-thirty. I was totally miffed that they would even have school on a day where a foot or more of snow was predicted by three o'clock. Only in Minnesota.

"Actually," he said, gazing out the window at the brutal white out. "This is pretty radical, even for Minnesota."

A lake-effect storm gone psycho; they were now predicting up to four feet with snow-drifts eight feet high by midnight. Unbelievable.

Twenty minutes later, Paul got off the bus half a block from his house-reluctantly; he liked leaving me on the bus no more than I liked being left-waited in the whirlwind until the bus pulled away, waving at me unhappily, and then trudged toward home with his shoulders hunched and his hands jammed into the pockets of his parka. It bothered me seeing him so miserable; I was really getting to like Paul.

For the next hour and forty-five minutes, the bus crept forward a foot at a time, discharging students lucky enough not to live in Mesaba Estates, while I ran my battery down to a flashing outline relentlessly texting Paul and my other friends, barely paying attention as the ridership of Bus 9899 dwindled to fewer than a handful of students. Scowling out the window into the now perfect darkness, I clamped my arms across my chest, pressed my lips into a straight line, balled my fists against my ribs and tried to keep my nostrils from flaring unattractively. Not that anyone would look at me and see. The driver was too wrapped in driving to look anywhere but out the icy front windshield. Twenty minutes later, the only other passenger on the bus beside myself was Agnes Ahlberg, the one person on the route who lived farther from the school than myself. As she always did, Agnes sat alone by the window, five rows from the back, on the opposite side of the bus.

Agnes was peculiar. She wasn't pretty, but neither was she ugly. The truth was, Agnes could be cute if she wanted to be. However, she always wore her dark hair parted in the middle, chose drab, out of fashion clothes, and looked totally devoid of makeup, even when she had some on. She was a seriously blah girl that boys either ignored or ridiculed, and which girls made fun of. In the half-year I'd been at school, I'd talked to her maybe twice, three times at the most. We'd never had a conversation. Looking at her reflection in the glass, I felt guiltily sorry for her. Like me, she had her arms crossed over her chest, and was staring out the window, unseeing, by the look of her reflected face. I watched her out the corner of my eye, afraid to be caught looking.

Two things happened at once. The driver, a string bean balding man in his late fifties yelled "Shit!" and then suddenly the bus was sliding sideways, the front end going right and the rear end going left, the tires on the locked wheels making a grinding sound as they plowed through the built-up snow and ice, the noise becoming twice as loud as the bus, going nearly perpendicular to the road now, extended both sets of wheels into the gravel shoulders. I grabbed the top of the seat ahead of me, sensed Agnes do the same thing behind me. I was too afraid to speak, too shocked to cry out. Looking back, I locked eyes with a wide-eyed Agnes.

We hit something with a sickening jolt and suddenly the bus was no longer going sideways but backwards. Agnes and I screamed at the same time and so did the driver, though his scream was more an angry denial than an expression of fear. I watched as he twisted the wheel first one way and then the other, having no effect whatsoever on the attitude or direction of the bus. It slid off the road and headed down the embankment, which thankfully wasn't steep enough to pitch the bus over onto its side. It was steep enough, however, to pitch me off my seat into the isle and fling Agnes against the side of the bus. I grimaced as I heard what could only be her head smacking the window. Being thrown around as I was, I was unable to look back and see if she was injured.

"No! No, goddammit, no!" The driver, still fighting the wheel as though it could make any possible difference, had finally found his voice. More profanities spewed from his mouth as the bus took a particularly hard lurch crashing through a line of saplings planted on the hillside. The impact bounced him off the ungiving wall, and halfway off his seat. He kept one hand on the wheel while planting the other on an outcrop of the dashboard. Nothing he did had the slightest effect on the bus's trajectory. And then suddenly it was over.

Oh, my God, I thought frantically. We've stopped. I looked out the windows to make sure this assumption was in fact, correct. It was. To my amazement the bus had remained upright, coming to rest on almost perfectly level ground. Listing only slightly, it apparently had the right front tire on the highest ground, and the left rear tire on the lowest. How in the name of God we had remained upright I didn't know.

The driver coughed explosively. Pushing back into his seat, he twisted around to look back at us. Still coughing, he choked out: "Are you girls okay?"

I looked back at Agnes, who looked on the verge of hyperventilating. She was fingering the left side of her head gingerly. She winced, but nodded.

"We're all right," I confirmed. "What about you?"

"Okay," he answered. His coughing fit had subsided. I wondered if it had been a reaction to fear, because I felt like I should be coughing too. In fact, I think I was seriously close to throwing up. I looked back at Agnes.

"Are you okay?" I asked. I asked this not in the way of a curious bystander, but as a friend. Peculiar or not, Agnes had just gone through the same horrible experience that I had. I felt an instant bond with her, if not of friendship, then at least of camaraderie. We had survived.

Carefully, I got off my butt and brushed off the back of my jeans. My elbow hurt, and so did both of my butt cheeks. So did the outside of my left thigh, where I must have whacked it against the opposite seat going down. My back also felt stiff, as though I'd almost thrown it out of whack.

Wincing as she examined the extent of her lump, Agnes smiled tentatively. "Where are we?" she asked. "Do you know?"

I had to admit that I had no idea. Turning to the driver-his back was giving him problems too, from the looks of it-I asked the same question of him that Agnes had asked of me. He looked dubious.

"Well, I think, we're off Broad Neck Road."

Anxiety shot through my chest at the question mark in his voice. "You think? You don't know?"

Rather painfully, the driver shrugged. "I know we turned off Route 3. The trouble is, it was snowing so hard when we turned that I couldn't make out the sign. There were no landmarks that I could identify either. It was a complete white-out for God's sake. I had to count off distance by the odometer and when I saw a road where Broad Neck was supposed to be, I turned. I wasn't positive, but the turns in the road seemed right, and I knew we must have been coming up on Wentworth when we went off."

He hesitated, unsure.

"How far did you go up?" I asked. Right after we had moved in, I had idly checked the distance on Dad's odometer from the school to home. The distance from Route 3 to Wentworth was a mile and a half. Though I hadn't been paying close attention, I was sure that we had gone a mile and a half down Broad Neck, maybe even two miles. Oh, God. Were we lost?

"Relax," he said, smiling tightly. "Even if we're on the wrong road, it's not like were on the backside of the moon. We didn't slide that far, and anyone passing will see the headlights. They're pointing right at the road." We all looked through the front windshield at the whirling, driving snow. I wondered if the lights could be seen from twenty feet away, much less up that long hill to the road. Seemed to me anyone up there would be concentrating hard as could be on the snow-covered pavement right before him or her; not sightseeing.

"Besides-" He indicated the radiophone that he used to communicate with the dispatcher and the school. "I'll call in and they'll send a wrecker out for the bus and a 4x4 to get you girls home. We can't be more than a hundred feet from the road. Nothing to worry about."

In my old school district in Atlanta, the buses had all been equipped with GPS tracker units on the roof, and 3D displays on the dashboard. You couldn't get lost, even if you had tried. Here, you had to depend on the radiophone if something went wrong; or, on your cell phone. Remembering that mine was dead gave me a new, queasy feeling. I pulled it out and flipped back the lid to check. It was dead, completely. It had died in my pocket. I couldn't even call my folks to tell them what was going on.

"Fuck," I muttered. Any minute now, Mom would start having conniptions. I turned to Agnes.

"Can I borrow your cell phone? Mine is dead."

She smiled in apology and shrugged. "Sorry, I don't have one."

I looked at her in astonishment. "You don't have one?"

She shook her head, blushing, lowering her eyes out of embarrassment. I didn't know anyone, not even here in Minnesota that didn't have a cell phone. I turned to the driver, whose name I now remembered was Mr. Sanford.

"Could I use your cell phone to call my mom? Mine's dead," I said, holding it out as proof.

Nodding absently, he dug in his coat pocket and came out with a cell phone, which he flipped open. Looking at the display, he wrinkled his forehead worriedly. He held the cell phone up and away from him, turned in a quarter-circle, and then turned completely around. Then he walked down the isle toward us moving the cell phone to either side of the bus, scowling more and more deeply.

"The tower must be down. I usually get three bars out here, no matter where we are." He looked out the window in the general direction of Route 3, where the cell phone towers were. "Bad luck," he said, holding out the display so that I could verify that he was telling the truth. The phone was a beat up old Samsung; I was amazed it worked at all. Sure enough, there were no bars showing.

Suddenly, Mr. Sanford turned around to stare at the handset of the radiotelephone. He hurried back up the isle to the front, Agnes and I right behind him.

Please! I thought. Please, please let that phone be working!

Snatching up the handset, Mr. Sanford pushed the transmit lever on the side and spoke into the handset loudly and clearly: "Dispatch? 9899. Over."

Nothing but static answered the callout. "Dispatch? 9899 here, calling an emergency. We are off the road somewhere east of Wentworth on Broad Neck Road. Do you copy, dispatch?"

He released the transmit lever and we listened to more static. I thought, maybe, that I heard a faint voice attempting to answer. If so, it sounded from the far side of the moon.

Bending over to check the dial, Mr. Sanford called out again. When there was till no answer, he rotated the switch to a second frequency and called out on that. The results were no better. Each time his call for help went unanswered, my stomach cramped a little harder, and my hands shook a little more, until I felt right on the edge of panic.

"Are we trapped out here?" I croaked. "Please tell me we aren't trapped out here!" I cast a frantic look at Agnes and found her staring back at me with big, slowly blinking eyes.

"It's okay," she muttered. "Even if we are, it's not like we're going to freeze to death or anything. The engine's running, and we have plenty of gas." She and I and Mr. Sanford all looked at the dashboard at the same time. Seeing the needle on the gas gage resting at just over half a tank, I released a shuddering sigh and relaxed. If worst came to worse, we could run the engine for a while, get things warm and toasty, and then shut it off for a while. It would surely last until we were rescued.

After trying the third and final frequency with the same result, and then going through all three channels one more time, Mr. Sanford resolutely replaced the handset into the cradle and cursed mildly under his breath.

