Sister Mischief (18 page)

“These guys are a mess,” says Tess, stripping lengths of lace from her dress to tie around the goats’ necks as makeshift leashes. One of the goats has already started nibbling at his lead, and another bites a chunk out of her tattered hemline. Still holding the ax and her iPhone,
⁴⁵
Tess looks like some sort of nightmare shepherdess from a pastoral landscape gone horribly awry.

45. TheConTessa:
WTF is going on #holyhillholocaust


“Did you know goats are actually very smart?” Rowie asks as she nuzzles noses with one of the girl goats and pulls her phone from her back pocket.
⁴⁶
“Much smarter than sheep.”

46. WowieWudwa @Marcedemeanor @TheConTessa:
what kind of sick fuck drags farm animals into this? #holyhillholocaust


“Poor little guys,” I say, stroking their heads. They baa in pleasure. “Where do you think they came from?”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you they’re not leaving with me,” Marcy kicks back.

“Let’s just walk them up to the north lot to calm them down some.” Rowie follows Marcy as she walks toward her car.

“What do you mean, calm them down? They look fine to me.” Marcy nods at the quartet of goats, who seem happily affixed to Tess’s decomposing Lizzie Borden dress.

“Dude. They’re freaking out.” Rowie strokes a pair of ears as we walk.

“They’re straight chilling! You’re the one who’s bugging.” Marcy unhooks her keys from her belt loop.

“We can’t put them in the car like this.” I watch the Kool-Aid drip from the goats’ bellies.

“
Oh hell
no. No goats in the James,” Marcy says. “The goat stroll ends here.”

“But we can’t just
leave
them here. That’s just like giving them up for goat meat.” Rowie looks distraught.

“I’m not making myself party to goat slaughter unless there’s a spit-roast involved,” I say. Rowie looks at me, stricken. “I mean, um, say no to roadkill.”

“Look the eff out!” Tess throws her body against all of us as a KIND-11 van wheels narrowly by us; it seems to have entered with some urgency through the parking-lot exit.

“Hey, local media! Wrong way!” Marcy yells, waving her arms. “Over here!”

The van screeches to a stop, and a stringy-haired guy in sunglasses — Rooster Crowther — pokes his head out the driver’s side window, grinning. “Where’s the fire?”

“More like the apocalypse,” Tess calls back. A woman in a fuchsia power suit appears on the other side of the van and gives us a harried smile.

“Do you girls go to school here?” We nod.

“That’s my little sister,” Rooster says, pointing at Marcy.

“Precious. Then could one of you be a doll and clue us in as to what exactly the story I’m here to report is?” Her tone turns slightly snotty.

“Whoa, angry,” Marcy mutters.

“Shut up and let’s get 4H on TV,” I hiss at her.

“Are you effing serious?” Rowie blurts out.

“Hi, I’m Esme Rockett, I’m a junior here at Holyhill,” I introduce myself, sticking out a hand to the reporter.

“Brenda Banacynzki.” She grasps my hand briefly between fiddles with her lapel mike. “Are you afraid of cameras?” the reporter asks.

“Not particularly,” I reply. The goat covered in red refuse next to me bleats. Brenda and Rooster regard it, exchange glances, and shrug.

“Ready when you are, Bren,” Rooster says, hoisting the camera up to his shoulder.

“Kid, you’re our first interview on the scene. Do you think you can tell us what happened?” she asks me, dashing a final mist of powder on her nose.

“Uh, I’ll do my best,” I say, reaffirmed in my gladness that I didn’t wear my costume to school today.

“Darlene’s going to be even pisseder than that time Ada got arrested.” Tess frantically smooths her hair, leaving a red streak in the front.

“Smile!” Brenda Banacynzki says.

“Great, Ez, you’re on in five-four-three-two —” Rooster points a finger at the reporter.

“Good evening, I’m Brenda Banacynzki, reporting live from Holyhill High School, where unknown attackers struck today, disrupting classes and terrifying students. I’m speaking to Esme Rockett, a junior at Holyhill. Esme, can you tell us what happened?” She thrusts a microphone in my face.

“It’s hard to sum up,” I say into the microphone. “Basically some kids covered the floors and banisters in soap and Crisco and inexplicably set a whole bunch of goats loose in the building, and the fire alarm has been going off every fifteen minutes.”

Brenda Banacynzki looks slightly taken aback, but recovers. “What’s the mood at Holyhill today, Esme?”

It’s my moment. “Well, Brenda, I think a lot of Holyhill students are sick of the administrative hypocrisy that allows nonsense like this to go on while prohibiting activities that are actually conducive to academic dialogue.”

“Can you tell us more about that?” Brenda asks, a smile permafrozen on her face.

“I’d be happy to,” I say, snatching my chance amid her confusion. “Holyhill calls itself one of the safest communities in America, but the truth is it’s only safe to be rich, white, and straight here. The Holyhill administration announced earlier this year that it would not permit any hip-hop music, or really anything associated with hip-hop culture, to exist on campus. I think that policy highlights the need for a safe space at our school, a space where music and lifestyles that some consider controversial or alternative can be discussed freely, without needless threats and disruptions like what happened today. That’s why my friends and I”— I glance over at Rowie and the girls, who are gaping at me with dumbfounded mouths —“that’s why my friends and I are petitioning the administration to add a hip-hop gay-straight alliance to the list of recognized student groups.”

I can’t believe Brenda Banacynzki is going along with this, but she totally takes the bait. “Are you saying that what happened today was a Holyhill hate crime?”

Marcy steps in and grabs the mike. “Uh, hi. Marcy Crowther, captain of the Holyhill Fighting Loons drumline. No, I don’t think the incident today was a targeted attack. But students here do need a safe space, and we’d like that space to be one where students can feel free to examine the culture around us, including hip-hop and sexuality. We’ve spoken with administrators, but our application for school recognition has been denied.”

