Sister Mischief

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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

“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.”

“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.”

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.”

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

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.

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

“Well, ladies,” I begin, “what can I say? You are my wickedest mischievous sisters, most beloved friends of my mind, baddest bitches this side of the Mississippi. It all got a little dramatic for a hot minute up in here, but what matters right now is that we throw the fuck down. I love you women no shit, and I am proud to share this stage and every stage with your fine asses. What we have today is the opportunity of a lifetime — we’ve got a captive audience of fifteen hundred Holyhillers, a bitch-ass administration that can’t kick us out without making themselves look bad, and the illest illicit sound system this school has ever known. So this one is for our crew, but it’s also for all the weird girls and word nerds, for all the in-the-middle wickeds and queers and misfits and hell-raisers. For 4H.” I put my hand palm-down in the space between us; they layer theirs one by one on top of mine. “We’re Sister Mischief, motherfuckers. Gotta be somebody.”

“Be somebody,” they repeat solemnly. We hear a series of thuds as Nordling taps his hot mike to start the program. Homeboy has no idea what he’s about to get hit with.

68. Fusuy @4H4life #wackassembly introducing sister mischief: live at holyhill.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please find your seats,” Nordling booms over the mike. “Quiet down now, please.”

The entire Holyhill student body is packed into every nook and cranny and farthest reach of the auditorium, rustling restlessly in the theater seats and aisles. Our post in the catwalk allows us to reach the stage by climbing over the crowd and dropping down a ladder on stage right. It’s the kind of maneuver you can’t pull off in a skirt.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Nordling begins skittishly, “we have convened here today to hold an all-school discussion of the recent activity surrounding Holyhill’s policy regarding inappropriate music and attire.” The crowd titters. “The administration has become aware of a number of infractions of this policy, and from this point forward, will be detaining or suspending any student who chooses to ignore it.”

Sounds of protest kindle across the crowd, and upon closer inspection, I see they’re coming from Jane, Angelo, Courteney, and a sizable troop of other 4H sympathizers near the stage. At the back of the auditorium, I spot two camera lenses glinting under the lights: Pops’s and KIND-11’s. Those Crowthers are so reliable. From the podium, Nordling tries to press down the agitation with his hands, shushing everyone like unruly kindergartners.

“We will be taking questions from the student body very soon,” he says in an attempt to soothe the unease. “First, we’d like to review some of the thinking behind this policy and express our regret for not having done so sooner.”

“What about your regret for the students who were victimized by the attack on a queer hip-hop discussion group?” Jane stands up and calls out, balls-out. “Do students who disagree with you not deserve to study in safety?” Her comment elicits some whoops and applause from our contingent and a few dismissive moans from the haters.

“Okay,” Nordling sighs. “Maybe in the interest of getting you back to class before the end of the day, we’ll take questions now. Miss Njaka, of course we value the safety of all our students, irregardless of their opinions, and that’s exactly why we take the need to keep the music associated with a culture of violence out of our school as seriously as we do.”

“This shit’s about to fly off the hook.” Marcy scrambles to collect our equipment and starts across the catwalk.

“Let’s do this thing.” I scuttle up through the crawl space above the lights.

“I’ll get it together. Get moving.” Rowie takes several deep, wheezing breaths as she readies herself.

The four of us move cautiously over the long span above the audience, struggling not to make too much noise. We’re all shaking. My knees grind against the metal grate of the catwalk. Marcy reaches the ladder first and takes it real slow on her way down, toeing each rung, finding her footing. One by one, we drop to the floor and unpack swiftly. We don’t seem to have been spotted from the stage yet. Marcy ducks under her sweatshirt with the walkie-talkie.

“Are there other questions?” Nordling’s voice reaches us from the stage, asking for it, just asking for it.

“See you on the flip.” I slide on my shades, switch on my mike, and hurtle onstage before I can think myself out of it.

“Yo, Mr. Principal,” I say into the mike, setting off a domino-snake of hubbub in the audience. “I got a question for you.”

“Miss Rockett”— he looks at me, astonished —“what exactly are you doing up here?”

“Can I ask a question or not?” I shoot back, not really believing my own nerve.

