This story is far too long for one sitting, so I'll be giving it to you in installments. Probably only two, maybe three. It's a good story, I think, but just a bit this side of capacious. Again, as with all the stories that go into my journal, only the names, dates, and locations are fiction.

The bus groaned as it rounded the bend and shambled toward the incline of yet another Blue Ridge foothill. Had we taken the field trip a month earlier, we would've crammed ourselves into the Plymouth minivan. As it was, though, Lucien and Daniel had ridden in the cargo space of the old van last time, when we'd gone to Williamsburg in April. That was just five weeks ago. Since, The School had taken four new students. Now, it was nearly June, and the Plymouth's days of hauling teenagers to museums and battlefields were past. We numbered thirteen, nowhere near enough to fill the chartered bus, but far too many for some mass-produced family vehicle.

We were on our way back from D.C. The trip, one made mostly on country roads that bore numbers rather than names, had long lost its mystery and adventure; we'd gone three times since I arrived in February. I knew that in an hour, it'd be twilight, and we'd be pulling up the driveway, back at school.

I curled my legs under myself and leaned my head against the window frame. Thick, humid air streamed through the opening. It washed over my face and neck, and I breathed it in. The warm breeze smelt of cattle and freshly tilled black, Virginia clay, of moist, dense woods and sun-beaten fields of wild mustard. In the clotted dampness that carried the scent, the message was plain: A thunderstorm was coming. I sighed. Gritty road dust clung to my sweat-sticky skin, and all I really wanted was the shower I wouldn't get if we didn't beat that storm home.

Steve flopped down in the seat next to me. He pushed the hinged armrest between us out of the way, and leaned across me to share my view out the window for a moment. Traces of coppery, musky 17-year-old boy mixed with the scent of unspent electricity of the impending storm, and danced around me like some heady incense.

I stared at Steve as he looked out at the farms and fields. He'd arrived with the other New Kids in the last month. Already, we'd spent a lot of time together, sitting near each other at meals or in class, sharing the bench out on the porch while having a smoke. Sometimes it was hard to get a word in edgewise with him, as he talked on and on about literature, art, and drama — all things we shared common interest in. I didn't mind that he dominated our conversations; I was fascinated just watching him. His green eyes shone brightly when he spoke, his thin, graceful hands dipped and swayed to punctuate his words. He was charming, too, always equipped with a shamefully horrible pun or some silly accent that he knew would make me laugh. Today, I was sure of what I'd suspected when I first saw him. Were we in another time, another place . . .

But the rules were painfully clear: No sexual contact; think of every other student as your brother or sister. My only consolation was that the rules failed to address incestuous fantasies.

Steve turned and winked at me alarmingly, as though he'd read my last thought. If he had, he made no further indication of it as he sat back in his seat. "Sick?" he asked.

"No," I shook my head, gazing out the window again. "Dramamine is making me a little tired, though."

At that, Steve launched into his East Ender Cockney. "'Ere now, luv," he said, "whyncha settle back and 'ave a bit of the noddybinkums, then, eh wot?"

I looked at him, trying hard not to laugh, to answer back in my own affected Brit accent. Steve wrinkled his nose at me, taunting, daring me to attempt to better him at his game. And I lost. Rather, I forfeited. I laughed.

"Go on," he said, "take a nap. I'm going to."

I nodded and pushed the seat into reclining position. My last conscious thoughts were that the seats immediately around us were empty, and that Steve's warm body was inches from mine.

Somehow, in my sleep, I'd managed to roll onto my side and back up against Steve's chest. Maybe it was my subconscious taking over, demanding physical affection after so many months of denial. At any rate, when I awoke, Steve and I were snuggled quite contently together, his arm draped over me, my hand in his. Quickly, I shut my eyes again, and lay very still. I don't even know that I was breathing. My heart clamored around in my chest, though, and my mind skimmed over every possible way to get out of this mess with as much dignity and as little publicity as possible.

I also began convincing myself that he didn't actually like me. I must've mistaken his friendliness for something more than it was, and forced myself on him. If they caught us, we'd get Dish Detail for sure. He'd probably hate me now for having gotten him in trouble. I'd be the brunt of every sneering joke that I imagined the boys telling up in their dorm after hours. A pariah.

That's when I realised Steve wasn't asleep, either.

"Don't move," he whispered.