Your erotic stories

I should not have been on that bus. I would not have been had I graduated the year before like everyone else my age. But I got held back a year because of injuries suffered during a car wreck in 10th grade, and had to repeat. I’d never hated the fact more than I did that afternoon.

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 would see in a lifetime. The problem was, I was no longer in Georgia.

“Minnesota sucks,” I grumbled.

The boy sitting beside me, Paul, my defacto 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 o’clock, 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, I thought.

“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 in 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 rectangular outline relentlessly texting Paul and my other friends. I barely paid 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 up 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 away than I did. 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 from 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 became twice as loud and frightening 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 terrified 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. We 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 clear across the bus. I grimaced as I heard what could only be her head smacking the window pane. Being thrown around as I was, I was unable to look back and see if she was injured.

“No! No, goddammit!” The driver, still fighting the wheel as though it could make any possible difference, had finally found his voice. More profanities spewed from him as the bus took a particularly hard lurch crashing through a line of saplings planted on the hillside. The impact bounced him off the unforgiving 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 come to rest on almost perfectly level ground. 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, wincing at whatever it was her fingertips probed into. She looked at me and 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.

“Where are we?” Agnes 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 street sign. There were no landmarks that I could identify either. It was a complete whiteout for God’s sake. I was counting 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. 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 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 top of the embankment. 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 school. “I’ll call in and they’ll send a wrecker out for the bus and a 4×4 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. 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, seasick 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 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 held it out as proof.

Nodding absently, he dug in his coat pocket and came out with a battered old phone that looked nearly as old as he did. Flipping it open, he wrinkled his forehead. He held the 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 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 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 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 still no answer, he rotated the switch to a second frequency and called out on that. The results were no better. Each time his call 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. Surely.

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 admitted, “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, I thought. How yummy.

I told them about my half-bottle of Diet-Coke, not wanting anyone to think I was holding out. I only wished that I had two packages of cookies in my backpack also, 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 from 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 down at the floor, then up at the frost-spangled windows. For the windows 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, if anything, worsened things.She rubbed the side of her hand against her pant leg and then put it back in her coat 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. What about you?”

“Atlanta,” I said. “I wish I was there now”

“Me too. You moved here over the summer?”

Though she looked at me with quick, semi-embarrassed glances, she had beautiful, big brown eyes, the color and warmth of hot chocolate. Her skin, though peppered with tiny dots of acne across her forehead, was otherwise nice. Like many girls with very dark hair, she had a hint of a mustache; it wasn’t unattractive; 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.

“We could be on the beach right now,” I said, thinking of bikinis and waxing, spaghetti-straps and shorts and sandals. I wondered if they even sold sandals in Minnesota. “What made your folks move up here?” I asked.

She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “My dad got his own congregation. 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 complained, thrusting out her lower lip. I had to laugh.

“Congregation? Like a church congregation?”

She nodded. “He’s a rabbi. My mother teaches–”

“You’re Jewish?” I broke in, startled.

She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Ahlberg? I would think so.” Her lips curled up at the corners, letting me know I was being teased. I loved how her eyes twinkled as she smiled.

Feeling my face redden, I answered quickly: “Sorry, I didn’t mean–”

She laughed, only feeding my embarrassment. “I’ve never had a Jewish friend before,” I muttered.

Her smile broadened. “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 sat alone or with a small group of equally nerdy geeks.

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 backwards, away from me. Thoroughly embarrassed and beginning to redden I shot a glance forward and was relieved to see Mr. Sanford hunched 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 the rest of her hair back behind her ears, securing whatever I had missed. I felt my face go red hot. I looked down at my clamped-together hands, wishing I were anywhere but on that bus. Agnes sat back against the seat and looked out the window.

“I should move,” I muttered, almost unintelligibly.

“Please don’t.” Her right hand moved and hovered just above my clasped hands. She moved it back, let it fall to her thigh.

“Can I show you something?” she asked.

I nodded stiffly.