"Either the weather is doing this, we're too far out, which I don't believe is possible, or something happened to the antenna when we crashed. Whatever the cause-" He folded his arms deliberately across his chest. "-we're stranded here until the storm is over, or until they come looking for us."

Another thought occurred to me. "What about food? What about water?"

Looking surprised, and then thoughtful, Agnes returned to her seat and grabbed her backpack off the floor. She hunted through it for a moment and brought out an unopened bottle of Dasani. It was only 12 oz, but it was something to drink. Seeing it made me remember the half-full bottle of Diet-Coke in my own backpack.

"I have a pack of cookies in here somewhere too," she said. She located not one, but two packs of Oreo cookies in the smaller front pocket. She continued looking, but finally shrugged and said, "That's it, sorry."

We both looked at Mr. Sanford, who shook his head. "Worst comes to worst, we melt snow. It's not like we've any shortage of frozen water."

Snowballs for dinner; how yummy.

I told them about my half-bottle of Diet-Coke, not wanting anyone to think I was holding out on them. I only wished that I had two packages of cookies in my backpack instead of the half-ounce of pot I was holding for Paul. I guessed we could eat that if we had too. That idea made me grin, wryly.

While Mr. Sanford returned to the radiotelephone, and alternately his useless cell phone, Agnes and I sat down in a seat a few rows back and bundled our arms across our chests. Despite the heat blowing out the floor vents, it felt not much warmer than fifty degrees in the bus. I experimentally opened my mouth and blew out air. I was alarmed to see mist. It was colder than I had thought. Agnes leaned forward and looked at the floor, then up at the frost-encrusted windows. For them to be frozen over like that, the temperature outside must have really plummeted.

"This is scary," she whispered. "I've never seen snow blow this hard." She wiped the window with the heel of her hand; it did nothing whatsoever to clear the frost, only made scrape marks that, if anything, worsened things. Looking at it first, Agnes rubbed the side of her hand against her pant leg and then put it back in her pocket. It occurred to me that Agnes was no more a Minnesota native than I was.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

She sighed wistfully. "Florida. I hate it here. Where about you?"

"Atlanta," I admitted. "What part of Florida?"

"Sarasota. You moved up over the summer?"

I nodded. Though she looked at me with quick, semi-embarrassed glances, she had beautiful, big brown eyes, the color and warmth of chocolate. Her skin, though peppered with tiny dots of acne across her forehead, was otherwise flawless. Like many girls with very dark hair, she had a hint of a mustache; it wasn't unattractive, however, it was just there. The few times she had smiled, she had displaced a very nice set of teeth. I wondered how a girl as inherently attractive as Agnes could be so insecure, so timid, so off-putting.

"I'd give anything to be in Florida right now," she said, shivering. I thought of bikinis and waxing, spaghetti-straps and shorts and sandals. I wondered if they even sold sandals in the state of Minnesota.

"What made your folks move up here?" I asked.

She shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable. "My dad got his own congregation here. That, and it was almost like moving home again. We're originally from Wisconsin. He hates hot weather almost as much as I love it. It's just not fair," she moped, thrusting out her lower lip. I had to laugh.

"What do you mean by congregation? Like a church congregation?"

She nodded. "Synagogue. He's a rabbi. My mother teaches--"

"You're Jewish?" I broke in, startled.

She looked at me, eyebrows raised. "Agnes? Ahlberg? Yeah," she added, drawing out the word condescendingly. "What did you think I was?" Her lips curling up at the corners; I loved how her eyes twinkled as she smiled.

Feeling my face redden, I answered thickly: "I don't know. I thought-"

"That I was Greek?" she interrupted teasingly. "Yugoslavian? I guess I have the coloring for a Yugoslavian. Actually, I'm from Poland by way of Sweden. My grandparents emigrated just after the war. Mom and Dad were an arranged marriage, actually. Does it bother you that I'm Jewish?"

"Well . . . no," I said uncertainly. I didn't think it bothered me. Looking at her more closely, I didn't understand how I could have not known she was Jewish. Suddenly, her unpopularity made more sense. There are not a lot of Jews in Minnesota.

"I've never had a Jewish friend before," I admitted.

"Is that what I am now?" she asked, almost caustically. "Your friend?"

"You don't want to be?" I countered. A smile tugged at my own lips.

Her smile broadened, began to show teeth. "You're sure it's allowed? I mean, after all, you are blond and beautiful. You wouldn't want to jeopardize your good standing, or your good seat at lunch."

Though said teasingly, her words had bite. I sat at a table jammed from one end to the other with all my friends; most of the time, Agnes ate alone or with a small group of equally nerdy friends.

In reply, I said: "There's room for one more at my table. Or we could always start our own table. Nerds on one side, all the cool kids on the other."

She couldn't help herself. With a startling radiance, a smile broke across her face. My right hand rose of its own accord, and with no instruction from me whatsoever swept the hair on her left side back behind her ear. My left hand came up and did the same to the hair on her other side. Startled, she blinked and jerked slightly backwards away from me. Embarrassed, I shot a glance forward and was relieved to see Mr. Sanford bent over, examining the settings on the radio. He had the microphone in his hand.

"Sorry," I said, looking away. "I shouldn't have done that." Agnes had self-consciously-or subconsciously-swept her hair back behind her ears, securing whatever I had missed. I felt my face begin to redden hotly. I looked down at my clamped-together hands, wishing I were anywhere but on that bus. Agnes sat back against the seat and looked at the window.

"I should move," I muttered, almost unintelligibly.

"Please don't." Her right hand shot out and hovered just above my clasped hands. She moved it back, though left it hovering over my thigh. I was appalled. What had I done?

"Can I show you something?"

I nodded stiffly.

Picking up her backpack, Agnes unzipped the main compartment and removed a small, white laptop computer and sat it on her lap. I recognized the Apple logo. Her fingers fumbled at the catch, finally the lid into the upright position, where it displayed a sign-on screen. With visibly trembling fingers she typed in her password and hit the Return key. The desktop appeared. She paused, trembling. Suddenly she shut the lid again.

"I can't do this."

"Do what?" I enquired. I didn't want to admit that I was as confused as I was embarrassed.

"What I was doing."

"What were you doing?"

"That's what I can't show you," she said cryptically.

"Agnes..." I fought to keep my hand in my lap where it belonged, not across the narrow space separating her from me. "You should show me, Agnes."

"I'm too embarrassed," she complained. In fact, her face had gone beet red, redder even than mine had been a minute ago. She started to return the laptop to her backpack; I reached across and caught her right wrist.

"You should show me. It's okay, I promise. We're supposed to be friends, remember?"

She laughed bitterly. "I don't think we're that good of friends. Please let go of my hand."

Instead, I forced her to return the laptop to her thighs and fought with her to reopen the lid. She resisted me with something akin to mild panic.

"It's okayI" I assured her. "Whatever it is, I'm not gonna think bad of you."

"Yes, you are," she said decidedly. "You're never gonna want to talk to me again." Regardless, she released the lid and let me lever it into an open position.

"Type in the password," I coaxed.

"No."

"Please, Agnes? I want to see."

"No, you don't," she said unequivocally.

"Yes, I do."

Stubborn, she just shook her head.

Pulling the computer off her lap onto my own lap, I typed combinations of letters close to what I had seen her enter. Frowning, her forehead creased and her eyebrows pulled into a straight line, she watched while I tried combination after combination. I was just about to give up when it hit me: I typed in my last name.

"You've got to be kidding me," I said.

Agnes looked away, groaning softly. I stared at her, blinking. When the desktop was firmly in place, I moved the cursor around using the touch-pad, trying to think what to do next. I looked over at Agnes again.

"Here," I said, "show me."

Wordlessly, she reached over and directed the cursor to the Mail icon in the toolbar at the bottom of the screen. She clicked it, and a moment later a window popped up, covering the middle of the display. I skimmed down the unfamiliar list of addresses and headers, looking for anything of interest. I saw nothing. It was just typical correspondence from friends and acquaintances of hers, interspersed with junk mail.

"I don't understand," I said.

Again silently, she moved the cursor so that it rested above the Drafts folder on the left side of the screen. When she removed her hand and replaced it in her lap, I clicked the link. Blinking, I gasped. Filling the Drafts folder were email after email addressed to me.

"Agnes," I said. "What is this?" I looked at her, and her lips were trembling. Her eyes were filled with tears. Her jaw quivered as though she'd burst into sobs at any moment. Unbidden, my hand stole over to her lap and gripped her clasped hands. "Don't," I said very softly. I looked from her face, to the screen and back again.

The latest email in the queue, dated last night at 10:45 P.M., read:

Dear Ellen,

Another boring day. I'm sitting on my bed propped against the headboard and a stack of pillows. I'm in the pajamas you like so much (the white ones with the blue stripes?), watching a repeat of Grey's Anatomy. Lexie just kissed McSteamy and I am absolutely livid over it! I want to throw the remote at the screen! What is wrong with that girl?

Anyway, today at lunch you glanced over at me and I managed to get my eyes away from you just in time. You were talking to Sara, who had a really nasty look on her face, the kind she gets when she's teasing me or talking to someone when she know I can overhear. I wanted to give her the finger, but oddly enough, I don't think it was me she was talking about.

One thing I have to give you: although you normally look at whoever she's sniping about, you usually look as though whatever Sara's saying bores or irritates you. Also, you are never mean when talking to un-cool people like me, like Sara and your other friends are. I like that about you. You're different. In many ways, you're more like me and my friends than you are like Sara and her friends. Not that I think you're drab. You are the most un-drab person I can imagine. It just hurts me to see you hang around those B's and know I'll never be a part of your group, never be good enough for you.

She went on to describe her evening, including an argument with her mom, a yelling match she'd gotten into with her brother-I couldn't imagine Agnes yelling at anyone, brother included-and difficulties with her homework. I also read about the ten times she had wanted to call me on the telephone and hadn't the nerve, the heartbreaking hopelessness she felt, knowing that I'd never in a million years call her. I made me want to cry, and at the same time, go sit at the back of the bus, as far away from her as I could get. Never once, had I ever suspected anything.

