‘I think you were lying to yourself,’ he said. ‘You told everyone else you wanted to put on The Vagina Monologues because you cared about sex and gender and all that stuff. And you do care about that stuff. But I also think you care about St Mary’s. More than you realize.’

I sighed. ‘Whatever I wanted to do, I don’t think I did it. This play was supposed to force people here to talk about things they don’t want to talk about. I didn’t want Jesus in it; I didn’t want his little minion Katie Casey in it. But I compromised and compromised and cut out F-bombs and compromised some more. And now, what was supposed to be The Vagina Monologues is, instead, a very special episode of Peppa Pig where Peppa gets her period.’

‘Okay,’ Pat acknowledged. ‘It might be a baby step towards what you actually wanna do, but it’s something. One small step for a vagina, one giant leap for vaginakind!’

I burst out laughing.

‘And you had to compromise,’ he added, ‘or the show wouldn’t exist at all.’

‘Compromise.’ I shook my head. ‘Ugh. I hate that word.’

‘Well, I have four sisters,’ Pat said. ‘I’ve spent my whole life compromising. I had to train myself to wake up at three a.m. to take a crap because that’s the only time the bathroom was free. I used Lady Speed Stick deodorant for three years after puberty because my mom bought bargain packs from Costco and didn’t want to waste it. Take it from me: compromise is sometimes necessary for survival.’

Our legs swung side by side, falling into the same rhythm. When I looked up, he was watching me, his eyes narrowed again in that reading-my-mind way.

‘You’re proud of it,’ he said.

I rolled my eyes.

‘C’mon! Admit it!’ He nudged me with his shoulder. ‘You’re proud of The Non-Vagina Monologues.’

He kept nudging me, and I kept shaking my head, but I was changing my mind a little, too. It was true that I was excited about the show. Yes, I’d be sharing ideas I was passionate about in a tame, school-approved way – but we’d be onstage, in the spotlight, speaking them out loud, talking to people who disagreed with me or had never thought about it either way. Maybe Mary Kate had been right and I was just an attention-obsessed only child at heart, always seeking an audience. Or maybe I truly did believe these ideas mattered – and it was possible, like Pat said, that the people who’d be listening mattered to me, too …

He was still nudging me, almost knocking me over now, and finally I admitted it. ‘Okay, fine!’ I cupped my hands and called out from the lighting booth: ‘I MADE THE NON-VAGINA MONOLOGUES AND I’M FUCKING PROUD OF IT!’

My voice echoed.