Kim leaned against the shelter post and flipped her hood up. God, if only Heidi could be Kim. She scared herself by acting like her father: washing her hands three times after using bleach, removing the hair dryer from the bathroom in case it slipped into the tub while she was bathing, quizzing Nancy on the location and condition of the carbon monoxide detector. Kim was the only exciting feature of her life; Kim, whose mom smoked cloves and wore silk scarves wrapped around her neck like bandages. Kim, who used to live by the ocean, who visited the city after dark, who’d come out as a lesbian in fourth grade.

Last year, soon after they met, Kim came out to Heidi. They were sharing a cushion on Kim’s floor, and Heidi asked, “But how do you know? Everyone has fantasies.” In a discussion about President Clinton, her dad had told her that fantasies are for the mind alone. That if you want to think of someone who acts on fantasies, you should think of a serial killer.

“I just know.” Kim worried the frayed edge of the mat. “I get boobs and boobs get me. What fantasies do you have?”

Mean bosses filled Heidi’s mind. Female bosses. And, though she’d be humiliated if anyone ever knew, moms. Moms who knew better but couldn’t help themselves. Moms with shaggy hair and graceful limbs. “I guess Greg Luce is cute.”

That’s when Kim started in on her stories from Scituate, which Heidi pictured as a cheerful cluster of brown buildings pressed against the Atlantic, though her dad insisted it was a second-rate town with a dangerously defective sewage system. In Scituate, Kim had dated a popular girl named Kelly Stephanie.

Kim obviously knew Heidi was gay too, though they’d never discussed it. She gave a funny smile when she caught Heidi studying accidentally homoerotic advertisements, like two women plunging their hands into a bowl of popcorn, blue TV light on their skin, pajamaed legs tucked under their hips. The idea of two adult women in a living room at night swept Heidi’s head from her shoulders.

Maybe Heidi should become secret girlfriends with Kim, as the whole school assumed anyway. But her feelings for Kim ranged only from tepid satisfaction to fierce affection, the normal range of feelings for a platonic companion.

“What will Lisa Parsons be like?” Heidi asked. “Do you think that’s her real name?”

“It’s probably a pseudonym.” Kim crushed a circle into the snow. “Probably her name is Beef Jessica or something.”

“Why would her pseudonym be more normal than her regular name?”

“Why do you care?” Kim’s eyes glinted, challenging.

“Of course I care. You’re my best friend.”

“You’re not my best friend.”

Heidi frowned. “Well, who is?”

“My pussy.” Kim laughed wildly, then shoved Heidi with two hands.