Chapter 3

"I heard, Honey. I'm sorry this happened," said Bob. "Your mom can get a little high strung sometimes."

"You're being charitable, Daddy," said Judith. "You always are. Why is it that you, who don't even go to church any more, are more forgiving than my mother, who probably goes to mass three times a week?"

"I love you," said Bob. He realized how that might sound, and added, "And your mother loves you too. She just worries about you in different ways than I do." He immediately thought about that too, because he was pretty sure his worries about his beautiful daughter were pretty close to what all parents worried about when it came to a gorgeous, nubile teenage girl.

"So... ?" Her unvoiced question was obvious.

"Actually, I can come up with a ticket for your chaperone. The only problem is that it won't be in the owner's box. It's too late to swing that. Now, as for the room, that's no problem at all. We have a whole floor of the hotel, and I can have another extra bed put in the suite."

"So, what you're saying is that I can tell Sister Francine that you do have a ticket for her, and that she can be our chaperone at the Super Bowl." Judith spoke this firmly, with the full knowledge that what she was saying was the truth ... but not necessarily the whole truth.

"Maybe I should call and talk to somebody at the school," said Bob, who knew exactly what she was doing.

"No," said Judith immediately. "Mom's being a bitch about this. We both know that. And you know I don 't need a chaperone."

"I didn't say that at all," he said calmly.

"What?" His daughter sounded upset.

"Yes, your mother's being ... unkind. But you're a beautiful young lady, and you want to bring along four other girls who I'm quite sure are beautiful young ladies as well. And, having been a young man, once upon a time, in ages gone by, I know what guys think about when they see a bevy of beautiful young women. And those thoughts are not charitable, dear daughter."

"You're so silly," laughed Judith. "And you're not as ancient as you claim. I'll have you know that at least one of my friends thinks you're a hottie. And she's the innocent one!"

Bob laughed, but it was artificial. Again his mind produced a quick fantasy in which he did completely unacceptable things with more than one girl. Thankfully, their faces were misty and unformed, but he pushed those thoughts away anyway.

"Don't get in trouble with your mother," he said softly.

"I won't. Everything will be fine. I'll tell them you got another ticket. That's what they asked me to call and ask for. They didn't ask for a ticket that would sit her right next to us."

"You're being legalistic about this, Sweetheart," he said, sighing.

"So's my mother," she shot back.

Girls talk about finding men - maybe more than one man at a time. Especially girls who have access to so few men that they tend to overdo it when they think access will improve things all by itself. Janice was particularly bad, as she was the slut of the group, so to speak. In fact, she had engaged in sexual intercourse only four or five times. But her uncle, who had taught her how to love sex was older, and he knew exactly how to enslave a girl through her lust. He had at least paid attention to when she might be fertile, and had avoided drenching her pussy with his sperm when she was. It did not occur to her that not all men might care so much about how good a time she had, or at what time of the month her pussy was inundated with his sperm.

She was never encouraged by the others, as she talked about what she hoped to do with what they thought of as the fictional man she talked about meeting on their adventure. But her nattering affected them all.

Kendi had let a boy between her thighs twice. The first time was a disaster of the worst magnitude. The second only occurred because she was drunk at the time. But she wasn't too drunk to realize that it was a lot more fun when you were relaxed, instead of being in almost panic mode, tense, and sure you'd be caught at any second. So it had been better, if not what she dreamed of. She gave some time to wondering ... maybe even dreaming a bit ... that she might do it a third time on this trip, perhaps ... and that it might be even better than the last time.

Monica had engaged in sex only once, at a family reunion, with one of her cousins. They'd been caught in flagrante delicto, a term she got to know in Latin class, and she was sent to St. Clementine's as a result. She could still remember the sweet feelings that had been about to wash over her, and which were so abruptly destroyed by the adults one of her other cousins had directed to their hiding place. All she had to do was close her eyes, and she could still feel his penis inside her, stretching her almost enough to hurt, but filling her delightfully. The only way she could get that feeling now was with her very secret vibrator, which she had stolen from her married sister's nightstand. She had known her sister could never begin asking questions about the missing article, because it was already very secret when she stole it.

Tiffany and Judith, despite the fact they had experienced only hurried kisses with boys (Tiffany had been groped on one occasion, but Judith not, ), had explored orgasms quite thoroughly. They had, in fact, explored them together. They were undeniably both sworn virgins in a legal sense (to the point of having made a pact that they would only lose their virginity in the presence of each other). There was, however, no hint of a shred of either of their hymens left, both as a practical matter of having adopted the use of tampons, as well as being torn, ripped and plundered by excited fingers, both their own, and each other's.

They were not lesbians. The love they felt for each other was genuinely of the friendship variety. But they had been roommates for over ten years, and had discovered puberty together. They had, in fact, discovered almost everything together. If the Catholic Church had approved of multiple marriage, these girls would have tried to find the same husband to share.

So their expectations, concerning the trip, were a bit different than those of the more experienced girls. Still, just like boys brag about what they expect to do, girls dream about romance and sex too.