Picking up her backpack, she 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, the lid raised to the upright position, displaying a sign-on screen. With visibly trembling fingers she typed in her password and hit the Return key. The desktop appeared. She paused, hand still trembling. Suddenly she shut the lid again.

“I can’t do this,” she mumbled.

“Can’t do what?” I wondered. 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.

I laughed, fighting 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 to,” she complained. In fact, her face had gone beet red, redder even than my own a minute ago. She started to return the laptop to her backpack; I reached across and caught her right wrist.

“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, Ellen.”

Unwisely, I made her return the laptop to her lap and fought with her to reopen the lid. She resisted me with something akin to mild panic.

“It’s OK,” I assured her. “Whatever it is, I’m not gonna think bad of you.”

“Yes, you are,” she said decidedly. “You’re never gonna 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.

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 back 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. 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 folder. 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. 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 knows 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, you usually look as though whatever Sara’s saying bores or irritates you. Also, you are never mean when talking to un-cool students like me. Not like Sara and your other friends. I like that about you. You’re different. In many ways, more like my friends and me 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. It 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.

“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 had 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, 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? How could she possibly think that I was interested in her? I wanted to jump up and scream You lezzie reak! Dyke! Go get your pussy somewhere else!

Then what the hell made you touch her hair, I wondered?

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 out 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 two 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 commented.

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 truthful with myself, wasn’t it clear 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. And 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, though blurry and somewhat distorted window, 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. Mr. Sanford muttered, “What the hell?” and looked around the interior of the bus, now illuminated only by emergency panels 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, 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 turning over even. I wrapped my arms tightly around my chest and looked down at the floor. With the engine stopped, heat no longer blew from the vents. I began to shiver.

“What’s the matter?” Agnes asked, alarm in her voice. “Why won’t it start?”

“I don’t know why, 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. “Only thing I can think of is the alternator went out when we hit that stranded car.” That was what had spun us around, I guessed.

He half rose from his seat to look down at 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 of juice. 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, missy. We’ll be out of here way before then. I promise you that.”

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 started up the isle. She had just begun to speak again in a high, cracking voice when I touched her shoulder. She jumped and cried out 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 bus is insulated…” He paused to look at the already glazed-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 cried together.

“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 this stretch of road.”

“Even if it’s Broad Neck,” I persisted. “And we’re not sure it is.”

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, Mr. Sanford, 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 anyway.

“Really stupid,” Agnes echoed. I noticed the plume of steam come out her mouth and tried not to think about that.

Mr. Sanford said: “Inside that compartment are blankets.” He pointed to a square door built into the panel below 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. Removing one for its plastic bag, I shook it out and wrapped it around my shoulders. The other I clutched under my right arm. Agnes held both blankets 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 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 empty box back into the compartment, resealed the hatch and stood up.

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

“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.” He opened the package and held out one of the flares to Agnes, but she shied away. I took it instead.

“Show me,” he said.

Clumsily, I peeled away 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 that would ignite when struck by the rough surface on the cap. I would not want to ignite it on the bus.

“Okay. Let’s give this a go.” Mr. Sanford showed Agnes how to lever open the doors 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 abraded 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. Don’t let more cold air 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. I tried it again with the same result. Mr. Sanford reached around and took each of my hands in his own 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, Mr. Sanford. Please don’t go!”

For a moment, I thought Mr. Sanford might cave under duress, but following a moment’s indecision, he jammed his woolen ski cap down over his ears, zipped up his parka to the chin, fastened the Velcro straps, and then 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 instruction, he banged open the doors, crouched down and leaped as far out 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 cried angrily. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Grabbing the handle, 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 over 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 had erupted 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. Grumbling, 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 blankets around my shoulders and secured them 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. 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 from me. It was driving me crazy. What was also driving me crazy was the growing certainty that I liked being wrapped up in a blanket with her.

“What if he really doesn’t come back,” I asked. 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 had 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.