“Miss Rockett, I’m going to have to ask you to get off this stage right —”

“My question is — we’re about to get scandalous; Holyhill, can you handle this?”

The downbeat of our opening backbeat drops, followed by the whine of Nordling’s own voice, looping safety and a positive learning environment for all students while my three compatriots bound onstage with their mikes behind me, the boom box balanced on Marcy’s shoulder, all of them moving to the beat like it’s our business to be here. The row of teachers seated on stage left recoils in shock, except Mrs. DiCostanza, who’s clearly suppressing a smile. Rhythm pounding, the four of us make our way downstage of the principal’s podium. I’m up.

“I’m MC Ferocious, throwing down some gorgeous

Flows into motion, I’m stirring up a potion

Of women and words, brimming with nerds

So get primed for some rhyming like you ain’t never heard

Unearth your dirty words, ’cause it’s gonna get absurd.

I got this hysteria, maybe it’s uterus lunacy

I’m defective and restive, ain’t no way to get through to me

And all of these haters, all the things that they do to me

We gotta get positive, find a cure for this prudery.

So I wanna tell the world what it’s like for this girl

Wanna shake off the weight of all these diamonds and pearls

While I ignite this light and crazy drama unfurls,

’Cause I’m a girl who loves girls who love girls who love girls.

We got ladies in the house, ladies first, ladies wicked

We ride to get high, Minnesota-do-or-die

Talkin’ sticky shit and kickin’ it, our bidness is the shiznit

So holler out our name, we’re the illest Sister Mischief.”

All four of us hit the illest Sister Mischief hard as we launch into the chorus, banked from the back by Tess’s belting — she’s going for those eagle-dare high notes like I’ve never heard her go for them before, and nailing every one to the wall. Marcy sets the boom box down on the stage and suits up in her proudest invention yet: the portable turntable, strapped to her torso with the drumline’s over-the-shoulder harness for snares in the marching band. She scratches a tattoo or two and people start to lose it, hooting in a way that I think is meant as encouragement. I say a silent prayer for Rowie as Tess finishes her solo: Please, God, help her get through her verse without vomming. She starts a half-beat late but recovers:

“They say that I can’t spit rhymes full of violence

That the way to the truth is inquiring silence

But I gotta find knowledge with a hard look through my lens

Gotta get up with my girls and get people behind this.

I’m bringing beats from the East and pleading for peace

Got SheStorm’s piece heaving heat like a beast

Rohini and Ferocious drop R-H-Y-M-Es

To stop the intolerance, why aren’t more of you hollerin’

How it ain’t right to be collaring the folks who love color in

Music they appreciate for art and for harmony

Got a girl army comin’ that’s all armed in belief in

A Technicolor dream of a country that leans in

To hear what we’re saying when we’re young and we’re feelin’

Like there’s gotta be hope and be change and belief in

A system of government that speaks out for freedom.”

Rowie and I are downstage center, rocking back and forth together, beaming through the first chorus:

“We gonna cause some drama like President Obama.

Yeah, we gonna cause some drama like Barack Obama.

This school needs some leaders who respect the mamas,

So we gonna cause some drama like President Obama.”

I glance around for a few beats, trying to see if Nordling has forcibly dragged any of my friends offstage yet or if the cops’ve showed up. I spot Chuckles in the crowd and he gives me a shy thumbs-up. Shockingly, a few members of the teacher keychain seem to be enjoying our performance; a few are even bopping back and forth and clapping in time to the beat, which is maybe the whitest thing I’ve ever seen. When I look into the audience, the only people I can see who aren’t having the best assembly of their lives seem to be Mary Ashley Baumgarten; her creepy doppelgänger, Stina; Anders Ostergaard; and — you guessed it — Prakash Banerjee. Tools! I fling out my second verse, creeping to the front of the stage.

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to be bigger than one

Like I could up and make the earth revolve the sun

Something bout that wanting makes a girl feel invisible

Divisible: is it, though?

I wanna get physical

With an unfuckwittable

Visible mistress who

Feels my kind of blue

Listen, I don’t care who

Let’s screw through curfews

Show me who it is soon, is it you, is it you?

