We had worked for the past two days to create a shortened version of The Vagina Monologues to perform at the Save Your Heart Festival by picking and choosing ten different monologues. In the spirit of open-mindedness and generosity, I had let Mary Kate choose five. She had chosen the five with the least sex and cursing. And, actually, I’d sucked it up and picked the five I thought were the best fit for St Mary’s, even though they weren’t the most shocking. Ever since Maggie had come to me, terrified, in the middle of the night, I’d realized that the most important thing was to get The Vagina Monologues seen by as many of these abstinence-only ignoramuses as possible, even if it meant giving an inch to the administration.

Which is why it was extra frustrating seeing the vein bulging in Father Vincent’s forehead as he read, and realizing that even this PG-13 version wasn’t gonna fly.

Clearing his throat again, the vice-principal set down the pages.

‘While I appreciate the literary merit and the, er, postmodern experimentalism of the – ehem – work,’ he began, ‘I must express my concern that the Catholic moral mission of the school and content of the – ehem – work are not exactly aligned. I believe we must make significant changes. If we do not succeed, we must abandon the – ehem – project altogether.’

Mary Kate shot me a look. I ignored her.

‘Can you tell me what it is exactly you have a problem with?’

‘Well …’ Father Vincent pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his beaky nose. ‘In the first place, there is the issue of – ehem – language. As I’m sure both of you are aware, our school rulebook prohibits spoken and written profanity …’

Yeah, sure, but the school rulebook also prohibits getting to second base with your bio tutor on a lab table, and that went out the window for me freshman year.

‘We are molding young minds here,’ Father Vincent continued, blinking rapidly. ‘Our aim is to enrich them with the language of the Scriptures, of Shakespeare, of the Ancient Greeks. As St Augustine once wrote –’

‘We can cut out the F-bombs,’ I said.

‘Alex!’ Mary Kate hissed.

Father Vincent tugged at the white collar around his neck and swallowed uncomfortably.

‘Well, the – ehem – language would have to be modified or, in certain cases, eliminated altogether, which would be quite difficult when one takes into account the ratio of acceptable phrasing to unacceptable phrasing. But, in addition, this extract contains many … ehem … elements that are …’

‘Revolutionary? Informative? Ground-breaking?’ I suggested. ‘A refreshing way of reappropriating the female anatomy, which for far too long has been objectified by the patriarchal male gaze and alienated by the Madonna–Whore dichotomy?’