“What do you call your group, and why do you think your application was rejected?”

“Hip-Hop for Heteros and Homos is a name that playfully describes our purpose of sexual and musical inquiry,” I say. “But to discuss hip-hop, we’d need to be able to listen to it, and school policy currently prohibits that, so the administration has told us that we can’t meet on school grounds.” Rowie and Tess edge in next to us.

“Are you implying that the Holyhill administration is unable to maintain order at school or unwilling to protect the rights of all of its students, regardless of personal beliefs or sexual orientation?”

Tess’s shoulder interrupts my thought as she lunges to grab the mike from Marcy. “Hi there. Tess Grinnell. I wouldn’t go that far, Brenda. I think it’s more that Holyhill has been a little slow to acknowledge the presence of students who are interested in this kind of frank discussion. And especially as a thinking Christian, I think that should change.”

“Last question, girls — who’s your four-legged friend?”

“I’m Rohini Rudra,” Rowie says passionately, “and this is one of the goats that was brought into the school and brutally endangered today. Whoever was responsible for this incident set this poor animal free in a cafeteria that was covered in, as far as I can tell, soap and Crisco, and then pelted him and others with water balloons filled with fake blood or Kool-Aid or something. When the administration can’t prevent cruel antics like this, I don’t understand why they think they can violate our First Amendment rights by censoring the music we can listen to on campus.”

Brenda Banacynzki nods with fake TV-reporter compassion. “That’s quite the paradox. Well, girls, we’re out of time. Reporting live from Holyhill, joined by girls and goats, I’m Brenda Banacynzki, KIND-11 News.”

“And, we’re out,” Rooster says, lowering the camera.

We all begin to laugh and scream, still in the zone, pumping Brenda Banacynzki’s hand. Pops is going to flip out when he sees this.

“You girls are good talkers,” Rooster says, palming me his business card. “If the administration tries any other bullshit, give us a call and we’ll do a follow-up story.”

“Rooster, did you actually just give me your business card?” I mock-sucker-punch him in the ribs. “It was cool of you to show up, though.”

Rooster smiles wanly. “Keep your head up, Ezbones. There’s life after high school.”

“Thanks, man,” I say, pocketing the card. “Really. Thanks.”
⁴⁷
We give a last wave as they retreat back to the van.

47. SiN, later:
Someday I will be Rooster’s age, and I have to remember to tell some other lost, angry teenager that high school isn’t the end of the world.


“You are un-fucking-real,” Rowie says, shoving me. I feel like her hand makes a permanent impression on my shoulder, like I’ll take off my shirt tonight and see her handprint. “You have absolutely no shame.”

“Dude, Holyhill is
fuuuucked,
” Marcy sings, doing a little jig. “There’s no way they can reject our application after that rant. Not to mention the fact that we were, like, right.”

“What are we going to do with Faithe?” Tess asks.

“Who’s Faith?”

“This is Faithe, with an
e.
” Tess pats one of the goats’ heads. “And these are Prudence, Penitence, and Chastity.”

“What does that make you? Promiscuity?” Marcy teases her.

“Mais non.”
Tessie grins.

Mrs. D. appears. “Was that KIND-11 News I just saw driving away?”

“Mrs. D., it was so cool!” Marcy explodes. “We totally stuck it to the man.”

Mrs. D. does that grin-suppressing thing she always does in the presence of irreverence, like she knows she’s supposed to disapprove but can’t quite. “Then it’s probably best that I know absolutely nothing about what just happened. Can I take the farm animals off your hands? You girls should get out of here before this gets any worse. Do you have a ride?”

“Yeah, Marcy’s car is over there,” Rowie says. “What are you going to do with the goats?”

“We’re pretty sure they came from a petting zoo in Waconia. My husband’s coming with a truck for the trip.” Mrs. D. sighs. “And we never even got to ‘The Raven.’ I’ve taught through twenty-seven Halloweens and lived to tell, but this one dwarfs them all.”

“Well, thanks for volunteering to take them,” I say, handing over the lace leash. “And hey, Johanna, you were really smart in class today. I was impressed. Sorry if anyone was a jerk to you.”

Johanna beams. “Thanks. I like your shoes.”

I look down at my Timbs. “Thanks! Hey, Mrs. D., is Johanna named after the Bob Dylan song?”

Now it’s Mrs. DiCostanza’s turn to beam. “I had no idea anyone your age still listened to Dylan. Yes. She is.”

“My mom was named Johanna after the song too,” I tell her, a little surprised that I’m telling her. “If I ever have a daughter, I’m naming her Ramona.”

“Like
Ramona Quimby, Age 8
?” Johanna pipes up excitedly.

“Dude, totally,” I tell her. “Beverly Cleary is the shit. I mean, uh — yeah.”

“We’re gonna take her home and wash her mouth out with soap,” Marcy says.

“Have a nice Halloween, you girls.” Mrs. D. chuckles, shaking her head, and she and Johanna take two goats each, receding.

“We can go to my house,” Rowie says. “My mom’s been asking about you guys anyway.”

“Okay, but can we run by the SA first? I need a Diet Coke and there’s never anything chemical to sip on at Dr. R.’s house,” Tess says, jumping into the front seat. “Shotgun!”

“Sold,” Marcy says. “Oh, we missed lunch — that’s why I’m starvacious. Call Priya and tell her to put, like, twenty-five samosas in the oven.”

“Okay, bossy,” Rowie mutters, dialing her phone. “Mom. You’re not going to believe why, but we’re on our way over.”

“Let’s get the eff out of here,” I say, rolling down the backseat window and gazing back at the empty, sudsy building. “Figure out how to
really
drop some bombs on this place.”