And on long evenings as the event they so looked forward to slowly approached ... they talked about all these things.

The school had a van, and since the girls were representing the school, the decision was made that the van should be used to get them all there and safely back. Sister Francine would drive. It was only a six or seven hour drive, depending on game traffic. If it was bad, it might take an additional hour. But they left in plenty of time. If they got there early, they'd stop somewhere and eat something before they got to the game. Everybody was sure that anything to eat or drink at the Super Bowl would cost a fortune. They didn't even think about the fact that the owner's box would be catered.

The first three hours of the trip were actually fun for everybody. Sister Francine told a few stories about her life before the convent, and the girls actually had an interesting and informative discussion about the differences between the old and new testaments, and whether those differences meant God had changed His mind or not. The very concept that God might be able to change His mind about something was good for an hour's worth of argument, since the concept of changing one's mind carried with it the assumption that the only reason for doing so was because you decided you were wrong.

Eventually conversation died off, and the monotony of traveling set in. Two more hours went by and Francine mentioned that they were in Super Bowl traffic. The girls perked up as they began an impromptu game of trying to identify cars with passengers bound for the game.

Then, while everything was going great, and they were right on schedule, the right rear tire had a catastrophic blowout. What that means is that the tire went from being full of air and supporting its share of the weight of the van, to being out of air and coming apart, in the space of about five or six seconds. By the time Sister Francine's brain registered the fact that something was wrong, the tire was already flying in a dozen different directions.

Tires are made of layers of steel webbing, polyester cords and rubber. The carcass is hand made by wrapping a drum with the right number, thickness and width of various belts of things, all attached to two thick wire circles called beads. The bead is a circle, but it will distort such that it can be stretched over the rim of a wheel that is larger than that circle. The carcass is then put into a mold, where liquid rubber is injected all around it, sealing all those layers and the beads together.

Normally, this would be too much information for the average reader, but it's really important to this story, because when a tire has a catastrophic blowout, and comes apart, those woven steel belts come apart like shrapnel. They can tear shit up really bad too. Like the spare tire hanging under the back of the van ... ten inches away from that exploding tire.

You think I'm exaggerating? You know those strips of rubber you see lying on the highway that have come off of an eighteen wheeler's tires? The common name for one of those is "gator." Why? Not only do they look a little like a gator, lying in the sun, but run over one at seventy miles an hour sometime. The exposed steel will do things to your tires and underbody that will make someone think your car was attacked by an alligator.

Francine kept it on the road, but by the time she got it down to forty miles an hour, they were riding on a bare rim on the right rear, and it was shooting sparks fifteen feet.

They didn't find out the spare had also been destroyed until they cranked it down.

The chances of a woman who looks like a nun being picked up with a destroyed tire, mounted on a steel wheel, are actually pretty good. Most people will pick up a nun under just about any circumstances. But the chances of a vehicle coming along that can pick up that nun, the tire and five Catholic school girls ... well, now we're talking more in the lottery range. Especially if more than half of those cars are on their way to the Super Bowl.

This is not to say a number of men didn't wish they could stop and pick them all up. The nun notwithstanding, those girls were babes. And, in fact, it was almost astonishing how many cars did stop to try to help them. Or at least to get a chance to look at them. A lot of men frowned, and looked at the ruined, bare wheel, lying beside the jack, and then at the spare, which had a ragged rip in the sidewall that was about nine inches long. All of them decided that the time expenditure would be great, and the possibility of tapping one of those sweet young things probably non existent. So they shrugged their shoulders and left.

Sister Francine didn't know what to do. She decided not to call back to St. Clementine's, because there was nothing they could do for her clear back there. It never even occurred to her that they might have Triple A. In her previous life, she'd been too poor to have that kind of assistance on tap. The school did, in fact, have roadside assistance as part of their insurance policy, but she didn't think of that. She felt compelled to stay with the van, which was school property. But she couldn't ask one of the girls to get in a stranger's car and take the tire somewhere. It was suggested that two girls go with the tire, leaving the other three and Sister Francine with the van. But she was nervous about that too. In the end, a highway patrolman stopped. He offered to take Sister Francine to a truck stop about half an hour behind them, and gave the girls a number they could call him directly on, if they felt threatened.

Ten minutes later, the girls were scattered around the interior of the van ... killing time.

"We're going to be late," said Monica, about half an hour later.

"Nothing we can do about that," said Kendi.

"I hope they still let us in," said Janice. "What if the person with the list goes away after the game starts?"

"They won't," said Judith. "Besides, even if they do, all I have to do is find somebody and tell them who I am. My dad had to have told people to expect us, and take care of us during the game. He has to be on the field, but they'll know we're coming."

"We're still going to be late," said Monica. "We're going to miss part of the game."

"Maybe you should call your dad," said Kendi. Everybody knew who she was talking to.

"He's in the middle of the biggest game of his life," said Judith. "If I call him he'll just worry."