August 1 Don''t look down, I told myself. If you look down, you''re friggin'' screwed. There I was, hanging from a second-floor window of St Ambrose Hall in a denim miniskirt and my motorcycle boots. As my bare legs dangled, my sore biceps suddenly reminded me that I had not in fact done ten pull-ups during the school physical-fitness test last year. I had lied. In reality, I had done three, twerked a little in mid-air, then bribed Amy Horner with my Shameless Hussy red lipgloss to write down ten. Crap. ''Alex!'' Colin Nowakowski stuck his head out of the window.
He was fumbling to button his shirt over the silver cross on his chest. ''I don''t know if you climbing down is such a good idea!'' Last year, I thought Colin Nowakowski was kind of a little turd. But tonight, when we reached for the same hot dog at the back-to-school barbecue, I saw that a summer growth spurt, plus a cool shorter-on-the-sides haircut, had transformed him from turd to quasi-hot hipster. So I''d put my number in his phone, suggesting we hook up later. Now, seeing him all anxious and twitchy like a meerkat with irritable bowel syndrome, I regretted it. Here''s a pro tip: if you ever sneak into a guy''s dorm room to hook up and he''s got a Michael Bublé station on his Spotify, just turn and run. ''Psh, it''s fine!'' I said cheerfully. ''I''ve snuck out of every boys'' dorm on this campus! Once P.
J. Keller lowered me from the fourth floor on a bedsheet. This is no sweat!'' In reality, I wasn''t as chill as I sounded - either literally or figuratively. No sweat had been real bullshit because I was sweating heavily in the hot August night. Those friggin'' Minnesota mosquitoes were all over my bare legs, I couldn''t get my boots to grip on the dangerously smooth stone wall and my hold on the windowsill was slipping. Suddenly there was a growl below me. ''Was that a dog?'' I hissed. ''Is there a dog down there?'' Before I could stop myself, I looked down.
Crap. The distance to the prickle bushes made me dizzy and, much worse, there was a giant yellow-white beast whose demon eyes gleamed in the dark. Razor-sharp teeth flashed in its black, cavernous mouth with each bloodthirsty bark. ''Charlie,'' Colin told me. ''Father Callahan''s dog. He lives in our dorm. He''s a Labradoodle.'' ''Charlie the Labradoodle?'' I squinted at the monster down below, which now looked to be foaming at the mouth.
''That''s not Charlie the Labradoodle! I follow Charlie the Labradoodle on Instagram! Charlie the Labradoodle is adorable! He wears fedoras with ear holes! THAT down there is some genetically modified wolf from a horror movie! Do you hear how he''s barking at me?'' ''I don''t think he likes girls,'' Colin babbled anxiously. ''I mean, he lives in a dorm full of guys, where girls aren''t even allowed, so I think he''s kind of -'' ''A MISOGYNIST?'' I burst out. ''Your dorm priest has a MISOGYNIST Labradoodle? What, Father Callahan isn''t scary enough, with the Rasputin beard and the thunder voice?'' Right on cue, like the approaching rumble of a summer storm, we heard that very thunder voice boom out. Father Callahan, Colin Nowakowski''s dorm priest, was coming around the back of the building, calling out in the dark, ''What is it, Charlie boy? What''s going on back there?'' ''Oh FUDGE!'' Colin Nowakowski gasped. ''Father Callahan! Father Callahan''s coming!'' His face was so pale and sweaty I thought he might barf on me, but I also thought I might barf at the fact that I had let a guy who says Fudge touch my ass. We were all screwed. ''Quick, help me back up!'' I scrabbled against the stone wall with my motorcycle boots, groping with desperate fingers for a better handhold. ''I''m sorry, Alex!'' His voice was squeaky with panic.
''I can''t!'' ''You can''t what?'' ''I can''t get caught with a girl in my room! I can''t get in trouble! I''m applying early to Georgetown for engineering!'' ''Engineering?'' I spluttered furiously. ''You couldn''t even unhook my bra! Now HELP. ME. UP!'' Father Callahan''s footsteps were approaching, snapping twigs in the bushes below. Charlie''s barking was rising to a vicious fever pitch, and I was grunting and pulling myself up, reaching out for Colin. I was so close - my hand outstretched - Suddenly Colin blurted, ''I''m sorry!'' and slammed the window down. Then I really was screwed. 2 The best view at St Mary''s Catholic School is from the top floor of the main building, right under the famous golden statue of the Virgin Mary.