Girl of my dreams, cool as the moon

You gotta come soon ’cause I wanna get with you, boo.

So who says the homos can’t come out and drop bombs?

And who says I gotta look like these Botoxed white moms?

MC Ro and me got anthems to dance with

Wearin’ low-riders low and we got plenty of bandwidth

To transmit these messages you best not be messin’ with.

So I’m still early on in the journey called rhyme

But I can’t stop from rhyming, got no love for paradigms

I got red blood and word floods, and mad love for bad thugs

I got TC reppers, yer boys Ali and Slug

But in this verse I gotta nurse this little purse of sisters who subvert

And immerse their minds in different kinds

Of diverse rhymes across the universe

So you heard it here first, female verses are the curses we reverse.”

Rowie smiles at me as we bound together for the second chorus, one she wrote for me after my super emo rap at her house:

“Get up and cheer

Listen don’t hear

Been too many tears

So say it sincere

She’s a little bit queer, and he’s really queer

She queer, and he queer, and we all clearly queer.”

All four of us throw the 4H signal down with the detonation of the final beat: four fingers on the left hand, crossed by one on the right, pressed to the breast. We sashay off stage right, knowing that right now, no one, no one in the suburbs has swagger even remotely like us. We’re sweating and panting backstage like we’ve just sprinted a marathon, and I realize that this is the only part of the plan that we haven’t choreographed within an inch of its life — what the hell happens when we finish our song? I don’t think any of us expected that they’d actually let us finish. Contemplating this, we breathe in and breathe out once, twice, three times, before we hear the dumbfounded silence erupt into cheering.

I peek around the curtain with my mouth agape. The crowd is on its feet and hollering full tilt, cheering like teenage banshees as the teachers still marooned on stage left exchange what-now glances. Nordling returns to the podium, but a full minute passes before the screaming begins to dwindle, during which he’s left standing there looking like a puppet on strings, waving his hands, mouthing words that no one can hear. I notice that Mrs. DiCostanza and a few of the other teachers have bowed their heads together and seem to be scribbling something on a notepad.

“Let’s just see what homeboy does next,” replies Marcy, chewing her fingernails in anxious glee. “I don’t want to miss a second of this.”

“I must insist —” Nordling tries to interject, cut off by a few final whoops. “I must insist that all of you compose yourselves. Miss Rockett, Miss Rudra, Miss Crowther, and Miss Grinnell”— he points at us —“you will report directly to my office at the conclusion of this assembly.” This elicits a scattered, rising boo from the audience, lowing like cattle in disapproval. “As I stated before this disruption, violations of any policy outlined in Holyhill’s code of conduct will be met with serious consequences. Now, I’d like everyone, beginning with the senior class, to collect their things and return to afternoon class —”

Nordling gets cut off again — poor fool can’t even finish a sentence up in this glorious mess — but this time by Mrs. D., who hands him a sheet of paper and whispers something in his ear. He steps back, cupping a hand over the microphone, and they swap words for a hot second, then he throws up his hands and motions exasperatedly for her to take the podium. Mrs. D. reads from the paper in her hands.

“In light of the authentic intellectual curiosity evidenced by 4H’s application for school recognition, and by these young women’s unique and remarkable performance, the faculty of Holyhill High School moves to amend the policy prohibiting hip-hop music on school grounds”— a preemptive roar begins to spring from the crowd but is squashed by one withering glare from Mrs. D., that titan —“the faculty moves to amend this policy in order to permit hip-hop music and culture to be studied and discussed and urges the administration to guarantee that all future 4H meetings will receive the administration’s full support and commitment to safety.”

“YEAH!” Marcy lets loose, hooting and jumping up and down along with everyone else. “Mrs. D. speaks, mofos!”

The world is full of surprises like this, I suppose, but this madcap campaign has recruited the scrappiest mess of encouragement from unlikely places, and I guess that moves me, this showing of support from people it might have been easy to mistake for haters. It gives me a strange kind of faith in people, this jackpot we’ve struck after we laid our cards out on the table and let go our truth for the whole school to hear. I wonder if this is what everyone will remember about me now, five, ten years from now. It’s exactly the legacy I’ve always wanted.