"I don't understand," I muttered honestly. "We don't even know each other. How could...?" The improbabilities made my head spin. There were so many emails.

Scrolling down the list I realized that a day hadn't passed in the last month that she hadn't written me something. Often, there were two or three, even four emails in one day. Turning my head, I looked at her, dumbfounded. Then I pushed the laptop away and stumbled out of the seat and made my way to the back of the bus.

* * *

I didn't understand. Worse, I didn't understand my reaction. No, that's a lie; I understood my reaction fully well: I had freaked. I was overwhelmed. Floored by the unexpectedness of the discovery as well as by the significance of it. This girl was in love with me. In love, or hopelessly infatuated, which for a teenager amounts to the same thing. It was so totally not what I expected.

Confounded, I sat with my arms clamped over my chest, my legs clamped together, staring at the window. Ahead of me, Agnes remained where I had left her in her seat. Although I paid no attention to her at all, I could tell without looking that she was really shaken up, possibly even crying. Peripherally, I could see her hunched over, looking at the floor.

Why had she showed me the laptop? Why had she led me to the emails? Was she crazy? What was she thinking about? How could she possibly think I was interested in her? I wanted to jump up and scream Lezzie! Freak! Dyke! Go get your pussy somewhere else!

Then why the hell did you do touch her hair?

The question, unbidden and coming out of nowhere, rocked me back in my seat.

What, I demanded, almost aloud.

You touched her hair, tucked it behind her ears. What the hell did you think would happen?

I didn't do that, I objected.

The hell you didn't! You led her on, and then freaked when she responded to your advances.

I sat bolt upright. Indignantly I set that voice straight right away. Bullshit! No action of mine resulted in that girl filling her head and her computer with nonsense! Did you see that shit? She's been writing to me since the start of school. When did I ever so much as smile at her or say more than hi? Today was the first time we ever said more than ten words to each other. The only time I even notice her is when she says or does something stupid. She's nothing to me.

Really, the voice asked. You think that's true?

I sat, fuming. Where the hell did this voice get off telling me I didn't know my own mind? Since when had I ever thought, or cared about Agnes Ahlberg? God damned little cunt licker.

For another ten minutes I remained rigidly in denial. Then, slowly, as my anger drained away, I began to experience doubt. If I was to be truthful with myself, wasn't it true that I was unusually aware of someone I claimed to have no interest in? Although we shared no classes, why did I always seem to notice what clothes she wore, the state of her hair, her lack of makeup and who, if anyone, she was conversing with. Any why, I had to ask myself, was I sometimes bothered seeing her crack a smile or have her dullness otherwise lifted talking with another girl? (I had never, that I could remember, seen her talking to a guy.) And why did the face looking back at me from the frosted over window, though blurry and somewhat distorted, look so miserable?

With a suddenness that made me jump, the engine died and the lights went out. Ten rows ahead of me, Agnes gasped and started out of her hunched-over position. Mr. Sanford muttered, "What the hell?" and looked around the interior of the bus, now lit only by an emergency light mounted front and rear on the ceiling. I stood up, uncertainly, and then sat back down again. Now what, I wondered.

Setting aside her backpack, which she had been holding in her lap, Agnes slid off her seat and walked cautiously forward, stopping right behind the driver's seat. Mr. Sanford was trying to restart the engine, but it wasn't even turning over. It made no noise at all, not even the clicking noise my dad's car made when the battery had died. I wrapped my arms tightly around my chest and looked down at the floor. With the engine stopped, heat no longer blew out of the vents. I began to shiver.

"What's the matter?" Agnes croaked, alarm in her voice. "Why won't it start?"

"I don't know, honey," Mr. Sanford said distractedly. "We have plenty of fuel." He tapped the gas gauge, and then examined all the other gauges on the dashboard, his finger following his eyes. "I'm afraid it could be electrical."

"Isn't the engine a diesel?" Agnes surprised me by asking.

Mr. Sanford grunted disagreement. "Propane. It needs electricity, just like a regular gasoline engine." He stared at the dashboard, muttering, thinking hard. "The only thing I can think of is the alternator went out when we hit that stranded car." So that was what the impact had been that spun us completely around. He half rose out of his seat to look out over the hood. "We hit on the left side, where the alternator is. If it was damaged or the belt came loose..." He shrugged and sat back down. "The engine would run on the battery for a while, until it ran out. I think that's what happened." He did not sound happy. It fact, he sounded very worried.

"How long will the emergency lights work?" Agnes wanted to know. She looked at the fixture above the windshield, then at the one above the rear door. Our eyes met for an instant. I looked away, half a second too late.

"Eight hours," Mr. Sanford said. "More or less. They work off a separate battery." He looked over his shoulder at Agnes. "Don't worry. We'll be out of here way before then. I promise you."

Agnes shook her head forcefully. "How can you promise that? We're stranded here. We're not even sure we're on the right road. You weren't able to raise anybody, and now we don't even have lights to show anybody where we are."

The rising panic in her voice was unmistakable. Shaking off my stupor, I slid off the seat and shuffled up the isle. She had just begun to speak again in a high, cracking voice when I touched her shoulder. She jumped and screamed sharply.

"It's okay," I told her. "The bus is insulated, right, Mr. Sanford? It shouldn't get below freezing in here. We can easily hold out until someone finds us. We have your water, and my Diet-Coke, and like Mr. Sanford said, we can always eat snow if we really get thirsty." I squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "We'll be fine." Her fear I could handle, but I wanted to flinch away from the look of pain and betrayal in her eyes. I smiled. It felt horribly forced and wooden.

"The trouble is--" We both looked at Mr. Sanford. "No matter how well the insulated the bus is...." He paused to look at the already glazing-over windshield. "The temperature is going to continue to drop until it gets quite uncomfortable in here. I'm sure they'll find us before the drop in temperature becomes life-threatening--" He held up his hands defensively. "But I don't think I can take that chance."

"What do you mean?" I asked dubiously. He didn't expect us to leave the bus, did he? That seemed suicidal.

"I have to go for help. I'll-"

"No!" Agnes and I wailed in tandem.

"You can't go out there!"

"You'll freeze to death!" Agnes cried.

"You won't even be able to find the road!"

"And what if no one comes along? There's hardly any houses along that stretch of road."

"Even if it's Broad Neck," I persisted. "Which we're not sure it is."

"You'll freeze to death!" Agnes repeated.

Sanford stood up. "I have a responsibility to you kids. To make sure you're safe. You won't be safe as long as we're stranded in this bus without heat. I have boots, I have a heavy winter coat; my ski cap and woolen gloves will keep me plenty warm. I'll be fine," he assured us.

"Bullshit!" I shot back. "You'll kill yourself, and leave us here alone to freeze. You're shirking your responsibility, not honoring it!" "

Looking pained that I would use such language, Mr. Sanford shook his head and pulled his parka off the back of his seat. Agnes looked close to panic again, but also undecided, biting her lower lip. She looked from me to Mr. Sanford and back, plaintively. I shrugged. If Mr. Sanford wanted kill himself, what could I do about it?

"This is really stupid," I grumped.

"Really stupid," Agnes echoed. I noticed a plume of steam in front of her mouth, and tried not to think about that.

Mr. Sanford said: "Inside that compartment are blankets." He pointed to a large square door built into the bottom of the dashboard. "Wrap yourselves up in them. There are flares in there as well. I'll mark my path up to the road so that I can find my way back. They burn for fifteen minutes each. I'll take half and leave half here with you. When the one closest to the bus go out, pitch out a fresh one. Even in the snow storm I'll be able to find my way back."

He squatted and flipped back the catches holding the door closed. Right in the front was a stack of plastic wrapped blankets. He grabbed one and tossed it to Agnes, another to me, and two more, one for each of us. Taking one out of the plastic bag, I shook it out and wrapped it around my shoulders. The other I clutched under my right arm. Agnes held her own against her chest, looking very unhappy.

"This is really stupid, Mr. Sanford."

Mr. Sanford pulled out a red plastic box, flipped open the top and removed a package of flares. There were three of them side by side in the package, protected by a plastic blister pack. Examining them for a long moment, he stuffed the package into his pocket, and then removed the others. There were four packs altogether, twelve flares in all. He pitched the box back into the compartment, resealed the hatch and stood up.

"Do you know how to light a flare?" He looked from one to the other of us.

"I've seen it done on television," Agnes admitted doubtfully. "You scratch the top of the cap across the top of the flare." She pantomimed the action, her movements no more certain than her voice.

"Exactly," Mr. Sanford agreed. He separated the top flaps of the blister pack, took the plastic tabs in the fingers of each hand, and pulled the packaging apart. Indented plastic buttons on either side held it together. He held out one of the flares to Agnes, but she shied away. I took it instead.

"Show me," he said.

Clumsily, I peeled the red fabric band holding the plastic top to the flare and dropped it on the floor. The cap slid off easily, revealing a red button atop the flare that would ignite when struck by the rough surface on the cap. I would not want to ignite it on the bus.

"Not here," Mr. Sanford said, grinning. To my surprise, he winked at me. Despite knowing that it was simply an effort to ease my mind, I blushed a little bit, looking away in embarrassment.

"Okay. Let's give this a go." Mr. Sanford showed Agnes how to lever the doors open with the emergency handle, then had me step down into the well, where he joined me. "Go head Agnes," he said.

Looking very unhappy about it, Agnes struggled with the lever until the doors inched apart and let in a blast of frigid air and snow. Flakes peppered my face, making me blink. I held my hands up for protection, squinting my eyes, which teared almost immediately. My unprotected hands began to sting.

"Do it quickly, Ellen. You don't want more cold air getting in than you absolutely have to."

Taking a deep breath, still squinting, I held the flare outside the open doors and clumsily struck it with the top of the cap. Nothing happened.

"Damn it!" I cried, striking the top of the flare again with the same result. From behind me, Mr. Sanford reached around and took each of my hands in one of his and, after holding them steady a moment, deliberately and forcefully dragged the striker patch across the chemical bottom. With a whoosh, and a stink of sulfur, the flare ignited.