From there, you can see the whole campus, which is laid out like a cross, with Academic Quad to the north, the well-swept green Girls'' Quad of six stone dorms to the east, the identical Boys'' Quad to the west, and straight ahead an avenue of pine trees leading down to the shining lake. Unfortunately, the view inside isn''t quite so hot - because it''s the principal''s office. It''s a place I know all too well. I know the squeaky green leather chairs that stick to the back of your thighs. I know the framed mosaics of saints being martyred in gruesome and bloody ways. I know the smell of old bibles and disapproval. And I definitely know that look on Father Hughes''s face; that grim, set-jaw look that makes the old guy from Up look like a flirty fireman in a shirtless calendar. ''Well, Ms Heck,'' he began, ''here we are, only your second day back on campus, and already I find you in my office.
'' ''Good to be back!'' I said cheerfully. ''I see you put up a new mosaic - St Agatha on a Bed of Hot Coals. It really livens the place up.'' Clearing his throat, Father Hughes reached for a square sheet of yellow paper that was also very familiar to me: a St Mary''s Incident Report. ''Last night,'' the principal pronounced, in his imminent- plague-of-locusts voice, ''you, Alexandra Heck, were found face down in the shrubbery behind St Ambrose Hall. You were uninjured apart from mild scratches and bruises .'' Pretty accurate, I thought - and it was nice of Father Hughes not to mention the fact that I''d been found with my miniskirt around my waist, my ''Bow Down Bitches'' boyshorts in full view and Charlie the Labradoodle''s tongue in my ear. ''.
and were obviously not in your own dorm at the time of curfew.'' Father Hughes picked up a mahogany stamp from an inkpad. The all-powerful seal of St Mary''s. Time to get serious. He held it poised over the incident report and asked, ''Do you dispute the accuracy of this interpretation?'' ''No, I do not,'' I said primly. I could get serious, too. ''I missed curfew. I don''t dispute that.
'' Father Hughes lowered the stamp towards the yellow sheet. But, just as the ink was about to make contact with the paper, I continued, ''But I do wonder why Colin Nowakowski isn''t also here right now.'' I gestured to the empty green leather chair next to mine. ''Mr Nowakowski was in his dorm at curfew.'' ''With a girl!'' I protested. ''Guys and girls are never allowed in each other''s rooms! Isn''t that in, like, the "hair shirt and chastity belt" section of the school rulebook?'' Okay, I didn''t know exactly what I was talking about, seeing as the day they gave me the St Mary''s rulebook, I tore the pages out and made 200 origami ninja stars. But I could tell there was a double standard here. Father Hughes spoke in a calm, measured voice, still holding the stamp above the report.
''Mr Nowakowski did not have a female student in his room at the time of the incident.'' ''Because I was climbing OUT of his room!'' ''He claims to have no knowledge of you being at St Ambrose Hall that evening. According to Mr Nowakowski, he was studying alone.'' Colin Nowakowski, you little shit-faced liar! I couldn''t believe I let his growth spurt trick me. He was still a turd, just now he was a turd with a hipster haircut. And Father Hughes was a turd in a priest collar. ''You know what this is?'' I jumped out of my seat. ''This is total friggin'' sexist treatment.
You Catholics! You''re still holding a grudge against Eve and that apple! I mean, what was she supposed to do? Girlfriend was in a nudist garden on a blind date with a dude missing a rib - it wasn''t like there were FOOD TRUCKS around!'' Grave, serious and self-controlled as ever, Father Hughes said, ''We are not discussing the Book of Genesis right now, Ms Heck. We are discussing your continual and deliberate disciplinary infractions.'' And, with that, he lowered the mighty mahogany stamp. It pounded the incident report with gravitas. I was officially in trouble again. Father Hughes searched through the folders on his desk and found my file. I had so many of those bright yellow sheets, I could have wallpapered Big Bird''s S&M chamber with them. My very first related to a practical joke gone awry involving the dorm chapel, a can of whipped cream and a prefect''s life-sized cut-out of Harry Styles.
From there, I had continued to rack up Dress Code Violations, Personal Appearance Vio.