by Laura Goode
“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.
“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.
“Signal: begin recording, B-boy,” Marcy murmurs over the W-T.
“Copy that,” B-boy crackles.68
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 climbin
g 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.”
“Irregardless isn’t a word!” Angelo cries.
“We aren’t the violent ones!” Kai adds with passion.
“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.
“Ro, you gonna make it?” Tess grabs her hand.
“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.
“B-boy, stand by for cue one,” she hisses. “Come in, B-boy.”
“Confirmed,” we hear. “Sister Mischief is a go for all operations.”
“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 —”
I don’t have time for him to finish.
“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. Tool
s! 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:
