Sister Mischief (33 page)

“Yeah.” I nod. “That would make me happy too. It’s funny how at least for me, I started off more interested in pissing Holyhill off than anything else, but all of a sudden we had this queer hip-hop
movement
that I really cared about, and you were a big part of that.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what
queer
means,” Rowie muses. “Maybe I could help you come up with a chorus for that song you just showed me. I’m thinking we could do something with
queer
as the central rhyme.”

“Yeah? I like that.”

“You know, the story I told you about Rama and Sita — it’s only part of the story of how Hinduism conceives gender. It’s actually a lot more complicated. There are sort of different interpretations, but a lot of the gods are neuter or even female.”

“That’s really interesting,” I say. “But what’s your point? I mean, why did you just tell me that?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I just think it’s interesting that I come from someplace where the divine — can be as ambiguous as real life. It’s just something else I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. Trying to figure out how I feel about — everything that’s happened.”

I pause. “I’ve really missed you, Ro.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she says. “Ez, I’m really sorry I couldn’t — I’m just really sorry is all.”

“I know,” I say. “I think we should just try being friends. And you better suit up
right,
girl, because 4H is about to go balls to the wall.”

“
Ovaries
to the wall, motherfucker,” she corrects me, hinting at a grin. I smile for the first time in this kitchen. The reconstitution of our rectangle — because Sister Mischief was never, ever about squares — makes me feel like things are making some kind of sense again: our fourth corner is back on board.

“Nice editorial, by the way,” I say with a smirk.

“Oh.” She looks embarrassed. “Yeah. That. I guess — it was my way of contributing to everything you guys were stirring up. And, like, apologizing, maybe. Actually — my mom helped me polish it up.”

“Well”— I lower my voice to fill her in —“just wait until you hear what we’re rigging up next. This shit is about to fly off the chain.”

The reckoning week is upon us. The council of Mischief is united again, and we’re feral with anticipation, foaming at the mouth for a fight: Ez and Tess and Marce and Ro. We’re ragged from reuniting all weekend, practicing a cumulative mastermix of old and new verses that we’re going to drop until they grapple the mikes right out of our hands. Tess even talked us all into getting, like, outfits, which took some doing with old kicking-and-screaming antigirl Marcy. 4H has been going full throttle in the warming house, which has been turned into a chaos factory of sorts, our fracas laboratory.

“So Nordling’s called an all-school assembly for next Tuesday afternoon,” I announce as I come into the 4H preparation meeting for Operation Sister Mischief and throw my backpack on the chair. “On the hip-hop policy.”

“Did anyone see you come in here?” Rowie asks me, looking over my shoulder at the track. It tugs: of
course
Rowie’s the one who asks me that. I shake my head, closing the door.

“Why’s Nordling calling the assembly now?” Angelo asks. “I mean, what’s the sudden motivation?”

“Parents, duh,” Tess answers knowingly. “The 4H stuff’s been going on long enough that the parents have started to hear about it, and that means he has to deal with it.”

“Deal with this,” Marcy declares, spreading out a complicated diagram. “With the combined efforts of Rowie, Jane, Yusuf, and myself, we’ve pretty much laid out a hostile takeover of Holyhill’s entire sound system, from the PA system to the soundboard in the auditorium.”

“And it’s all routed back through the warming house,” Yusuf adds proudly. “We can totally have everything ready by Tuesday.” Yusuf and his marginally shady supply of sound equipment, or parts that have been hacked together to create sound equipment, have been vital to our plan.

“Damn,” Kai says in awe. “How’d you pull that off?”

“Just a little creative technology and a lot of hardcore nerding out,” Rowie responds with a grin.

“So with a tap of a button here and a flick of a switch there,” Jane adds, “we can not only manipulate but record anything we want in the school’s sonic infrastructure.”

“It’s like — a mechanical metaphor for our entire mission,” I breathe, squinting at the blueprint. “That is the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“In order to form a more perfect sonic union.” Marcy fist-pounds me.

“Who’s in the final mash-up?” Yusuf asks.

“Oh, man, our sample list is sick,” I say, glowing. “There’s a lot of homage to chicks on the stick — M.I.A., Invincible, Bahamadia, Queen Latifah, Lauryn Hill.” And a ton of other shit too, like K’naan, some Twin Cities reppers like Brother Ali and Slug, DJ A.P.S., this bhangra-hop dude, and some Bay Area hyphy shit, this homohop group Deep Dickcollective. We didn’t know homo-hop, like, existed until recently, but they’ve got this bomb-ass queer rhythm.”

“Donations from Kanye were strictly prohibited,” Marcy says.

“I managed to sneak in a little indie rock,” Tess pipes up. “Jack and Meg, MGMT, Passion Pit. And Vampire Weekend.” She blushes.

“Tess gets all hot and bothered by cardigans,” I explain, rolling my eyes. “I think they look like Ivy League dandy boys.” Everyone laughs and returns to touching up the final plan.

“Damn,” Yusuf says. “This is gonna be some hellzapoppin’ hip-hop for heteros and homos.”

“Better recognize,” Marcy says.

I look over at Rowie splicing wires, and even though we’re as good at pretending things are all good as we ever were, I still feel like collapsing in a dead heap after seeing her, overwhelmed by the effort it takes to front at being cool with the fact that she’s still sort of with Prakash.
⁶²
Rowie was the kind of love that just walks into your life one day and then walks out the next, I guess.
⁶³

62. Text from Tessie:
she and prakash aren’t really spending that much time together, u know. caught u looking.
Response, while glaring at her:
it’s cool or whatever, i don’t need to know.


