Sister Mischief (34 page)

“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 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.”

“
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.

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:

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

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.