“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 longer 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 know you were Jewish. Not that it matters. It’s not like you’re 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, whites had been the minority.

“So 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.

“Ellen! 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 am not a lesbo. I’ve never been with a girl before. I don’t like girls.”

“You like me,” I pointed out.

“That’s different,” she said, frowning. “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. 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.

“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. Let’s tuck the blankets under us.” Though difficult, with only one hand each to accomplish the task, 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 glacial. Breath billowed out whitely with each exhalation, looking almost 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.

“Good idea,” I agreed, shouldering the blankets up and over my ears. We hunkered over almost double, but 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 shakes. 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 laughed. “That’ll go over big with your friends.”

“Fuck my friends. They’re not trapped with me on this bus.” I turned to look at her in the darkness. “I’d like you to send me 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. I really poured out my heart to you. 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.

“Sure.”

“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. Barbie is Mother Teresa compared to some of us,” I added, snorting.

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 what I said. 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 laughed, to make sure she knew I was joking. She laughed back and squeezed my hands.

“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. The reality of what I was doing hit her and she jerked away, but then, very slowly, came back to me again. Clumsy in the darkness, our mouths finally found each other and joined. I closed my eyes and held my breath.

Her lips were so soft, their touch so timid. My shoulders reacted to a shiver and 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 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 right now. 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. 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!”

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 branches 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 you see him?” she asked.

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

“How deep is it, do you think?”

I liked having her standing there with me; the cramped floor space put us 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 drew her to me. She nuzzled her cheek against mine, her chin on my shoulder and I shuddered. I shivered again, much harder this time, when she kissed the side of my neck just below the jaw.

“Stop that!” I protested. “Someone will see us.”

She laughed at my embarrassment, spun me inside her arms and wrapped my arms around my 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 again. I kissed her back.

“Mr. Sanford’d die if he came back to this,” she said, mischievously.

“More like, he’d die to see this,” I countered. “Men get off on girls kissing girls.”

Purposefully or not, Agnes knew how to make me squirm. I wondered just where this would end up. As much as I’d like to believe myself a courageous person, I couldn’t see us walking along 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 heated 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 to just 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 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 six years. Ever since I growed boobies. 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 my girlfriends are. My enthusiasm was always 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 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 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. I’ve never responded to anyone until now. I think maybe you’re my person, Agnes. I don’t know how it feels 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 out, 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 left hand up my spine and cradled the back of my neck. I moaned again, trembling. On their own authority, my hands moved up her sides and located and took possession of her small, firm breasts. Now Agnes began to moan. The flare had reignited 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 with me. 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 joining 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 locked and our tongues dancing, I don’t know. The passage of time had no meaning to me. 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. “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 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 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. I told her anyway.

Blinking, she turned red. “Obviously, I never have,” she muttered.

“Never have what?” I asked, momentarily confused.

“Had an orgasm,” she admitted in embarrassment.

“Not even by yourself?” I asked.

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), 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, freed my hands of the blankets and wrestled the package open, at the expense of two nails.

“Motherfucker,” I mumbled irritably. Then I gasped and started a bit as Agnes found my breasts, cupping them through the thickness of my coat. My face reddened at the unexpected pleasure of it. It felt so natural, having them held.

“I like that,” I said haltingly.

She whispered in my ear. “I liked it when you held mine. I definitely got the better part of this exchange. Sorry about that.”

“Stop it,” I muttered. After the scalding it had taken in the last few hours, I was surprised I had any face left to burn.

With Agnes meticulously exploring my chest, I removed a flare from the pack, returned the others to my pocket, broke loose the plastic cap without bothering with the banding and struck the button. I made 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 concerned, 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 pathetic love life; she told me about her non-existent one.

“I don’t understand something,” she said in a troubled voice. “Why are you even on the bus? Paul has a car, doesn’t he?”

It had to come up sometime, I thought resignedly. I told her about my accident three years ago, my inability to get behind the wheel without hyperventilating, and the aversion I had to anything small and confining. I felt her shiver in response to the admission that I had killed two of my best friends. “It’s not something I talk about much.”

