Sister Mischief (28 page)

“My friends and me, we — well, we used to — my girl Marcy and me are heavy into hip-hop. She’s the beat maestro and I write rhymes sometimes, and a while ago we were thinking that it might be cool to make Holyhill lift its ban on hip-hop by forming a student group to, like, study it and shit. And we sort of worked sexuality in there too, because we’re trying to figure out what sex-positivity in hip-hop is all about, and because Holyhill’s never had a gay-straight alliance before, and because, well, you know”— I point to myself —“big gay girl here — I guess we’re basically just trying to make Holyhill recognize a group about everything Holyhill thinks is taboo, because hip-hop is sweet, and because — because
fuck
them, that’s why.” It all comes out in a thrill of memory, all the big fat ideas we had together, and it suddenly makes me sad.

“Girl, it’s a damn shame you’re into women, because I think I’m getting a crush on you,” Angelo says. “I’ll come if you can find me a ride home.”

I throw back my head and laugh.

“I bet Marcy can give you a ride,” I assure him. “If you’re willing to listen to her diatribe on the douchebaggery of Kanye, that is.”

Courteney looks less convinced.

“I don’t know. I gotta check how much homework I have tonight,” she says dubiously. “I might swing through; I might not.”

“No doubt,” I say with a nod. The bell rings. “Well, folks, I hope I see you all after school. Thanks for — I don’t know. Just thanks.” I’m kind of embarrassed by the last part, so I walk away quickly amid their farewells.

My end-of-the-day art elective passes in a gentler drone: I’m working on another sculpture piece, this time of a little girl with a purse in one hand and an alligator eating the other. I got the idea from the first girl I ever crushed on, who I met at some super-hippie Raising Empowered Daughters thing Pops dragged me to in elementary school. Her name tag said
Blue
and her eyes were brown, like these wide oval velvet mirrors, and she sat next to me during one of the boring talky parts doodling all these morbid little girls: a girl sitting on a high branch in a tree, captioned
She can’t get down,
a little pigtailed girl half-smiling with a hand on one hip and a BB gun in the other, a girl in a square bedroom with a purse on one hand and an alligator on the other. Blue and her big, sad, blinking brown eyes. She was a sphinxy little minx, and I never forgot her.

The waning afternoon sunlight is casting a drowsy haze over the art room when the last bell finally rings. I strap on my headphones to “Ain’t Nuthin’ But a She Thing,” pack up my brushes and plaster of paris, and join the current of the hallway.

Marcy is tilted against the bust of James P. Waldinger outside the auditorium named for him, crunching on an apple as she waits for me.

“Holla, balla,” she calls when she sees me approaching. “What’s crappenin’?”

“You old polecat sonuvabitch,” I crow, tackling her. “You planned a 4H meeting without me.”

“Well, it wasn’t like I was gonna get a whole lot of help from your depressed Sapphic ass.” She doesn’t miss a beat as she twists and pins my right arm behind my back like a girl who grew up wrestling guys bigger than her. We scuffle for a minute, cackling.

“Whoa,
hey,
sexual tension!” Elijah Carlson catcalls as he passes with Charlie Knutsen. “Get a room!”

“Fuck the fuck off, Carlson.” I roll my eyes, flipping him off. “Find some new whack-off material.”

“Oooohhhh, angry dyke,” he says, miming fright. I instinctively stick an arm out to block Marcy from charging him.

“Shut up, Elijah,” Charlie says. “You sound like a fucking redneck.”

Elijah looks at Charlie, shocked.

“Have fun with your dyke posse, fag,” he says with a pout, and disappears.

“Hey, Esme. Hey, Marcy. Just ignore him,” Charlie says shyly.

“Hey, Chuckles,” I say. “That was cool of you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He shrugs, embarrassed. “I’ve been wondering how you are with all this shit flying around.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I’m okay, I guess. It’s been pretty wack, though.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Well, keep your head up.”

“Thanks, man.” I’m touched. “Hey — at least now you know why I was the way I was back at the beginning of the year, huh?”

