Curfew at St Mary’s is 9 p.m. on weeknights and 11 p.m. on weekends. Obviously, I’m not too worried about it, since I’m often dangling from windows in a miniskirt around that time, but most students are in their rooms when the dorm priest or nun knocks for bedchecks to make sure everyone is home safe and sober. Sometimes they just barely make it – look out of the window at 10.55 p.m. on a Saturday night and you might spot a tipsy freshman with her shirt on backwards scurrying home before she turns into a Catholic pumpkin.

‘But look at the quad tonight! The flowers are in bloom, the stars are out, there’re fireflies flickering everywhere … It’s romantic!’ Mary Kate said. ‘This is Minnesota. Summer isn’t going to last forever. This is, like, a picture-perfect night.’

‘It’s a St Mary’s brochure-picture night,’ I told her. ‘All they need is a parent-friendly caption under them, like: St Mary’s: Sending your Daughters to the Ivy League with their Hymens Intact Since 1842.’

Mary Kate gave me her patented death glare. I imagine it’s something like the look of fury Anne of Green Gables used to shoot at that buttface Gilbert Blythe when he got between her and her true lady love, Diana Barry, or insulted her kickass ginger mane. My room-mate is a big reader, so she appreciates a good Anne of Green Gables reference. What she doesn’t appreciate are my dirty jokes.

The Long Huggers were still hugging. Mary Kate towel-dried, combed and parted her long brown hair and began to fix it into two French braids, which she does every night before she goes to sleep. Her French braids are amazing. I’ve never seen a human being who can braid like Mary Kate. French braids, fishtail braids, inverted fishtail braids … seriously, girlfriend could put polygamist sister wives to shame with her skills.

But tonight she braided absent-mindedly, her head tilted to the side, gazing dreamily out of the window at the shadowy, virginal figures on the front steps. ‘Do you know they met on their first day here and they’ve been dating ever since?’

‘I think they met on their first day here and they’ve been hugging ever since.’ I checked my phone again. ‘Nineteen minutes. I mean, are they trying to set a friggin’ world record?’

‘The Guinness World Record for longest hug?’

‘Or the Guinness World Record for bluest balls.’

‘Ew, Alex!’ Mary Kate stopped mid-braid and stared at me. ‘You don’t think he’s, like … aroused?’

When she said ‘aroused’, she dropped her voice to the same awkward whisper she uses when she says ‘womb’ during dorm mass.

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They’ve been dating for three years now and I’ve never even seen them kiss. These Long Hugs are all the action this kid gets. Maybe a Long Hug is, like, his version of sex.’