“I can understand,” she said compassionately, finding my hand and holding it. “How long were you in the coma?”

I squeezed her hand tightly. “Three months. In a way, I was lucky. My injuries were healed by the time I woke up, and I never suffered the pain I would have gone through the first couple of weeks. I had to learn how to walk again, of course—”

“I always wondered about your limp,” she admitted.

“—and I don’t see very well out my right eye, and there’s always this…” I directed her fingertips to the jagged scars on my scalp and the slight depression marking the location of the plate. “I can never shave me head like Britney Spears. Not that I’d ever want to, you know?”

She was understandably troubled. “Did you…?”

“See anything when I died?” I laughed. “Nothing. No life-changing religious experiences for this girl. I’m still the same old messed up Ellen Olson.”

She laughed uncomfortably. “That makes you what…19?”

“Almost.” I counted the days mentally to my birthday. “In 21 days I will no longer be an 18-year-old. I’ll be the same age as Bella Swan, forever 19.” I frowned. “Do I have that right? Or did Bella not make it to her 19th birthday? Anyway, I’m your older and wiser girlfriend, so you will defer to me on all important decisions,” I said grinning.

She grinned back at me, shaking her head.

“I know you’re not older than me,” I said.

“Guess again.”

I blinked in surprise. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You are not. Show me your license.”

Still grinning, she retrieved her backpack from under the seat and dug through it for one of the biggest and ugliest wallets I’d ever seen. It had never occurred to me that I might be the younger partner in our duet, that I might not be the only overage senior at school. Much as I hated it, being the oldest student came with a certain perverse pride; now that was in jeopardy. And the truth was, I liked and wanted to be older. So, confronted with the birth date printed on her license, I grumbled: “No way. It’s not fair. You can’t be 19 already.”

“I am.” The smugness in her voice was unmistakable, and insufferable. “I’m almost 20. You’re my junior, missy. You have to listen to me.”

“That’ll be the day,” I muttered peevishly. “Explain yourself.”

“Do you know what a kibbutz is?”

I grudgingly heard her out. Four years ago she had taken a semester off to join her Israeli cousins on a farm on the occupied West Bank. The semester had turned into a year, and then two years, almost four full semesters. Upon her return, the school board refused to grant reciprocity for her home schooling due to lack of documentation. She and her parents had appealed right up to the state board of education, without success. Minnesota had significantly tighter regulations than did Florida, it seemed. But then a compromise was offered. Agnes would be given credit for one full year; she’d enter 11th grade in September of 2010, instead of 12th. Grudgingly, her parents had accepted.

“Then you should have graduated two years ago,” I said uncertainly. Dates and times confuse me on good days, of which this certainly wasn’t.

She nodded smugly.

“I can’t tell you how disappointed I am. I never get to be the older person in a relationship. It’s unfair.”

“It’s more unfair than you realize,” she said, a teasing smile on her lips. I eyed her guardedly.

“In Judaism, the husband is always the governing partner. Since we’re two girls, and I’m older than you, custom dictates that I be conferred the male role. If we get married, you’ll be the bride and I’ll be the groom.”

“Bullshit!” I cried indignantly. “That’s not true!”

Her grin was so big and so shit-eating. “At the altar, I’ll be in the tux and you’ll be wearing white, beautifully glowing and ravishing. We’ll say our vows before the rabbi and I’ll step on the ceremonial glass and break it. From that point on, you are mine to do with as I please.”

“You are so full of it,” I said, laughing.

“On our wedding night, I’ll take you over my knee to remind you who is the husband and who is the wife in our marriage. Another old Judaic custom.”

I glared at her fiercely. “You just try it girl.”

“You’ll lower your panties yourself, over my lap, pleading with me not to make it so you can’t sit down in the morning. It’s the first thing the parent’s look for; has the bride been properly disciplined? They always look for and expect, a grimace.”

