It appears that someone on the Admissions Staff at Saint Bernadette’s School for Chaste and Modest Girls made a slight error.

Sister Ecclesiasta Mae had something to say about that. “How in Heaven’s glowing name did all of these scoundrels get in here?”

Sister Ruthina Anastasia did not immediately see the issue. “Scoundrels? What scoundrels? I don’t see any scoundrels in here. Or is that what you’re calling black people now? You have so many names for them.”

Sister Ecclesiasta Mae made a noise remarkably similar to what one would hear should a chicken bone suddenly jam a garbage disposal. “The BOYS, you twit! There should not be boys in an all girls school. That’s what makes it a girls school, the complete and total absence of boys.”

Sister Ruthina Anastasia sighed. “Sister Eckie Mae, and I say this with completely sincerity and concern for your well-being, you really need to make sure you’re getting enough oxygen lately. This is the Annual Boys and Girls Chastity Dance, when all the lads from Saint Fred’s School for Anxious and Repressed Boys come hither for some fellowship and fancy footwork. I realize this is a question that I might regret, but what part of this arrangement seems improper to you?”

Sister Eckie Mae: “The part about the scoundrels, Sister Ruth Anne! Why, back in my day, girls simply did not dance with boys until after they had been married for at least three years. It’s just what we did.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “And you probably did it that way because none of the pioneers had built a dance hall yet. It must have been really exciting for you when they invented indoor plumbing. Maybe someday you can not tell me about that.”

Sister Eckie Mae: “Look here, Sister Sassy, I’m still you’re elder.”

Sister Sassy Annie: “I think I just made that clear.”

Sister Eckie Mae: “And since that’s the case, you need to show me more respect and not get so uppity just because your breasts are still closer to the Lord than mine.”

Sister Cyndietta Bradianna, just now prancing up because she was always late for everything. (To be fair, she was a dewy novitiate still learning the blessed-be ropes, with the price-tag still hanging off her habit. But still, come on, girl. Get out of bed a little earlier, okay?): “Oh, Sister Ecclesiasta Mae, I would never disrespect you in any way and I would never ignore anything you might have to say and… Oh my God I see Dick Clark over there!”

Sister Eckie Mae gasped, having already abandoned her earlier chicken-bone choice of utterance because one can only do that so many times before you need a soothing eucalyptus throat lozenge. She turned to Sister Ruth Anne. “See? You let boys in the door and our innocent virgins immediately become harlots, blaspheming and bellowing openly about genitalia. Now, I’ve never heard of the clarked version of the demon worm, not that I study such things, mind you, but apparently it’s a siren call for the damned.”

Sister Ruth Anne simply stared at Sister Eckie Mae, temporarily at a loss. Then she recovered. “I don’t mean to impugn your conception of faith, but perhaps we should find out a bit more before you condemn an entire segment of society that you simply don’t understand. And for the record, we all know you haven’t studied any worms because you’ve never been near one, ever. In the long run, your low chances of procreating might be just what the human race needs to survive.” She turned to the youngest of their bunch. “Sister Cyndi Bradi, perhaps you could better define your previous outburst in a manner that will not make Sister Eckie Mae clench so manically.”

Sister Cyndi Bradi: “Dick makes me swoon. I watch the show all the time, and I really like it when it has a good beat and I can dance to it.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “That really didn’t help matters, young grasshopper.”

Sister Eckie Mae: “Fire and brimstone and bad decisions when ranch hands don’t call you back the next day!”

Sister Ruth Anne: “Wait, what? Ranch hands?”

Sister Eckie Mae, smirking: “Some people have seen more worms than you realize. Why do you think I work so hard to keep this garden clear of the night crawlers?”

Sister Ruth Anne: “I think that… I don’t know what I think. I did not read the right books for this situation, but I’m suddenly realizing that everybody around me is more familiar with Dick Clark than I am. I knew I should have taken that typing class in high school.” She turned to Sister Cyndi Bradi. “Please tell me that none of this is what it seems.”

Sister Cyndi Bradi: “All I can say is that you should probably go ask Alice. Now, I’m off to meet my dreamy Dick.” She raced three steps forward, at which point something extraordinary happened, but that pivotal moment was one step later than the moment when another Sister entered the room, distracting everyone but Sister Cyndi Bradi from Cyndi’s surprising fate.

Sister Christiana Crustiana, marching into the room at the two-step point: “Well, I sincerely did not mean to eavesdrop, but I dropped my stack of whimsical recipes just outside the door, and by the time I got them all organized again, I unavoidably heard the entire conversation taking place in my room.”

Sister Eckie Mae: “Your room? God owns all of the rooms at Saint Bernadette’s. Did you not read the fine print on your contract? That would be understandable, of course, because I never read the fine print when I agreed to take dressage lessons at La Hacienda Ranch. Three months later I’m a gal in trouble and I haven’t seen him for a while.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “All of this is making me dizzy right now. Would anyone consider it a sin if I took more than the recommended dosage of Dramamine?”

Sister Christi Crusti: “By all means, swallow what you must. But when you’re done, you and Sister Eckie Mae need to seek other callings in life. God might own all the rooms, but I’m the only one with a key to this one. Now, scoot.”

Sister Eckie Mae: “But we’re chaperoning the Chasity Dance. We can’t just run away from the opportunity to make everyone feel guilty about their hormonal choices.”

Sister Christi Crusti: “I’m not saying you should or should not. But I do think things would work out better for you if you were actually in our theoretically depravity-free ballroom and not milling about in my personal slumber chamber where I lie awake every night and review my life path, waffling between exultation and bitter tears.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “So this isn’t the ballroom? But what about those people dancing over there?”

Sister Christi Crusti: “Those aren’t real people. That’s a giant poster on my wall. If you haven’t yet figured out that nobody is actually moving in that poster, allow me to point out that novitiate Sister Cyndi Bradi is now lying on the floor in front of the poster, having smacked into said wall harder than the football that smacked into Sister Marcia Marcia Marcia Brady’s face.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “I may have made some poor decisions today.”

Sister Eckie May: “And I may have not been breathing enough oxygen.”

Sister Christi Crusti: “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourselves. After all, when I finally hit ‘submit’ on the blog post that I am going to get out of this situation, there will be a number of readers who will be thinking those very two thoughts.”

Sister Cyndi Bradi, briefly stirring before losing consciousness once again: “Cheers.”