Snow Angels

"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.