"Oh, my God!" I cried, looking away, blinded. I hadn't expected it to be so bright. Still holding my hand, Mr. Sanford pitched the flare fifteen feet out into the snow. It's own weight and the spewing fan of brilliantly burning gases made it sink immediately out of sight. I hadn't expected that either.

"Dammit! That's no good!"

"Just wait, sweetie."

A moment later, the snow began to glow red and suddenly there was an erupting volcano fifteen feet from the bus.

"The flare is made of sodium chlorate. It burns anywhere, even under water. Nothing can put it out." He had let go of my hands and backed up the stairs, where he took the lever from Agnes and closed the doors against the snow. "It'll burn for fifteen minutes. When it dies you strike another one and throw it out. You have six flares, which means I have an hour and a half to find help and get back here."

"What if you don't?" Agnes asked in a strangled voice. "You won't survive out there for an hour and a half. You won't make it fifteen minutes. Please, Mr. Sanford, please don't go!"

For a moment, I thought Mr. Sanford might cave under her pleas, but following a moment's indecision, he jammed his woolen ski cap down over his ears, zipped his parka up to his chin and fastened the Velcro straps, and donned his gloves.

"You kids take care of yourselves. I'll be back before you know it. Close the door behind me and don't forget to light the next flare." And without further, he banged open the doors, jumped down into the well, crouched and leaped as far out into the snow as he could. Stupefied, I watched him struggle through the thigh deep snow up to and past the burning flare, watched him wave as merrily as if he was off on a skiing expedition, and finally disappear into the swirling, cascading darkness.

"Fuck!" I said angrily. Grabbing the door close mechanism, I banged the bi-fold doors closed with a vengeance.

* * *

It was half an hour later. Agnes and I sat side by side on the seat directly behind Mr. Sanford's driver's seat, wrapped in all four blankets, staring out the doors. Strangely, they hadn't iced up the way the windows had. I didn't understand it; I was just grateful.

"Do you think he's okay?" I asked. The words came out barely recognizable. Both Agnes and I were erupting in uncontrollable spasms of shaking. I had my hands jammed in my pockets, and my chin buried in the zipped up collar of my coat. My legs were freezing inside the thin lining of my Levi's; my toes were numb.

"Sure he is," Agnes replied unconvincingly. "He's probably reached a house, called the police, and is on his way back right now."

Outside, the second flare sputtered and died. Without thinking, I stood up, yanked open the doors and dropped down into the well. We were starting on our second half hour. How long could someone, even well bundled up as Mr. Sanford was, survive in this cold? On the good side, I could still see where he'd plowed through the snow, which I hadn't been able to fifteen minutes before. The wind blew just as hard, but there was less snow obscuring my vision. Unfortunately, the temperature hadn't improved at all.

"Mr. Sanford?" I hollered. I heard nothing but the howling wind. Digging the flare out of my pocket, I freed the lid and struck the top across the button. Even before it had begun to properly spew fire, I pitched it into the flare crater, scrambled back up the steps and wrenched closed the door.

"Jesus Christ it's cold outside!" I jammed my hands back in my pockets and sat down beside Agnes. She immediately flung the blanket around my shoulders and secured it in the front. For the hundredth time, I cursed my stupidity in not bringing my gloves. No, what I cursed was my laziness in not looking for them this morning.

"Thanks," I said through chattering teeth. As I had been for the last half hour, I was intensely aware of our close proximity...and the discomfort it caused us both. Agnes had remained quiet throughout the ordeal, speaking only in reply to a comment or question. It was driving me crazy. What was also driving me crazy was the growing certainty that I liked being wrapped in a blanket with her.

"What if he really doesn't come back," I moaned. I forcibly pushed aside the scenarios running in my mind about Mr. Sanford wandering around in circles, stepping into a hole and breaking his ankle, collapsing exhausted and frozen into a snow bank.

"Don't talk like that," Alice chattered back. "He'll be fine. We just have to believe that."

What I believed was just the opposite. But then I'd always been a pessimist. I always saw the worst possible outcome.

"Are you and Paul, like the real thing?" she asked unexpectedly.

I blinked, and then shrugged under the blankets. "Don't know. Guess so, I guess. We like each other." The truth was, Paul was more steady company for me than a boyfriend, and I was more a body to feel up and attempt to stick fingers and a prick into, though so far I'd successfully resisted the latter, much to Paul's chagrin. So far, however, he'd come closer that anyone else to claiming my virginity.

"What about you?" I asked, not cruelly, but in an attempt to keep her talking. "Anybody special?"

She rolled her eyes. "Right. That's gonna happen here."

"What about before you got here?" I asked. She was only a year or so older a resident of Minnesota than I was. If Agnes had stood a chance of scoring a boyfriend anywhere, it had to be Florida.

She shrugged. "It was better there than here. At least there, I had some friends. Here I'm the only Jewish girl in the whole damned school."

I cocked an eyebrow at her. "You really think that's the reason? I've never heard anyone mention your religion before at all. I didn't even realize you were Jewish. Not that it matters. It's not like your black or Hispanic or anything." I grinned. There were no blacks in our class, and only one or two Hispanics. In my old school in Atlanta, I had been in the minority.

"What do they talk about then?" she asked wryly. "My big nose?"

"No. About you being a lesbo."

She was shocked wide-eyed, her mouth opening in protestation . . . until I laughed.

"Bitch! I can't believe you said that. It's not true, is it?"

Continuing to laugh, I shook my head. "Your secret is safe with me. Cross my heart and hope to die."

She was red to the roots of her hair. "I'm not a lesbo. I've never been with a girl before. I don't like girls."

"You like me," I interrupted.

"That's different," she said, pouting. "I just thought you'd be a nice person to talk to."

"I'm not?" I wondered.

Her face redden even more. She mumbled, "I don't know. I've never talked to you before."

"We're talking now," I reminded her.

"Only because."

"Only because, is as good a reason as any," I said. "Why not take advantage of it?"

She hunched under the blanket and leaned away from me. I took my hands out of my pockets, grabbed the overlapped ends of the blanket and pulled them tighter together. It forced her back against me.

"Maybe I like talking to you," I said. "Have you considered that?"

She hunched her shoulders even more. "You didn't seem to earlier."

"I kinda got taken by surprise," I said. "I never for a minute suspected you had any interest in me."

Her face was now scarlet. I could actually-or imagined I could-feel the heat radiating off it. Slowly, I moved my left hand in search of her right, found it and forced my fingers between hers, entwining them together.

"I think maybe I like you having an interest in me, Agnes."

Startled, she inched her head around. "What?"

I told her about my revelation of earlier, of discovering that I had suppressed my own interest, had experienced jealousy and insecurity, even about the battle of the voices.

She blinked at me slowly, guardedly.

"Do you think I'd lie about something like that? Under the present circumstances?" I scooted in tighter against her, found her other hand in the folds of blanket and gripped it also, though through a layer of blanket. I drew my legs up beneath me and sat on my feet; Agnes did likewise.

"These seats are really cold," I said. "Let's tuck the blankets under us." Though difficult, with only one hand each to accomplish the task-the others desperately clutched the blankets together in the front-we somehow managed.

"Better," I muttered. I dreaded when the flare burned out again and I'd have to get up and replace it. It couldn't be more than twenty degrees in the bus. The cold was absolutely glacial. Breath billowed out whitely with each exhalation, almost looking crystalline. My teeth refused to stop chattering. Agnes was shaking like a tree in an earthquake.

"Maybe we should put our heads under the blanket," she suggested.

"What a great idea," I agreed, shouldering the blankets up and over my ears. Though we had to hunker over almost double, the blankets were just large enough to enshroud us like a cocoon. Right away I could feel a difference in my cheeks and nose, which embarrassingly, wouldn't stop dripping. I sniffed loudly.

"God, I hope we don't get frostbite."

Agnes shook her head. "We should be okay as long as we have these blankets around us. The warmth of our breathing should bring the temperature up. I already feel warmer, don't you?"

I hadn't noticed any lessening of my shaking. It was like every muscle in my body had a needle stuck in it with an electric wire attached. I imagined this was what being electrocuted felt like. I found her hands again and gripped them tightly. "If we get out of this," I said. "From now on, you and I are eating lunch together every day."

She coughed out a laugh. "That'll go over big with your friends."

"Fuck my friends. They're not trapped here with me on this bus. They're home, safe and sound with their iPods and cell phones and boyfriends. Totally oblivious." I turned to look at her in the darkness. "I'd like you to send me every one those emails, Agnes. I want to read every one of them. I don't know if I'll reply to any of them--there were so many--but I'd like to know what you wrote."

Agnes groaned.

"What?"

"It's embarrassing."

"Why?"

"You have no idea what I wrote in some of those emails, Ellen." She hesitated saying my name, and I realized it was a first for her. "I really poured out my heart. Even if we were best friends forever," she said anxiously, "there is no way I would have sent more than one in five of those emails. Mostly, they were my electronic diary."

"So?" I objected. "I'd let you read my diary."

"No, you wouldn't. Diaries are private. Too private."

I was quiet a moment. I wondered if I could even imagine the things she had written, or whether I wanted to. Maybe I was better off not knowing. On the other hand, I had never done anything worthwhile enough to start my own diary. An indicator of my shallowness?

"Can I tell you something?" I said.

"What?"

"I've never had a real girlfriend before. Someone I could share secrets with. Most of the people I hang around with are more interested in their nails or the skirt they bought last weekend or their hairdos than they are in listening to a friend's problems...or even in being friends. The people I hang around with-including myself-are more plastic than Barbie." I snorted. "Barbie is Mother Teresa compared to some of us."

It was Agnes's turn to be silent. I felt her obvious embarrassment, her unsureness of how to respond to a confession like that. "Forget I asked. It's not important," I told her.

She was quiet a moment longer, and then asked in a hesitant voice: "Would you want to see the latest ones, or see them in order?"

I grinned in the darkness. "From the beginning, please. I'd like to see how your infatuation with me has progressed over the last five months." I giggled, to make sure she knew I was joking. I heard her giggle back.

"Okay. That sounds cool." I could hear the continued embarrassment in her voice, the uncertainty, but also a tinge of hope.

