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Wasn’t this trip supposed to be about making everybody feel less depressed? If so, the staff should have stipulated that it was to be a strictly Goth-free venture, confiscated Cameron’s tunes and completely barred Marianne from getting on the bus. It’s not like she would be missed.
    Now there is a conundrum: did being a creepy weirdo who nobody wanted anything to do with turn you into a Goth, or did being a Goth turn you into a creepy weirdo who nobody wanted anything to do with? Christ, even Rosemary and the God-squadders have all found somebody to share a seat with.

    ‘Have you both got a copy of the latest CYG news-sheet?’ Rosemary asks, turning around to thrust a sheaf of yellow A4 pages at Caitlin and Maria. Sweet Jesus, Caitlin thinks, in the horrified knowledge that it’s not a question. Rosemary personally compiled, printed, photocopied and distributed the newsletter, not to mention writing most of its content, so she knew fine who did and didn’t have one. Knowing Rosemary, she probably kept a register.
    The CYG: St Peter’s Catholic Youth Group. Caitlin started going to meetings back in second year, after being misinformed that it was Justice and Peace. Instead she found Rosemary’s big sister Vera presiding over what she regarded as ‘an umbrella group for all school involvement in Catholic causes’. This had nominally included Justice and Peace, which was why her conscience kept dragging her back, but in practice the CYG meetings under Vera’s direction mostly comprised singing hymns and taking turns to demonstrate how much more vehemently pro-life you were than the previous speaker.
    Caitlin stopped going more than a year ago, but Rosemary still talks to her as though she’s part of the fold. She has never been sure whether this is intended as an inclusive gesture or an ongoing punishment. Either way, it has a horrible tendency to rub off, leaving even certain teachers under this embarrassing misapprehension. She’s long had to tolerate being regarded a quiet little goody-two-shoes, but she draws the line at this.
    Rosemary hands her two copies of the sexy and sizzling CYG news, leaving it incumbent upon Caitlin to pass one along to Maria. Wonderful. This is an act of complicity that Maria will unavoidably interpret as Caitlin saying: ‘I’m just as far from the trendicentre as you, so let’s all be dweeby little church mice together.’
    Caitlin can feel the heat in her cheeks as Maria takes the paper from her hand.
    ‘Thanks, Rosemary, I’ve not read this,’ Maria says politely, and Caitlin feels something in her gut turn to stone.
    ‘Which topic would you like to discuss first?’ Rosemary asks.
    Caitlin gapes, unable to stop her mouth falling open as she contemplates the projected length of the journey ahead.
    ‘If no one has a preference,’ Rosemary goes on, ‘I’d like to start with Pope Benedict’s universal indult restoring an individual priest’s permission to celebrate the Tridentine Rite.’
    Caitlin swallows, her throat suddenly too dry to speak. A guilty wee voice inside her head, the same one that always told her to log off MySpace and get back to studying, nags her that she ought to learn from Rosemary’s example. They were always being told that if they found religion boring, it was because they weren’t giving enough of themselves to unlock its rewards. Caitlin is well versed in knuckling down and getting on with even the least engaging tasks. If she can sit down to an hour of calculus, she should be able to apply herself to anything. Maybe she should read the signs, try that bit harder. This is supposed to be a retreat, after all.
    However, as she listens to the subsequent discussion, she feels like something inside her is being denied, something that makes her want to scream. To avoid this outcome, she decides to try and zone out. Too bad Maria has the window seat, so she can’t just lose herself in watching the road go past, but she can stare at the sheet in