“Please return to your classes,” Principal Nordling announces weakly. The teachers and administrators dispel into the audience, prodding everyone back to class and reality and the rest of this game-changing day. As he walks toward the exit, Nordling turns back to us and waggles a come-hither finger in our direction, reminding us that we’re not off the hook yet. Giggling, decompressing, coming down from the rush, we pick up the electronic pieces of our sonic revolution and start toward the office, racking up a few backslaps and props along the way.

“Yo, I didn’t know chicks could rap like that,” a scrawny sophomore tells us excitedly. “That was badass.” Some assorted other people we don’t know echo the kudos, and we try to conceal our bafflement as we make our way through the sea of people. Marcy’s walkie-talkie beeps.

“Mission accomplished,” Yusuf’s voice comes in. “That was some wicked-ass shit, Sister Mischief.”

Swiveling back to take one last mental picture of the scene, I see Pops near the exit opposite us; he gives me a smile and a 4H sign and retreats, chatting with Rooster and the KIND-11 team. Everything I know about protesting, I think proudly, I learned from that man.

Our shoulders slump a little as we gear up to face the music, kind of literally, in the principal’s office. We all stop just short of the front desk, not ready to let go of the high. I turn to my girls.

“Look, whatever happens in there,” I declare, “we did ourselves proud today.”

“For real,” Tess echoes, nodding. “If they expel me, I’m glad it was for this.”

“For real,” Rowie completes the thought. Marcy and Tess start to slink in, but Rowie holds me back.

I feel myself blushing: after all this time, not so much time really, she still has this effect on me. Maybe she always will.

Hesitantly, Marcy knocks on Nordling’s office door. A strained “Come in” resounds from inside. We enter.

Tess speaks first: “Principal Nordling, we realize that our performance was disruptive to the assembly you had planned, and we’re prepared to accept the consequences for that. All we’d ask you to consider is that ours was a thoughtful and, we think, well-founded act of protest.”

He nods slowly, putting his fingers together in a little steeple over his mouth.

“That was quite a stunt you girls pulled,” he observes neutrally. “It was uniquely intrusive, completely inappropriate, and clearly premeditated.”

“You threatened the authority of my position, and my credibility in maintaining order at this school.” He’s oddly calm, and it’s kind of creeping me out.

“Yes, sir, we did,” Marcy says. “But we ask you to take into account that our actions were in response to a hateful attack on us and our beliefs.”

“Yes, Miss Crowther, you’ve made that abundantly clear,” he responds with a little less patience. “And that, along with all four of your excellent academic standings, is the only reason why I’m not going to expel you.”

“I’m not finished,” he says. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen here. The unrest your apparent displeasure with Holyhill’s policies has caused stops right now. There will be no more apparel campaigns, no more flyers, no more flirtation with the local media at my expense, and absolutely no more surprise performances.”

“If you immediately ratchet all of your antics down a notch, the agreement I’m prepared to make with you is as follows. You will all be suspended from school and all school activities for one week, including”— he looks at Marcy —“including band and drumline, and that suspension will appear on your permanent records.” We all pale a little but hold our poker faces. “However, in light of the surprising amount of support you managed to conjure from the faculty, I am also willing to reconsider my decision not to add 4H to Holyhill’s roster of recognized student groups, if you can promise me that your group will not in any way disturb the positive learning environment I’m trying to uphold here. Do we have a deal, ladies?”

The four of us look at one another, realizing that, all things considered, this is a pretty sweetheart deal. Three nods answer my questioning eyebrows. I stand up and stick out my hand.

“You’ve got a deal, sir,” I say. “I think you’ll find that our group will enrich, not disturb, Holyhill’s learning environment.”

He rises too, taking my hand. “I’m glad to hear that. In that case, young ladies, please return to your classrooms, and perhaps you can spend your week beginning tomorrow composing a mission statement for 4H that will convince me of your intent to honor our agreement.”

“No doubt, son.” Marcy holds out a fist for him to pound; he looks quizzically at it for a moment, then chuckles softly and taps his knuckles to hers.