Responding to a command disguised as an impulse, I leaned sideways and attempted to find her mouth. When the reality of what I was doing hit her, I heard a gasp. She jerked away, but then, very slowly, leaned back toward me again. Made clumsy by the darkness, our mouths finally found each other. As soon as they touched, I closed my eyes and held my breath. Her lips were so soft, their touch so timid. My shoulders reacted to a shiver. I drew her closer while I bent my head farther sideways and increased the pressure on her lips. I knew with certainty that she had never been kissed before, not like this, not by someone attracted to her. My heart pounded. I felt incredibly squirmy, as though my body might at any moment wrest control from my mind and attack the object of its desire. As many boys as I'd kissed, never had one lit a match to my insides like Agnes was doing. It felt like a flare had erupted.

"Oops," I said breathlessly, breaking the kiss. My lips screamed at me in protest. "I forgot about the flare. I need to check it."

I could feel Agnes' rapid breath on my cheek; practically hear her heart beat in her chest. She had begun to shake again, but in a different manner than she had previously. The way I was now shaking,

"Thank you," she whispered, and not about the flare.

I kissed her quickly and pulled the blanket down so that I could check outside. Sure enough, the flare had gone out. I was startled how frigid the air had become outside our little cocoon. Digging in my pocket, I extracted the third and final flare from the open package, shrugged out of the blanket, stumbled to me feet and dropped down into the well. Agnes grabbed the lever through the folds of blanket and worked the doors open even as I freed the plastic cap and struck it across the chemical button. It took two tries. This time, instead of pitching the flare out into the snow, I held it above my head and scanned the nightmarish landscape. Despite Mr. Sanford's assurances otherwise, it looked like the backside of the moon.

"Mr. Sanford!"

Listening, I heard nothing but the shriek of wind and the hissing, popping flare. The wind had not diminished since the last time I'd looked outside but, though I wasn't positive, it appeared that most of the snow in the air was being torn from the tops of snowdrifts and from the bare braches of trees. I gauged the visibility at twenty yards, roughly twice what it had been before. Encouraged, I yelled again, waved the flare back and forth over my head and, after listening carefully and squinting against the wind, pitched it forward into the crater. I was surprised when Agnes joined me in the well.

"Do see him?" she asked.

"No," I had to admit, dully. "The snow is letting up, though."

"I can see that. How deep do you think it is?"

I liked having her standing there with me; the cramped floor space meant we had to be in contact. To my surprise-and pleasure-she wrapped the blanket around me and held it closed with her arms around my lower rib cage. Even through the thickness of her parka and mine, I could feel the pressure of her small breasts against my back. That, and a smile I couldn't restrain, made my face redden.

"Three feet, maybe," I mumbled. Reaching up, I located her hands in the folds of blanket and gripped them. I drew her to me; she nuzzled her cheek next to mine, her chin over my shoulder and I shuddered, and not from the cold. I shivered twice as hard when a moment later she kissed my neck just below the jaw line, to which I responded automatically by squirming and trying to squeeze her out, giggling. My face grew fiery hot.

"Stop that!" I protested.

"You can't be afraid someone will see," she said teasingly.

"I'm not! I'm ticklish!" I giggled when she kissed me again, then spun about inside her arms and wrapped my arms around her waist. I looked directly into her chocolate-brown eyes. It hadn't occurred to me before that we were the same height. She leaned forward and kissed me. I kissed her back.

"Mr. Sanford' die if he came back to this," she said, mischievously.

"More like, he'd die to see this," I argued. "Men get off on girls kissing girls."

"More like, you giving a blow-job to your boyfriend would get him off."

"He's not my boyfriend. And I've never given him a blow-job."

Despite the levity, my face reddened again. Purposefully or not, Agnes knew how to make me squirm. It seriously made me squirm wondering where this was going, and just where it would end up. As much as I'd like to believe myself a courageous person, I couldn't see us walking down the school corridors, hand in hand, smiling contentedly. She read my thoughts-or my expression.

"Were you serious about being friends? I don't expect you to suddenly declare yourself to the world as being in love with me." My face blistered again. "I'll be happy just to be talked to," she went on, smiling shyly, "maybe invited to your table once in a while for lunch. I don't expect you to humiliate yourself. I've seen too many movies to expect everything just to fall in place. Considering, that you want things to fall in place."

Despite my embarrassment, I maintained a connection between brain and tongue. "I wouldn't be standing here with my arms around your waist unless I was genuinely attracted to you, Agnes. It took something like this tonight to make me step back and take a hard look at myself. I've never been happy with guys. I've known that for a long time, but never allowed myself to see past the disgruntlement to figure out where it was coming from. I'm not even sure that's a word, but I can't think of one better to describe how I've been the last four years. Ever since I growed boobs. Ever since guys started pestering me. You know how girls talk about nothing but guys and sex?" I grinned at her dour expression. "Well, I've never been into guys like all of my girlfriends are. My enthusiasm was just a little bit made up. I just wouldn't let myself admit what I really was interested in."

I bit my lip. Had I just told a lie? The truth was, I seemed no more attracted to girls, than I was to guys. If I was being honest with myself, could I remember a single instance of looking at a girl and being sexually attracted to her? I didn't think so. Except for Agnes.

"Maybe..." I said haltingly. "Maybe what I am is not really a lesbian, but someone who responds to only one certain person. That person could be a guy, or someone of my own sex. It wouldn't really matter, as long as the response is genuine. The truth is, I've never responded to anyone until now. I think maybe you're my person, Agnes. You may be my soul mate. Does it feel that way to you?"

I didn't know what her response would be, but it couldn't have been better than Agnes closing her eyes, leaning in and kissing me like I was a princess. The air evacuated my lungs without me breathing, my knees turned to Jell-O and everything inside me melted, like chocolate. It honestly felt as though Agnes was holding me up. I was beyond pliable.

"Mmmmm," I moaned weakly. Agnes ran her hand up my back and cupped the back of my neck. I moaned again. I was trembling, trembling pitifully. On their own authority, my hands moved up her sides and located and took possession of her firm, small breasts. Now Agnes began to moan. The flare had once again ignited in my gut and I swear I had the horrible, maddening desire to be naked inside that blanket with her, for her to be naked. I fought my hands to keep them on the outside of her coat, rather than unzipping it as they wanted to do. Never before in my life had I wanted hands touching my bare breasts like I did now. When our mouths opened and allowed the melding of our tongues, it was the most wonderful moment I had ever experienced. I stopped breathing and I swear my heart stopped beating. How long we remained with own mouths joined and our tongues dancing, I don't know. The passage of time had no meaning. When finally we did break, we both stood panting, foreheads together, our breathing ragged and irregular. It was a long time before I opened my eyes.

"Don't you ever kiss anybody else like that," I rasped out. "Don't you ever."

She laughed weakly. "I don't know how to kiss. At least, I didn't know I did. I've only kissed one boy before, and that was like two years ago; a kiss so he wouldn't have to embarrass me by shaking my hand. I didn't know anything could be like that," she said, laughing. "I think I had an orgasm."

I laughed, she joined me and we didn't stop laughing for a full minute. I glanced briefly over my shoulder, both to check the flare, and to make sure we didn't have an unexpected audience. The truth was, I was so wet between my legs that I might as well have had an orgasm. It was embarrassing. I'd be supremely embarrassed to have her know she'd done that to me. Not ever having experienced an orgasm before, I couldn't wait to experience one with her. I told her so.

Blinking, she turned red. "Obviously, I never have," she muttered.

"Not even by yourself?" I wanted to know.

Intimidated, she shook her head.

"Well, I haven't either. Obviously, I've been saving that for you."

Now she really did turn red.

The flare burned out during our next kiss. Reluctantly, I surrendered her breasts (she had yet to touch mine, unfortunately), dug in my pocket for the unopened package of flares, and struggled ineffectually to get it open. Finally, knowing I had no choice, I turned around (grumpily), freed my hands of the blankets and wrestled the package open. I did so at the expense of two of my nails.

"Motherfucker," I mumbled irritably. Then I gasped and jumped a little bit as Agnes released the blankets, put her hands over my breasts, and cupped them through my coat. My face turned red with the unexpected pleasure of it. I was amazed how natural her hands felt on my breasts. "I like that," I said gratefully.

She whispered in my ear: "I liked it when you held mine. Sorry to cheat you. I definitely got the better part of this exchange."

"Stop it," I said, going beet red once again. After the scalding it taken in the last few hours, I was surprised I had any face left to burn.

With Agnes meticulously acquainting herself with my chest, I removed a flare from the pack, returned the others to my pocket, broke loose the plastic top without bothering to peel the red banding first and struck the button. I had to make myself search the snowscape for any sign of Mr. Sanford, call his name twice into the emptiness, and listen for any response over the persistent wind. I was really becoming upset, as was Agnes.

Where the hell was he? Why hadn't he come back? Should we go out looking for him? I voiced this last question to Agnes, who bit her lip.

"Do you think we should?"

"I think, we'd end up just like he did," I admitted, sorrowfully. I was back to blocking visions of him lost in the snow. I didn't know how anyone could last five minutes out there, much less forty-four minutes. I was beginning to loose whatever hope I'd had. Depressed, I pitched the flare into the ever-widening crater.

* * *

Back in our little cocoon, we passed the time kissing and making romantic small talk. I told her about my miserable love life, she told me about her non-existent one. We played with our inside set of hands; the outside set were instructed not to release the overlapped blankets under penalty of death. Inside our little cocoon, it became warm enough so that we both stopped shaking. In an unguarded moment, I made a chancy admission.

"I'd like to loose my virginity to you, Agnes."

I felt her stiffen, her breath stopping momentarily. "Really?" she whispered.

"If we were in bed, I'd be all over you. I'd give you a great big hickey right here." Awkwardly unzipping her coat six inches with my left hand, I touched the side of her neck, right between her jaw line and shoulder. On impulse, I leaned in close and attached my mouth to the very spot. I waited for her reaction.

"My mom would kill me."