All this talk of brides and grooms and weddings and spankings was making me wet. For an insane moment I saw myself walking down the aisle, shaking with terror and ready to pee my wedding dress. I giggled, and leaned in to kiss her.

“I don’t know about the wedding night stuff, but I’d like to loose my virginity to you, Agnes.”

I felt her stiffen, her breath stopping momentarily. “Really?” she whispered, her former confidence gone.

“If we were in bed, I’d be all over you. I’d give you a great big hickey right here,” I said, unzipping her coat six inches and toughing the side of her neck with my fingertips. On impulse, I leaned in close and attached my mouth to the very spot. I waited for her reaction.

“My mom would kill me,” she pleaded.

“I’d bet she’d celebrate,” I countered laughing. I felt the tempo of her breathing quicken, grow deeper, her heartbeat accelerate. Consciously or not, her head tiled away, invitingly my mouth. 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, your 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 moaned, and then moaned 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 the hump 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 shoulder and breast. My own right breast, found through the thickness of my coat, filled her hand. A moment later, her hand slid beneath the waist of my coat, under my sweater and up to my breast. I protested when the hand didn’t stop there but released the front catch on my bra and released me.

“No!” I complained, removing my mouth. In the reflected glare I could make out an oval bruise, darkening nicely. I fought to get my hand under her bra but was an instant too late. She laughed as she claimed first prize.

“Bitch! I was first.”

“You were slow,” she taunted.

“I was preoccupied.” 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 nub. It was nice and hard, but surprisingly small. I could tell from sense of feel that her aureole was tiny, the size of a dime, maybe, and delightfully rough. I tweaked her 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, 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 hand against her left shoulder, I arched her left side forward. Bending, I placed my lips over her nipple and sucked it into my mouth. She groaned in response and wrapped her arms around my head. Were I a boy, I’d have had a raging hard-on. Instead, I had flutters in my belly and a sopping wetness between my legs. 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 aureole. It was very dark, the exact size of a dime, 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 terribly. My own nipples ached terribly. Leaning back, I observed my handiwork.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how aroused I am,” I whispered huskily. Forcing her shirt back over her shoulders, I lifted her bra clear of her breasts. There were so small. Why that should excite me was a mystery.

“You’re embarrassing me,” she said, reddening as I ogled her. “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,” she said, wryly. “The flare just went out.”

“Fuck.” 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 back 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.

Rising, she grabbed the lever. My teeth were chattering, and the air stealing through the V of my unzipped coat had gooseflesh erupted all across my chest. My nipples were hard as diamonds. I wouldn’t doubt they’d cut glass. Reaching inside, I reconnected 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.

Ignited, I held the flare 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 into the crater 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. He had either frozen to death, gotten hopelessly lost, or was unable to find his way back through the raging storm. Unable to stand it anymore, I guided Agnes toward the bench and we sat down.

“We’re alone, aren’t we?” she said.

“Until they find us,” I answered morosely.

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

“I don’t want to die, Ellen.”

“We’re not going to die, Agnes. Once we wrap ourselves up in the blankets, 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 others red-hot coals.”

She laughed, fractured by a sob.

I rubbed the side of her head. “The first time we’re alone, I’m making you do a striptease for me, little girl. Right down to your skin. I’ll dress you in this really sexy, slutty schoolgirl outfit first: white blouse, 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?”

Without looking, 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 emphatically.

“I showed you mine,” I goaded. Slowly, I wiggled back into my jeans and pulled up the zipper. 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. It’ll be a lot more visible than that tiny thing…and a whole lot more embarrassing,” 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’ 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. As kissing sessions went, it had been marathon. Our coats were open, and our bra’s undone. If my right hand weren’t presently holding 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.”

I wrapped my arms around her and drew her to me as tightly as possible.

“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 that 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, and then 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 wisps of smoke were whipped away by the wind. My sense of hopelessness deepened in the absence of light. I shivered convulsively. Agnes clutched me tightly.

