‘Beauty and the Beast? Disney’s Beauty and the Beast?’

Shit.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘How do you know about the Drama Club?’

‘I know many things, Young Grasshopper. So, if you need some assistance with The Vagina Monologues, I may be able to help you out.’

‘How are you gonna help me? Get a bunch of your baboon friends to come body-paint VAGINA on their chests and cheer us on?’

The hockey player shrugged. ‘Maybe there’s more to me than baboonery. Wanna find out?’ And he patted the empty space next to him on the radiator.

Okay, I know, I know. Hockey players are total creeps. But you have to understand that I’d just been quasi-groped by an overemotional freshman and had Pat Number One offer to show me his Fitbit. I was in a weird frame of mind.

I sat down.

‘By the way …’ The Hockey Player wiped his window-steamy hand on the front of his khaki shorts and held it out to me. ‘I’m Pat.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ I groaned.

And that’s how I – officially – met Pat Number Three.

After I’d introduced myself, Pat studied me for a long minute, crossing his arms over his blue button-down and narrowing his eyes. I raised my eyebrow questioningly as he stared at me, and finally he asked: ‘What color is your hair?’

I reached up and defensively ruffled my purple fauxhawk.

‘The color is called Violet Beauregarde,’ I told him.

‘Ah.’ He waited a minute. Then he said, ‘Well, aren’t you gonna ask me?’

‘What?’

‘What color my hair is!’

‘You don’t dye your hair!’

He shrugged. ‘So what?’

‘Okay.’ I rolled my eyes and gave in. ‘What color is your hair?’

‘Scrumdiddlyumptious Chocolate Bar Brown.’

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. A triumphant smirk curled up one side of Pat’s mouth.

‘Hey.’ He nudged me and pointed to the row of black-clad chaperones under the bloody crucifix. ‘Kiss, Marry, Kill – priests only. Go.’

‘Psh,’ I scoffed. ‘Way too easy. Kill Father O’Brien as revenge for failing me in physics last year. Marry Father Joe because he’s a thousand years old and friggin’ adorable. And obviously kiss Father Dan. He’s the Bieber priest!’

Pat agreed. ‘He gets me a little hot with that guitar, I’ll tell you.’

‘Although …’ I reconsidered. ‘I probably should say kiss Father John-Paul.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because he’s seen my nipples.’

‘Me too!’ Pat said, wide-eyed like he was amazed at the coincidence. ‘What’s your story?’

‘Freshman year, Andrew Naylor’s room, strip poker gone awry. You?’

‘He lives down the hall from me, so he pretty much sees my nipples every time I go take a shower.’

I shook my head in mock disapproval, thinking of Mary Kate’s floor-length robe. ‘Strutting down the hallway in a towel. You brazen hussy.’

Pat leaned so close to me that his breath was hot on my ear. ‘Who said there was a towel?’