"Maybe, but I bet she'd celebrate too," I said laughing. I felt the tempo of her breathing quicken, grow deeper, her heartbeat accelerate. Consciously or not, her head tiled away from me, invitingly and I reattached my mouth to her neck. I sucked lightly, letting my teeth touch her skin.

"I want you to do it," she said raggedly. "But I also know that tomorrow everybody in school is going to be talking about Bus 9899 and how Agnes Ahlberg and Ellen Olson were the only two students on it when it crashed. Everyone, you boyfriend included, will know where this came from. They won't think that Mr. Sanford gave it to me."

Fuck, I thought irritably. "Then I'll just have to put it somewhere no one will see it."

Releasing the blankets, I found the tab of her zipper and pulled it halfway down her chest. She gasped, and then gasped again when my fingers sought out the upper two buttons on her blouse and released them. Pushing aside the collar, baring her shoulder, I placed my mouth alongside her bra strap and began to suck, sinking in my teeth and drawing her flesh into my mouth. She groaned, and then groaned louder as my right hand stole inside her parka, freed another button on her shirt and slid inside. Her breast was even smaller than I'd thought; unable to cup it, I simply laid my hand over it and enjoyed the warm firmness of her flesh.

Releasing her grip on the blankets, Agnes placed both hands on my waist; the unsecured blankets fell away, exposing our heads. Without releasing her shoulder, I twisted to look momentarily out the door and then returned full attention to her hickey and breast. My own right breast, found through the thickness of my coat, filled her hand. A moment later, her hand slid up beneath the waist of my coat, under my sweater and up to my bra-covered breast. I protested when the hand didn't stop there but released the front catch on my bra and released me.

"No!" I complained, releasing her skin. In the reflected glare of the burning flare I could make out an oval bruise, darkening nicely. I fought to get my hand under her bra but was an instant behind her own hand. She laughed as she claimed first prize.

"Bitch! I was first."

"You were slow," she taunted.

"I was preoccupied," I corrected. She had my nipple between her fingertips and was rotating it gently back and forth. It hardened for her obediently. I curled my fingers and found her own little fingertip. It was nice and hard, and surprisingly big. I could tell from sense of feel that her areole was small, the size of a quarter, maybe, and delightfully rough. I tweaked her nipple playfully; she tweaked mine. We both said "Ouch" together and laughed. To my chagrin, she reached up her back and popped the catch on her bra. It loosened over my hand and I fondled her nipple with complete freedom.

"If someone were to see us now, I'd be very embarrassed," she said.

"Me too," I agreed. Ignoring the cold, I unzipped her coat and pushed the left side over her shoulder. As she protested weakly, I finished unbuttoning her shirt, and opened it also, forcing it over her left shoulder. I raised her bra, exposing her breast to both the cold, and my hungry gaze. The blankets had settled around our waists, leaving us completely exposed to view.

"You're not going to take off my shirt," she said with some alarm.

"You're right. I'm not going to." Placing my left hand in the middle of her back, and my other against her left shoulder, I pushed and pulled at the same time, forcing forward the left side of her chest. Grinning, bending over, I placed my lips around her nipple and sucked it into my mouth. She groaned pleasingly. If I were a boy, I'd have a raging hard-on. Instead, I had flutters in my belly and a sopping wetness between my legs. Again, I felt the dread of acute embarrassment. Never had I been so wet. Never had I known such wetness was possible. I was a wetness factory. I hoped desperately that Agnes suffered the same problem.

Releasing her nipple, I kissed it gently on the tip and ran the tip of my tongue around the border of her areole. It was very dark, the exact size of a quarter, and perfectly round. Tiny bumps gave it a moonscape look. Between the cold and my attention, it had shriveled and hardened in a way I knew must ache terrible. I knew that because my own nipples ached terribly. Leaning back, I observed my handiwork.

"I can't even begin to tell you how aroused I am," she whispered huskily. Forcing her shirt back over both shoulders, while at the same time lifting her bra out of the way with my thumbs, I completely bared her petite breasts to any eyes capable of observing them. She was tiny, smaller even than my twelve-year old sister. Why that should excite me was a puzzle. I guessed it was one reason for her inferiority complex. I'd feel inferior with breasts that small too. But maybe it wasn't the size that mattered; maybe it was because they were mine, never having been seen before nor touched. My property, as mine were unquestionably hers.

"You're embarrassing me," she said, reddening as I ogled. "Imagine if Mr. Sanford walked up to the door right now."

I continued admiring her breasts. "I'm sure he wouldn't complain."

"I'm sure he wouldn't congratulate me, either," she said, wryly. "The flare just went out."

"Fuck," I sighed in the sudden darkness. I looked over my shoulder, back at her breasts, over my shoulder again and then far off into the darkness where an hour before, Mr. Sanford had disappeared. I had two flares left. I needed to light one. Mr. Sanford might even now be trudging the final twenty yards to the bus, blinded by my inactivity.

Releasing her shirt and bra, I grabbed the blankets and pulled them up around her shoulders. "Get the door?" I asked.

"Sure." Rising, she shuffled to the lever and grabbed it through the protection of the blankets. My teeth were chattering, and the air stealing through the V of my unzipped jacket had gooseflesh erupted all across my chest and my nipples hard as diamonds. I wouldn't doubt they'd cut glass. I didn't want to try. Reaching inside my shirt, I closed the clasp on my bra and zipped my coat all the way up to my chin. Once warm in our little cocoon again, Agnes could free me and do as she pleased. The thought excited me terribly.

Igniting the flare, I held it high and waved it back and forth, yelling for Mr. Sanford at the top of my lungs. Agnes joined in, and I felt sure that if Mr. Sanford were somewhere out there stumbling around, we'd surely catch his attention. A futile five minutes later, I pitched the flare across the snow and backed up the steps into the bus. Agnes closed the doors again. We spent another silent minute watching without hope. We both knew the score. Mr. Sanford had either frozen to death, gotten hopelessly lost, or was unable to find his way back through the raging storm. Both the wind and snowfall had wound up to their prior intensity and reinstituted the white-out. Unable to stand it anymore, I guided Agnes toward the bench and we sat down.

"We're alone, aren't we?" she asked.

"Until they find us," I said morosely.

She looked at me with tears in her eyes. Putting my arms around her shoulders beneath the blanket, I drew her to me; she laid her head on my shoulder and whimpered softly.

"I don't want to die, Ellen."

"We're not going to die, Agnes. Once we wrap ourselves up in the blanket, we'll be fine. Remember: it can't get any colder inside the bus than it is outside. When we cocoon ourselves, we might as well be camped around a toasty campfire. Believe me," I said, laughing. "If there were marshmallows here, we could roast them over each other's red-hot coals."

Giggling, she nodded enthusiastically. "What you did to me a little while ago? I thought I'd spontaneously combust, I swear I did. My heart was pounding like a Heavy Metal drum set. This is my first time doing anything. No one has ever even seen my breasts, not even my mom. Well, except at school, that is," she said, her humor failing. "God, I hate gym."

Steering the conversation away from this uncomfortable subject, I said: "You know, my brother has pictures of me in the nude."

Her head snapped up. "What?"

I nodded dejectedly. "Little prick. I took pictures of myself one afternoon after school, last October. We all did. My group at school. Really stupid, I know, but..." I shrugged. "You know how girls are."

She smiled, dryly.

"Anyway, the agreement was that we'd email them to everyone in the group, to prove that we did it, password protected, you know, so that no one but us would get to see them. We all promised never to show them to anyone else, under penalty of death. Worse actually; anyone who broke the rules and let someone not in the group see them..." I drew my finger across my throat. "The rest of us would strip her naked in the Whole Food's Supermarket in town and make her run up and down the isles naked." I giggled. "I've done that before you know: in my bra and panties."

She looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "Another girl thing," I said. "You better get used to it if you plan to hang with me. We do some pretty stupid things." I grinned, devilishly. "Some pretty exciting things too. I could see you Isle Running. You'd be a natural, Ag."

She guffawed, her face reddening. "And why would I ever want to do that?"

"Because I do?"

She looked thoughtful. "I'm not sure your friends are ready for me to go ruining their fun, Ellen. I'd look ridiculous, running up and down an isle in my underwear. Any guy who saw me would fall down on his butt, laughing his head off. I'm not exactly a Victoria's Secret model."

"Don't sell yourself short," I chided. "You're a lot better looking than you think you are. And sexier, too. You know Dana?" I asked, referring to Dana Hillborne, the latest addition to our group.

Agnes nodded carefully.

"She was a lot like you, until last spring when Tricia and Bodie invited her to a party. Shy, unsure of herself, doubtful. Now she's as stupid and reckless as the rest of us. And accepted," I added significantly. "Once someone invites you into the gang, you become one of us." I waited out her hesitation. "If that makes you uncomfortable, I'm fine with a gang of two. You and me. I don't need stupid and reckless to make me happy."

She blinked, tears brimming her eyes. "You'd do that for me? Really?"

My own eyes teared. "I'd do just about anything for you. Believe me."

Embarrassed, she looked away, trying unsuccessfully to fight her grin. To keep from embarrassing herself further, she said: "Tell me about your brother. How'd he find your pictures? Did he find all of them? Or just yours?"

I winced. "I kept all the other photo's in their protected files, but hid mine in my user folder, in a folder labeled-are you ready for this? Naked Pictures of Myself!" I laughed caustically. "Can you imagine my brother's face? Can you imagine anyone being that stupid?" I laughed again, and now she joined me. "I was so humiliated a month later when I snuck into his room and signed onto his laptop and found a picture of myself posing topless. He had set it as his goddamn desktop. I about died. I actually shrieked, the moron that I am, and thank God there was no one else in the house. Thank God, he wasn't in the house! Can you imagine him catching me?

"Anyway, they were all there, in a folder on his desktop called Ellen Nude. He wanted me to find them, of course. He purposely disabled the sign-on screen so that I could get right to the desktop without any problem. He knows what a snoop I am. He skunked me, and he knows it."

Trying to hide her mortification, Agnes said: "How do you feel about it, knowing he's seen you nude? Doesn't it bother you?"

"It does," I admitted. "And it doesn't."

She looked at me, mystified.

