Exodus for Leviticus

(Unless she's got enough God points)

Mystery shrouds the faith school admissions process. How low will some people stoop to secure a place at a prestigious Catholic School? A Cheese Grat­er reporter went along to find out, gaining exclusive access to one such institution.

Sitting in the parents’ wait­ing area, I spoke to a couple whose daughter, Leviticus, was one of the first applicants to be interviewed. After Leviticus had dutifully filed into the headmis­tress’ office, I asked the parents to explain the bleeding wounds to her hands. The mother re­sponded excitedly: “Well, actu­ally my husband David really ought to take the credit for that. He heard from someone at work that marks of stigmata really im­press the interviewers.”

“I was worried that since we missed the deadline with scheduling a beatification…” she glared at David, “…we would be totally fucked. I mean, I still think that Immaculate Concep­tion would have been best, but I suppose it’s no use thinking about all that now” she sighed, and glared at her husband once again.

I had hoped to get a few words from Leviticus herself, however upon her return from the interview room she spoke only in tongues.

The Catholic headmistress provided a delightful insight into the mentality of her establish­ment. Upon our scheduled arriv­al at her office, she rasped: “oh for fuck’s sake. Would you watch where you step, there’s still a bit of blood on the carpet from the children performing The Pas­sion.” She then opened the large bible on her desk and stubbed out her cigarette on the ashtray concealed within.

Attending a church ser­vice at the affiliated parish, I witnessed the shocking effect of the school’s admissions criteria. Hundreds of altar servers lined the aisles, shunting one another out of the way. I asked one boy, Matthew, whether he found any of this façade at all ridiculous. He told me “I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous: Mark only joined two weeks ago and he already gets to hold the candles! I had to wait three bloody years to get can­dles!”

I became eager to leave, afraid that the pungent incense might have a mind-altering ef­fect on my already weary mind. As I left, mothers flooded into the church, busily fulfilling their roles as flower-arranging, organ-playing Eucharistic ministers.