“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, laughing bitterly. “Where’s a coconut, when you need one?”

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.”

“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 longing to be touched. I let her know that I wanted out of my sweater and between the two of us, we 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 back on. 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?”

She moaned as I placed my hands over her breasts. She took mine in her hands, fondling them lovingly, torturing my nipples as we kissed. I determined that we would, in fact, lay down. Two blankets went below us on the seat to insulate from the cold of the stiff vinyl; the other two covered us, though it took constant vigilance to keep from freezing to death. Our feet were unprotected, and there was no ignoring the cold air assaulting our calves, feet and toes, turning them into Popsicles. At some point Agnes suggested we remove 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 was a balloon, at the bursting point, ready to explode at the slightest increase of pressure, no matter from inside or from out. My heart thudded and blood pounded in my ears. I was breathless from so much kissing. My tongue and jaw muscles ached. 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; it didn’t. “Shit,” I said when it only grew worse. I never imagined being naked with someone could be so much trouble.

Agnes said. “Fold your legs up between us.”

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

“The other one, Agnes!”

She switched calves and attacked the bunched up muscles with painful intensity. I grit my teeth and sucked in air. “Don’t stop!” I gasped. “That’s helping!” Little by little, her strong fingers pushed 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 into my butt crack and located my clenched asshole. “What are you doing?” Every muscle in my body locked.

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 freak,” I said to her.

“Do you like it?”

“No.”

“Do you like it now?” 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 in.” Her finger slid in another inch; she was not satisfied on 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 go pee.

“I amend what I said before: You are a total freak.” I bent forward and kissed her. Her finger continued its inward journey until stopped by the rest of her fingers and her palm. She continued to lever the finger forward into my sexual organs. She had my uterus this time, and I felt the blush deepen in my face. What an experience, I thought.

“I can stop, if you don’t like this,” she whispered.

“Please don’t.”

I imagined her doing this to herself and moaned deeply. The finger inside me redoubled its efforts and I bent forward, lay my forehead against her shoulder. Jolts of electricity clenched my muscles, making me spasm, making me mumble pleading little noises. With no objections, Agnes removed my shoes and socks, worked me out of my jeans and panties, and then removed her own. She clutched me tight, still doubled up, using the fingers of her left hand to totally destroy my remaining control with an attack on my panic button. I fought—oh, God did I fight against the orgasm she relentlessly pushed 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, this made my orgasm even worse.

“Noooo!” I moaned. “Noooooooooo!” I had my mouth open and hitched in miniscule breaths, choking to get them out again. My eyes were riveted shut, my every muscle clenched. She absolutely refused to let me stop orgasming.

“Please! Please! Please!” I begged. “Agnes…Please!” I began to wail uncontrollably and suddenly her finger was away from my clit; she ripped the other out of my butt, wrapped her arms around me fiercely, laughed breathlessly as convulsions slowly drained from of my body. Five minutes later, quivering like a jellyfish, I wrenched my head off her shoulder and looked at her cross-eyed.

“You are such a damn 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. We took a lot of looks in the next week, and whispering behind cupped hands, but surprisingly, the student body seemed almost understanding. Our ordeal, plus the death of Mr. Sanford, helped moderate the mess.

No one acted surprised that Agnes became my new best friend; none of my friends objected to her presence at our lunch table. She was transformed by their attention, in fact. She flowered into a very beautiful young lady.

Though everyone knew, we chose not to come out to our parents until our Freshman year of college. We attend Minnesota State University at Mankato. Rather than chance being put into different dorms, with the help of our parents we took a two-bedroom, off-campus apartment. (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. Looking up and over my shoulder, I let her kiss me. I let her run a hand down the front of my sweater and cup 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. It’s a Macbook, just like hers. We both have Apples.

“Wow, 28 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. How much are you putting in there?”

“All of it. Everything that I can remember.”

“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. Although I’m thinking about it.

I’m wondering how her parents would react to having a daughter-in-law.

THE END