A group of hockey players were coming back from early-morning practice, all with duffels slung over their shoulders and carrying huge bottles of Powerade. When I caught up with them by the Memorial Fountain, they were annoyingly pumped up, laughing and occasionally giving a whoop or a cheer of ‘Toothless BEAST!’

I walked right up and shoved Pat in the chest. He was in the middle of the pack, and at first he grinned.

‘Hey! Why are you awake right now?’ he asked me. ‘Don’t tell me you’re working out.’

All the hockey guys were whistling at us and punching Pat in the shoulder. I ignored them.

‘Did you hear?’ I demanded.

‘What?’

‘They canceled the Monologues. Did you hear?’

Pat’s face changed. He stepped away from the group, closer to the fountain, and I followed him. Finally, he looked up from under his sweaty bangs and met my eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘Were you going to tell me?’

‘What?’ He frowned. ‘You probably heard before I did. I missed practice last night, remember? I was with you.’

‘Yeah, at rehearsal for a show your hockey douche overlords canceled.’

Pat put his duffel bag down on the ground. ‘Look, I didn’t know until last night. I’m sure they’re just postponing everything.’

‘Well, I’m sure they’re not.’ I shoved my cold fists in my jacket pockets. ‘And I’m pretty sure you couldn’t give a shit either way.’

‘I think it sucks!’ he said. ‘It totally sucks, but why are you mad at me? I’m not part of the problem. I helped you with the Monologues. The venue, the lighting –’

I scoffed. ‘You did that so you could hook up with me.’

‘You wanted to hook up with me!’

‘I can’t believe I ever thought you could help with this – you of all people. Look at you!’ I eyed him up and down – his grey varsity sweats, his new white high-tops. ‘You’re like walking male privilege.’

Until this point, Pat had been pretty calm. But the hockey guys were still watching, and a bunch of other people were around, too – those type-A assholes who get up at the crack of dawn to exercise or go to church or whatever early-bird bullshit. We had an audience. And there’s nothing guys – even guys who act all chill and claim to be feminists – hate more than when a woman ‘makes a scene’.

So I raised my voice. ‘Walking, talking male privilege!’

And Pat lost it.

‘Privilege? You’re seriously talking to me about privilege? You literally said to me you would’ve gotten expelled if your dad hadn’t gone to school with Father Hughes. Your super-rich alum dad talked him into letting you stay, so you get to hang around here being an asshole.’

I gasped, ready to defend my assholery, but Pat plowed over my words. He was up on the marble edge of the fountain, pacing, ranting.