We sat on the railroad ties lining the gravel driveway. The icy melt of our popsicles dribbled down what was hardly there beneath our halter tops. We dug our toes into the dusty warmth and we wished--for boys, for cars, for wild adventures where we would cross the country smoking joints, making it on our own coolness.

A plume of hot dust exploded down the dirt road toward us. Our wishes were coming true in the form of an '81 Chevy Malibu. They weren't all talk, after all; those boys we met in town called our bluff. We stood in unison. You walked toward the end of the drive-way, grape popsicle in hand. I checked my hair and straightened my top in the storm door reflection.

"Hey girls, c'mon. We got some beers we can drink on the way." A pocky-faced blond shook a can of Pabst in our direction. "You turn on? Wanna getcha a buzz? We got smoke."

The boys were throwing cheap drugs at the altar of our virginity. Cheap, but compelling.

I gave my top one last tug as I followed you to the rusted Malibu. I tried to emulate your strut, but it came off less than gracefully. We slid into the back of the car, our cutoffs offering no protection against the sticky summertime leather seats.

You entered into that scene like you'd been rehearsing for it your whole life. No one ever would have guessed those boys were six years older than you. I was just happy to be there, to watch you become the authority on all things cool.

The ferrety-looking guy in the passenger seat appraised us while handing us piss-warm cans of beer.

"What were your names, again?"

"I'm Sarah," you said. "This is Elly."

"You girls sisters?" asked The Ferret, taking a long gulp off his can.

"Nah, we've been friends so long that people think we are, though. Sometimes people think we're twins, even."

I swelled with pride at the thought of being your twin, even entertaining a temporary fantasy of us being conjoined. I looked out the window as we drove, sipping the warm Pabst.

'This tastes like shit,'� you said, and slammed your beer quickly. We all laughed. You tossed the empty out the driver's side window.

The party site was next to the charred shell of a burned-out farmhouse. A bonfire competed with the sunset. You jumped out of the car, eagerly surveying the crowd. I followed your lead, but fell back after a while. Those guys buzzed around you all night, trying to get, to keep, your attention.

I held that warm can of Pabst as the bonfire cracked and the sparks became stars. Sauntering through the mass of people, you made sure everyone took notice of you. I sat on the picnic table and waited for you to come back, but that was the night you disappeared into the party and became another person. That was the last summer of our childhood.

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