Mary Kate didn’t answer. She was conscious – now – but she refused to look at me. She was just staring up at the ceiling in despair in her mud-splattered shirt and sweatpants. The bedraggled red flags still hung from her waist. I kept up a cheery stream of conversation – at least what I thought was a cheery stream of conversation. I may have gauged incorrectly the amount of humor that Mary Kate found in her situation when she was lying in an infirmary bed and missing out on the possibility of seeing victory Gatorade droplets running down Football Michael’s beautiful abs. And actually it was possible it had been a victory; Pat had stepped in as quarterback after carrying Mary Kate off the field and putting her on a stretcher.

‘You know, as an advanced lit student, you should really appreciate the irony of all this!’ I said. ‘I mean, just last week, in the very conversation that set this whole situation in motion, you said you wouldn’t mind breaking your nose! Because your nose isn’t what’s important, your brain is! And now your brain is perfectly fine – which we know because the doctor did all those tests – and your nose …’

I trailed off. Even though Mary Kate’s face wasn’t at its most expressive or mobile right now, somehow she was still managing to shoot me her trademark Demon Anne of Green Gables Death Glare … over the plaster mask of bandages that would be covering her fractured nose for the next few weeks.

I stood with my motorcycle boots planted on the old floorboards of the McLaughlin stage, facing Katie Casey while gripping a long wood-and-metal object and trembling with rage.

‘You are not taking this away from me,’ I warned her. ‘You’ve already taken away my vagina. You are not taking away this. This is a symbol!’

And I thrust it over my head defiantly.

The symbol was, technically, one of Tiny Tim’s crutches from an old production of A Christmas Carol. Pat had found it backstage when I asked him to help me build something for the Monologues. It was an essential element of my directorial vision: Claudia was going to perform her monologue spread-eagled, with her legs up in a set of gynecologist’s stirrups. And Tiny Tim’s crutches were going to become the stirrups.

‘I’m just not sure it’s appropriate onstage,’ Katie explained again.

I rolled my eyes, lowering the crutch and leaning it against my leg. ‘She’s going to be wearing pants!’ Then I looked over at Claudia, who was trying to selfie-video herself doing a yoga sun salute in a sports bra, and added, ‘Probably.’