"You don't have any brothers," I guessed. "If you did, you'd know." Changing the subject again, I asked: "Have you ever snapped yourself nude?"

Her eyes widened in horror. "No way! Are you kidding me?"

I shook my head. "The first time I get you alone, I'm making you do a striptease. Right down to your birthday suit, little girl. Not just that," I went on, ignoring her look of panic, "But I'll dress you first in this really sexy, slutty schoolgirl outfit: white shirt, black mini skirt, black thigh-highs, really sexy bra and panties. Do you even own a pair of thigh-highs? A thong? How can you not own a thong? I have a drawer full of them. Well, I used to," I said, shrugging. "They're out of fashion now."

Without looking first, I arose and undid my belt, lowered my zipper and ran my jeans down to mid-thigh. Although her eyes bugged out, and she blinked disbelievingly, she didn't try to make me stop. I looked down at my beige panties and said: "I mostly wear hip-huggers now. Or boy-shorts. Boy-shorts are so cool." I unzipped my parka and pulled up my sweater, revealing the matching bra I wore underneath. Her eyes grew bigger and her mouth formed a perfect O. I just had to laugh at her. "What are you wearing?"

She shook her head empathically.

"I showed you mine," I objected. Slowly, I wiggled back into my jeans and pulled up the zipper. To my surprise, my sweater had remained pushed up over my bra, and I purposely thrust out my chest before pulling it back down and smoothing it over my tummy. My heart was going a million miles an hour. I wanted so badly for Agnes to get up and mimic me. I was ready to beg.

Gulping loudly, still continuing to shake her head back and forth in denial, even as she got awkwardly to her feet, Agnes let the blankets slide off her shoulders to the seat cushions. Then, hesitantly she touched the buttons of her shirt. At some point over the past fifteen minutes, she had also refastened her bra, closed the buttons on her shirt and tucked in her tails. I could see her breathing with difficulty. I could see the thud of her heartbeat in a vein in her neck. I smiled, remembering the tattoo I'd left right beside her bra strap. Her eyes followed mine.

"You better hope no one sees that," she grumbled. "You went a little overboard, didn't you? It looks like a black hole. It's threatening to devour my entire shoulder."

I laughed. "I'd be a lot more worried about the next one I intend to give you, Ag. That one will be a lot more visible than the one on your shoulder...and a whole lot more compromising," I added, laughing wickedly

I moved toward her, two very deliberate steps, raising my hands. She retreated, running up against the seat cushion. "Ellen," she warned, her voice cracking into the falsetto range. "Don't you dare!" She squat down to retrieve the blankets and wrapped them around herself protectively. "I'm warning you! Stay away from me!"

Grinning, I slowly drew the two sides of the blankets aside, and stepped into her personal space.

* * *

There were no flares left. The last one had gone into the snow fifteen minutes before. Wrapped in the blanket up to our necks, we awaited the inevitable. Both of us knew, though neither would say, that Mr. Sanford wouldn't be back. At least, not until after the storm. I had my arm around Agnes's waist, she mine. We were very sad. She laid her head on my shoulder.

"We'll be okay, right?"

"Of course, we will," I said. We'd only a minute before emerged from our cocoon. As I'd told Agnes earlier, the bus was no colder than the temperature outside, frigid, but bearable under the blankets. We could stay like this all night, if need be. That was fortunate, because it was looking like we would. Other than my worry about Mr. Sanford's fate, however, I wasn't particularly bothered. I tightened my grip around Agnes' waist.

"I'm kinda glad were on this bus," she said. "Except, for, you know..."

"I know." I turned my head and kissed her hair. Our recent adventure beneath the blankets had left my jaw sore and my tongue aching wonderfully. Agnes had complained also. As kissing sessions went, it had been marathon. Under the blanket our coats were open, and our bra's undone; I had unbuttoned Agnes' shirt. If my right hand weren't presently keeping the blankets closed, it would be caressing her breasts. I enjoyed what her left hand was doing to mine. It kept me pleasantly distracted.

"Can I ask a question?" she asked.

"Sure," I said happily.

"Tomorrow, when they come for us...?"

I raised my head from hers. "What?"

"What?" I asked again when she refused to answer. Finally, she spoke.

"Don't let it go back to the way it was before."

I craned my head around to look at her face. "What are you talking about?"

"I've seen enough movies and TV shows to know that the cool chick always panics the next day. You'll be embarrassed by me, or terrified people will think you're a freak, or afraid your friends will dump you."

"Agnes-" I started to interrupt.

"Hear me out. I'm afraid you'll fall into a sexual-identity crisis and deny anything ever existed between us. Not just to your friends, but to yourself. And you're not the only one, El. I'm afraid it'll happen to me too. I know everyone thinks I'm a lezzie already-don't lie, you know it's true-but I'm really not. I'm just like you. For the most part, I've always been attracted to boys, but the instant I met you I lost interest in anyone, male or female. There is no one else but you. And I know: I must be totally freaking you out," she said, laughing bitterly.

Instead of answering, I wrapped both arms around her and drew her to me as tightly as possible. I knew she was right. I had recently watched a movie where that exact thing had happened. Two young girls, our ages in fact, one popular like me, the other one shy and friendless like Agnes, came together by chance, just like Agnes and I. Though nothing had happened between the two but soul bearing and a bit of innocent necking, the next day my counterpart succumbed to sexual-identity freak-out. I didn't want that happening to Agnes and I. I wouldn't let that happen to Agnes and I.

Releasing her, I made a crossing gesture over my chest. "I, Ellen Olson, do solemnly swear that I am now best friends for life with Agnes Ahlerg and that, short of converting to Judaism, I will do nothing to ostracize her from my life, for as long as she wants me, or we can stand being around each other. First one to cheat on the other with a boy, though, and the deal is off," I prevaricated.

She laughed. She kissed me. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too," I reciprocated. The words sounded completely truthful leaving my mouth. I wondered if I meant them. I had no doubt she meant hers.

Our moment of silence was interrupted visually. Outside in the snow, Mr. Sanford's final beacon of hope sputtered, flared and died into darkness. I winced, feeling Agnes wince beside me. I looked forlornly at the spot as the final entrails of smoke were whipped away by the wind. Without the reflected red glare, the inside of the bus seemed nearly lightless. I wondered if it was enough light to alert anyone to our presence or guide them home. I doubted it seriously. Worse, the sense of doom deepened in the absence of light. I shivered convulsively. Agnes clutched me tight.

"I'm glad I have you," she whispered.

"I'm glad I have you too. I can't think of anyone I'd rather be stranded with on a volcanic island."

"Lost, this isn't," she countered.

"It's not even Lost in Space," I said, striving for buoyancy. "Where's a coconut, when you need one?"

Agnes giggled and kissed my throat. Shifting, I let her know it was time to re-cocoon ourselves. Lifting the blankets over our heads, we worked, and then reworked the folds until they were acceptably tight, and then settled inward against each other. I let my right hand steal into her open shirt and claim a prize.

"I wish we could lay down," she said.

"So do I," I sighed wistfully. "Then I could take off your clothes and make mad, passionate love to you."

"We can't do that here?"

"You want a ruptured disk? Or a hernia?" I suddenly became aware that I had to pee. "Dammit," I murmured.

"What?"

"I have to go pee."

"So do I. I've had to for hours."

I blinked at her in the darkness. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't want to bother you. Besides, I really don't want to think about baring my backside and chancing peeing myself. Can you imagine?"

I had peed myself before-more rightly, the back of my jeans and my panties--and had no desire whatsoever to repeat the disaster, not in freezing cold weather. It wasn't like I had clean ones to put on.

"I guess we could do it off the stoop into the snow. I could hold you steady, and you me. That might work."

"Or maybe the back of the bus?" I suggested.

"That's an idea," she replied, her tone sounding hopeful. "At least we wouldn't have to worry about falling into the snow. That would be horrible." I could mentally see her face pinching; a backward drop, not only into freezing cold snow, but also into our own pee. Wonderful. I liked the back of the bus idea even better.

"Let's go," I said, throwing back the blankets. "You have any tissue in your backpack?" I looked for mine, remembered that it was halfway down the bus. Unscissoring my legs, I got up stiffly and stumbled my way down the isle where I grabbed my bag from beneath the seat. I really had to pee. My bladder was bursting. Rooting around the inside, I came up with a crumpled McDonalds napkin. Continuing the search, I came up with another stray, and then a third. I held up my treasure, grinning. Walking down the isle with her backpack in one hand, a plastic package of tissues in the other, Agnes grinned back.

"A regular Girl Scout," I observed. "Always prepared."

Joining me, she dropped her backpack on the seat alongside mine, and we continued down the isle toward the back, both undoing our belts and jeans as we went. I didn't like the idea of peeing on the carpeting, but there was nothing we could do about it, and besides, it would keep pee from rolling up the isle as it might do otherwise, were the flooring rubber. The truth was, I didn't give a shit if someone complained: they weren't stuck on the bus in the middle of a snowstorm. Let them suspend me.

I wiggled my jeans and panties down to mid-thigh, watched as Agnes uncomfortably did the same, not bothering to hide my curiosity about her womanhood. To my intense surprise, I saw that she was completely clean-shaven, not a suggestion of black visible. That I hadn't expected.

"You shave?" I blurted out. "In the wintertime?" The last time my own pubes had been touched by a razor was Labor Day. I was suddenly self-conscious about the sparse, yet noticeable blond hair between my legs. I crouched and pinched my legs together, hiding myself. To my chagrin, it was suddenly difficult to pee. Evidently, Agnes experienced the same difficulty, because it was suddenly very silent on that bus. I prayed I wouldn't pass gas and embarrass myself further.

A deep redness rose up Agnes's throat and commandeered her face. She grinned helplessly, adding to her embarrassment. "What?" she objected, trying to deflect my perceived teasing.

"Nothing," I said, shoving away the image of me spreading Agnes' legs, kissing her wetness, licking her. My heartbeat surged and suddenly, I found it very difficult to breath. It was the first time I had actually envisioned ourselves having sex. Though disturbing, I realized I wanted it very much. I wondered if she wanted me.

"I can't pee." Her voice was exasperated.