He smiles, glancing at Marcy, embarrassed again. He leans in. “It was actually kind of a relief to find out — you know, that it wasn’t totally my fault you were so pissed off.”

I laugh. “I bet.”

“I gotta run,” he says. “But I wanted to tell you — I mean, my brother’s gay and he didn’t get up the balls to come out until after he left Holyhill. So I think you’re really brave.” Charlie blushes.

“Yo, Chuck, you should come to our Hip-Hop for Heteros and Homos meeting,” Marcy says. “In about ten minutes, in the old warming house.”

“I got practice, but thanks,” he says. “Maybe another time. Anyway, catch you guys later.”

“Catch you later, Charlie,” I say, and he blends into the exodus.

Marcy and I look at each other.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she says.

“Yeah, what a trip,” I say. “Nice to remember that everyone here isn’t all the same.”

“Thank God for that. Are you ready for our meeting? We should get out to the warming house.”

“Born ready,” I say, following her.

We walk into the warming house to find a smattering of people milling around, more than last time: Jane, Yusuf, Angelo, Courteney, the theater girls, a few band kids. In the corner, a curly-haired kid is playing a Casio electric piano like the one Tess has; he plays an undulating, sonorous tune that sounds familiar but that I’m sure I haven’t heard before.

“Who is that?” I lean over to Marcy. “He’s got some chops.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s Kai,” she replies. “I tutor him in the resource room. He’s a prodigy, but he can’t really read, can’t even read music. He just plays all the time, stuff he writes himself and memorizes. Anyway, I told him we were gonna jam on some beats and talk about why Holyhill’s so full of tightasses, and he was pretty much sold. Hey, Kai!” she calls over to him.

“What up, Marce,” he says, still playing as he looks up.

A tentative knock sounds at the door, and Mrs. DiCostanza pokes her head in.

“Is this”— she looks down at her copy of our application —“Hip-Hop for Heteros and Homos?”

“Mrs. D.!” I cry. “You came! That’s so cool!”

“I reminded her we were meeting today,” Tess says, emerging from behind Mrs. D. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Score!” Marcy says. “Thanks for showing up, Mrs. D.”

Marilyn DiCostanza smiles. “Well, I’m interested to learn more about what you all hope to accomplish with these meetings, and I wanted to show some faculty support for the idea of a gay-straight alliance at Holyhill. You all just conduct this meeting as though I’m not here and let me listen to you.”

“Word,” Marcy says. “Let’s get started, then.”

My heart melts a little at the sight of Tess. I go over and wrap my arms around her, planting a big sloppy kiss on her cheek.

“I’m glad you’re here.” I squeeze her. “I’m sorry I’ve been an a-hole. I know it wasn’t really your fault.”

“I understand,” she whispers back. “I wish Rowie would’ve let me talk her into coming. Or into talking to her.” She smiles wanly. “Sometimes people just need a little time, I guess.”

Marcy coughs. “4H, let’s come to order. If you were here for our first meeting, welcome back, and if you weren’t, welcome. I specially want to welcome Mrs. DiCostanza, who’s maybe going to be our faculty adviser.” A few people clap awkwardly.

“Pretend I’m not here,” Mrs. D. says, motioning down the applause. “Just talk like you normally would. Hell, we’re not on school grounds or school time, right?” She gives us that irreverent grin I’m beginning to feel so fond of.

“Maybe we should spend part of the time talking about gender and sexuality stuff, and part of the time talking about hip-hop, and part of the time talking about them in relation to each other?” Tess suggests.

“That sounds—shockingly organized,” Marcy says. “What do you guys want to talk about first?”

“Okay.” Emma Fazzio raises her hand. “I have a question.”

“Shoot,” Marcy says.

“So, why do guys, like,
love
bi girls?” she asks, then cracks her gum in the silence that follows the question.

“What do you mean?” I ask, glancing over at Mrs. D., who maintains her poker face.