63. Tess back:
you don’t have to front. i was just saying.
I respond:
sorry. i want to hate her, but i can’t.


We’re looking over a precipice in our becoming the Sister Mischief cohort, and the pitch of the tension leading up to it is deafening. Part of me is afraid that everyone will laugh, that I’m a caricature of myself, of a hip-hop-loving suburban whitegirl. But the tenets of Sister Mischief and 4H have given us something to stand behind, a kind of credo surrounding our clam-jamming, ruckus-making pursuit of sexual and musical justice. I wake up in the morning and I feel like I was put on this earth to do this.

“I better run.” On Tuesday morning, I throw a hoodie on over my T-shirt and jeans, hunting around for shoes. My real outfit is already packed in my book bag, along with a few other key elements of today’s periodic table: an extra copy of the preloaded beats on tape, my new hipster shades,
⁶⁴
Anne Frank
and
ATGIB
as little talismans of luck, the last picture of Mom and me, the one of her in the green dress, tucked inside the diary.

64. TheConTessa @pockettrockett @Marcedemeanor
if you “forget” the sunglasses I got you, you’re dead.
#wackassembly


“Hey. Big day,” Pops says, looking dangerously close to a pep talk.

“Big day,” I say, refusing to sound nervous, because I don’t feel nervous at all — no, sir, nope.

“I want you to know that I think you’re totally crazy and I love you no shit and I will absolutely bail you out of jail if need be,” he says, “and that I am the proudest dad of a queer teen queen MC that there ever was.”

“I want you to know that I think you should have your head examined,” I say, kissing the bald spot on top, “but I love you no shit, and thanks. Try not to be too conspicuous sneaking into the back of the auditorium with the video camera, ’kay?”

“Wait,” he insists, dashing into the kitchen. “I want to take a picture of you.”

“Pops, I have to go,” I whine.
⁶⁵
“I’m going to be late to my own coming-out party.”

65. Text from Marcy:
Where are u?? I’m outside. Can’t u hear the honking?


“You’ll thank me later for documenting this.” He snaps a picture of me flicking him off. “I have only two parting words to give you.”

“And they are?” I pull on my coat, poised to depart.

He puts his hands on both sides of my head and pulls it toward him, planting a kiss on my forehead. “Be somebody.”

When we sludge through the first hours of the school day, it’s another one of those days where everyone knows that something’s coming, but we’ve kept the lid on our plan super tight, so no one knows exactly what.
⁶⁶
After Chem, I dash to the second-floor girls’ room to suit up, feeling like I’ve had about twelve Diet Cokes. It’s like we’re at the eye of a tornado about to trunk down on the plains. The assembly is scheduled for after third lunch, which will be over in twelve minutes; they’re probably hoping all the kids will be in food comas. All Nordling said in his announcement over the PA system (which, by the way, Yusuf got on tape for our tasty sampling enjoyment) was that he was calling an assembly to discuss “maintaining safety and a positive learning environment for all students.” Repeat after me: when I say
no-talent,
you say
ass-clown.

66. Marcedemeanor @TheConTessa @wowiewudwa @pockettrockett RT #4H4life #wackassembly
Get ready.


“Hollerrrrrrr,” I whisper, dancing into the bathroom to find the three of them twitching at the mirror.

“
What
are you wearing?” Tess grabs my wrists, shaking me. “Get changed
now.
”

“Down, psycho.” I twist free, whipping out my outfit and stripping. We’ve all got leggings — except Marcy, who categorically refused to wear anything but her marching band pants — and slouchy T-shirts, with various bling and accessories. Marcy’s got her brass-knuckles necklace, and Rowie’s got her heart hoops, and Tess’s laced up these ridiculous over-the-knee streetwalker boots with gold chain. As I pull off my shirt, Rowie and I lock eyes for a moment. She looks down, searching her shoes.

“Did you drop this?” Marcy bends over, retrieving a small gold chunk and looking at it incredulously. “Shut up. Is that —?”

I cackle, rinsing the prosthetic gold tooth off in the sink, then popping it into my mouth and grinning. “You like?”

“Lawd ha’ mercy, you do beat all, Esme Rockett.” Rowie tosses my sweatshirt at me, shaking her head, and moves toward the door. “We gotta go.”

The four of us hustle through the halls and station ourselves in the catwalk overlooking the stage in the auditorium, hooked up to the warming house via walkie-talkie. None of us ate lunch, and the rumblings in our bellies are pumping a crazy energy into our preparations. Rowie begins to dry-heave quietly in the corner as Tess rubs her back and taps on her iPhone at the same time.
⁶⁷

67. TheConTessa @4H4life #wackassembly
free concert in waldinger auditorium in five minutes.


“All systems go. Over to B-girl, all systems go,” Yusuf’s voice crackles softly over the walkie-talkie. “Operation Sister Mischief waits for your go signal.”

“Copy that, B-boy,” Marcy whispers back. “Stay close by your trigger.”

“I think we gotta get a huddle in here quick,” Tess says, gently pulling Rowie back toward us. I hand her the Nalgene.

“FaSHO,” I reply. “Quad up, bitches.”

We crouch together, glancing down as the auditorium floods with students. Principal Nordling and his cronies below us are adjusting their ties and pacing onstage, looking nervouser than Rowie.

“Who’s gonna do the honors?” I ask.

“All you, Ezbo.” Marcy chucks my shoulder. Rowie nods, rubbing her upper arms and rocking slightly back and forth.