"Me neither."

"I've peed before. I never had any problem any other time. Well, not like this, anyway," she amended. "I was embarrassed, but that was because I thought guys might see me."

I smiled inwardly. "No reason to be embarrassed. I'm not embarrassed. Are you?"

Looking out the corner of my eye, I saw her grinning. A moment later, a scatter of urine peppered the carpet between her legs, quickly strengthening into a torrent, like she hadn't peed in a week. My own bladder let loose then and pee gushed out of me like out of a fire hose. Fragrant steam rose from between our legs. We both started giggling, both nearly losing our balance because we shook so hard. I had to put a hand down behind me to catch myself; Agnes rocked forward protectively and put down both of hers. We couldn't stop laughing.

"Stop!" I wailed.

"You stop!"

Wiping myself and dropping the tissues on the floor, I struggled erect and worked my clothes back over my hips. I straightened my panties, still laughing uproariously, zipped my jeans and attempted to up do my belt. We staggered forward up the isle, bumping and poking each other until we reached the seat behind the driver's seat and sat down. Pretzelling our legs beneath us, we helped each other re-envelop ourselves in the shroud. We were still laughing uproariously.

"I love you," she told me again.

"I love you too."

With no resistance, I slid Agnes' shirt back over her shoulders, pulled it down her arms and dropped it in her lap. She shrugged and removed her bra herself, holding it her hands. I knew without sight that her nipples were achingly hard and begging to be touched. I let her know that I wanted out of my sweater and between the two of us, got it over my head. To save room, I pushed it out beneath my leg and let it drop to the floor, something I would regret later when I had to put it on again. Who says wool doesn't get cold. Agnes pushed the straps of my bra back over my shoulders, slid them down my arms and handed it to me.

"God," she whispered. "Please don't let anyone find this bus." I wondered if there was a way to turn off the emergency lights, felt guilty for even thinking something so selfish. "I really meant what I said earlier. About us laying down?"

I heard her sigh. She moaned a moment later when I placed my hands over her breasts. She took mine, fondled them lovingly. We played with each other's nipples as we kissed.

As it turned out, we were able to lie down...after a fashion. Two blankets below us to insulate from the coldness of the vinyl seats, two above, though it took constant vigilance to make sure they covered us completely. Most of the time our feet stuck out in the isle, unprotected, and there was no ignoring the air turning our calves, feet and toes into flesh popsicles. At some point Agnes made the suggestion that we shed our shoes and warm our feet against each other before they fell off from frostbite. This was not as easily accomplished as you might imagine; not with jeans down around our ankles.

"I'm not getting completely naked," I objected, even as I struggled to lever the heel of my shoe off my right foot.

Grunting, Agnes tried to unlace her boots. The idea of being completely naked with her between the blankets had me extraordinarily horny. I felt like a balloon; blown up to the bursting point, ready to explode at the least increase of pressure, no matter from inside or out. My heart thudded and blood pounded in my ears. I was breathless from so much kissing. My tongue and jaw muscles ached terribly. Incredibly, I knew what Agnes felt like inside. I shivered, just thinking about it. With her help, I had located and played with her clitoris, and she with mine. It was our first time ever. I had tasted her. She had haltingly taste me. We had tasted ourselves, together. I liked her taste better than mine. I wanted to taste her from the source, but so far, that hadn't been possible.

"Wait!" I said, huffing.

"What's wrong?"

"I got a cramp. I think I got a cramp." I waited a long second, hoping the muscle spasm would go away, but it didn't. "Shit," I said when it only grew worse. Flexing my foot only made the damned thing worse still, just as it always did when I got a cramp. I never imagined being naked with someone could be so much trouble.

"Wait," Agnes said. "Fold your legs up between us."

Doing as she suggested, I turned completely on my side with my back against the seat back, drew my knees up to my chest and let Agnes attack my calf with her fingertips.

"The other one, Agnes!"

Grunting impatiently, she switched calves and attacked the bunched up muscles with painful intensity. I grit my teeth and sucked in air. "Don't stop!" I cried. "That's helping!" Little by little, her strong fingers kneaded the pain and tightness out of muscles until finally, with a grumbling acceptance, the cramp let go. I breathed out in grateful relief-and then gasped.

"Agnes!"

She had just run her fingertips down my butt crack and located my clenched asshole. "What are you doing?" Every muscle in my body tensioned.

She began to rhythmically circle her fingertip on my small button. "I do this to myself," she whispered. "I've always liked it."

I liked it too, though I was too embarrassed to tell her that. "You are such a naughty girl," I said.

"Do you like it?"

"Would you like me to do it to you?"

"I'd like that very much," she said throatily. I was discovering a whole new Agnes here, wasn't I? I wondered what else I'd find out about her. I gasped again, as the tip of her middle finger slipped in my hole up to the first knuckle.

"Do you like it?"

"It's...very different," I admitted. I knew guys liked to mess around with a girl's asshole, loved to plug it up with their cocks if given the opportunity, but Agnes was the first girl I'd known to admit an interest in having it done to her. Usually, at least among my friends, anal--or the thought of it--was endured, not than enjoyed. Her finger entered me up to the second knuckle, and I shuddered.

"Unless you tell me to stop," she said. "I'm gonna keep going." Even as she threatened this her finger slid in another half-knuckle. She was not merely invading me, but intent on exploring my insides. I felt the finger pressing against the wall of my rectum, forcing my vagina against my bladder and compressing it. It made me want to pee.

"I amend what I said before: You are really naughty." I bent forward and kissed her on the lips. Her finger continued its inward journey until stopped by the palm of her hand. She continued to lever it forward into my privates. I think she had my uterus this time. At least the pressure was gone from my bladder. I felt the blush deepen in my face. What an experience.

"I can stop, if you don't like this," she whispered.

"Please don't."

I imagined her doing this to herself, realizing after a moment that the only way possible to finger yourself so thoroughly was on your hands and knees, in a doggie position. The thought of her doing that, with the middle finger of her free hand up her vagina was too much for me. I audibly moaned. Of course, the finger inside me redoubled its efforts to map my insides. I moaned again, bent forward and put my forehead against her shoulder. I marveled at the energy level between my legs. I began to moan continuously, little jolts of electricity clenching my muscles, making me jerk, making me mumble pleading little noises. Without me really knowing it, Agnes removed my shoes and socks with her free hand, worked me out of my jeans and panties and then removed her own. She clutched me to her, still doubled up, and used the fingers of her left hand to totally destroy me with her attack on my panic button. I was conscious of making a horrible noise in my chest and begging to have this torture stop. I fought, oh God did I fight against the orgasm she relentlessly was pushing me toward, my first at the hands of another person. Finally I couldn't hold it any longer.

"AhhhhhhhhgodddddddddddAgnesssssssss!"

Wave after wave piled up and crashed over me. I wound my arms around my knees and clamped them to my chest. I tried to gasp, but air refused to enter my lungs. The fingers between my legs stopped momentarily, and then the one on my clitoris went crazy while the one up my behind remained absolutely still. Impossibly, Agnes made my orgasm even worse.

"Noooooooooooooo!" I moaned. "Stoppppppppp!" There was no stopping Agnes. She had her finger finely attuned to my horrible convulsions and every time I thought I'd died, and crossed over the threshold to Heaven, she would ruthlessly yank me back to the world of the living again. I had my mouth open and hitched in miniscule breaths, choking to get them out again. My eyes were riveted closed, my every muscle spasmed. She absolutely refused to let me stop orgasming.

"Please! Please! Please!" I begged. "Agnes...Please!" I began to caterwaul uncontrollably and suddenly her finger was away from my clit, she ripped the finger of her other hand out of my rectum, she wrapped her arms around my back and clung to me fiercely. She laughed evilly as the convulsions slowly but inexorably drained out of my body. Five minutes later, shaking like a jellyfish, I wrenched my head off her shoulder and looked at her cross-eyed.

"You are such a bitch!" Exhausted, I collapsed against her and let her cuddle me like a baby while she laughed both herself, and me to sleep.

And this was how they found us, five hours later.

* * *

The whole school knew, of course. But our ordeal, plus the death of Mr. Sanford, somehow moderated the mess. We took a lot of looks in the next week, and whispering behind cupped hands, but surprisingly, the student body seemed almost understanding about it. No one acted surprised at all that Agnes became my new best friend, nor did any of my girlfriends object to her presence at our lunch table, and later, within the group itself. Like Dana Hillborne, she was transformed by their attention. Agnes flowered into a very beautiful, if somewhat domineering young lady.

This was five years ago. Though everyone knew, we chose not to come out to our parents until the first year of college. We attend Minnesota State University at Mankato. Rather than chance being separated into different dorm rooms, with the help of our parents we took a two-bedroom apartment in one of the off-campus student housing centers. (Two bedrooms, to keep up appearances.) We are two months into our first semester of higher learning.

"Oh, you've made surprising headway," Agnes says. Her hair, worn short for the last three years, is nearly back to the length it was our first night together. I so much like it better long. Mine is the same as it ever was. Looking up and over my shoulder, I let her kiss me. I let her run a hand down the front of my shirt and fondle my breast. I moan with pleasure into her mouth.

"Did you miss me?" she asks.

"I always miss you," I say, returning to the computer screen. It's a Macbook, just like hers. We both have Apples.

"Wow, thirty-three pages. You are being long-winded, aren't you, sweetie."

"A lot happened that night," I remind her. I watch in the reflection of the glossy screen as she strips out of her top and reaches up behind her back. I grin as the bra falls away from her tiny breasts. My nipples harden automatically.

"A lot of private stuff, yeah. How much are you putting in?"

"All of it. Everything that I can remember, anyway."

"And some you made up?"

"I can't think of anything I made up," I counter. "There wasn't a lot to make up about that night. We did just about everything."

"We did, didn't we?" she says, smiling in reflection.

I love it when she smiles. She has the prettiest smile. It's one of the things I love about her most. And no, I haven't agreed to convert to Judaism yet. Not yet, anyway. Although I'm thinking about it. I'm wondering how my mom would react to me becoming Mrs. Agnes Ahlberg.

THE END