“I mean, so — like, I feel really comfortable in this room right now, so I’m going to tell all of you that I’m”— Emma’s dramatic intake of breath arrives —“I’m bisexual, and even though I’ve never really, like,
dated
a girl, sometimes, like, at parties, I end up making out with other girls, and I just really want to know why guys are always so
into
it, when it doesn’t, like, involve them.”

“It’s not that complicated,” Yusuf says. “Making out with a girl at a party just to get the attention of some guy doesn’t make you bi. But if two girls get together in private, on their own time, just for each other, that counts a lot more.”

“I agree, I think,” I say. “That’s an interesting, like, sexual scorecard.”

“Didn’t we say last time that we were going to talk about our favorite female MCs?” Jane asks.

“Yes! Yusuf and I made an all-girl supermix just for the occasion,” Marcy says.

Even though I didn’t know there was an iPod hookup to the dingy CD player Marcy brought, Yusuf wordlessly whips a cord or two out of his pocket and, fifteen seconds of dextrous rewiring later, music plays.

“So the first song is by Invincible, who’s like my biggest hip-hop crush right now,” Marcy says. “She’s a white girl from Detroit, and she’s a sick lyricist, really political and smart. This song ‘Sledgehammer’ is blowing up the underground.”

“Why aren’t there any girls who rap?” Michelle asks, not making herself sound any smarter than at our last meeting.

“I wouldn’t say there aren’t
any
girls who rap,” I say. “I mean, we’re listening to one. But the question of why there aren’t more is really important to what we’re trying to do here. Why do other people think women are so outnumbered in hip-hop?”

“Hip-hop is all about machismo,” Angelo says. “It’s like, if you wanna have street cred, you have to have a certain image, and bling and bitches are part of that image. No offense, ladies.”

“Instead of women creating their own images, which is, I think, what’s starting to happen now,” I say.

“Yeah, but for a long time Queen Latifah, Roxanne Shanté, MC Lyte, and Lil’ Kim were almost the only female MCs anyone knew about, and then Lauryn Hill,” Kai says.

“And Missy,” Marcy adds. “I think it’s important to look at when they emerged, which is like the late eighties and early nineties, when women were just starting to gain more power in a lot of professions,” Marcy adds.

“That’s a good point,” Mrs. D. says. “Carry on — just had to add that.”

“When white women were starting to gain power, you mean,” Courteney says.

“Yeah, but another thing I think you have to take into account is that hip-hop is one of the only industries in the world where black women emerged first, and white women had to measure their success against black women’s instead of the other way around,” Jane says. “That’s something to talk about too.”

All of a sudden we hear a strange commotion outside the warming house.

“Christ,” I moan. “Tell me we’re not about to be ambushed by goats.”

Just then, the room goes dark. I hear Emma and Michelle shriek a split second before the Roman candle goes off, illuminating the two — I squint, thinking that after the day I’ve had, I might be seeing things — yes, the two Boy George masks behind the spray of light. Everyone’s ducking and screaming and trying to get to the light switch, and the laughter coming from behind the masks sounds terrifying and disembodied, the laughter of assailants too chickenshit to show their faces. A bunch of people try to dive for cover under a bench as Angelo dumps water on his jacket and throws it onto the geyser flame. Tess and I spring to the doorway, and in all the flash and darkness, I can see two male-looking figures sprinting away into the dimming late afternoon, leaving a crackling trail of tiny noisemakers behind them, snapping like evil little turtles. I contemplate running after them, but they’ve got too much of a head start and disappear into the woods before we get it together to follow.

“Is everyone all right?” Mrs. D. rushes to turn the lights back on, the firecracker dying under the smoking weight of Angelo’s coat. The light reveals Marcy hovering in a protective stance over Yusef, her arm around his shoulder.

“Those motherfuckers burned my arm!” Jane wails, rushing to the fountain to douse it in cold water. “Who the hell
was
that?”

“Are you kidding me?” Marcy goes ballistic. “Was that a fucking hate crime? Was Holyhill’s first gay hip-hop alliance actually just
firebombed
?”