Sister Mischief (37 page)

The cold has hooks now, and the whole span of my dorsal side feels like it might be frozen to Lake Calhoun. The little dipper in the southwestern sky points me home as I count the constellations I know, a fistful of pinpricks in an unbounded galaxy, so many still nameless in the mass of everything I haven’t learned yet.
It’s the naming,
I think.
The naming is the question.
I stand up and shake the snow out of my blanket. Cocking my head at the crescent moon, I say a silent prayer that life will always feel like this, all shot through with magic words and glittering samples hovering just out of reach, just the same as now, except — I pull my headphones back over my ears as I dust off the snow and cue up the
SM EP
again — except I’m listening, really listening this time, and older now.

To Rachel Gaubinger, Meera Menon, and Victoria Baranetsky, my wickedest mischievous sisters, most beloved friends of my mind, baddest bitches on the block, Brooklyn rollers, whiskey-pourers (or I poured), discourse without borders, who inspired me with genius e-mail chains, no-joke dance parties, etc. Without you, this book would not be a lady, would have no title, no samosas, and no staying up laughing until dawn. Thank you for showing me how to be somebody. Mad, mad, fiercest Thuggette love.

To my boo Patrick Cushing, partner in all journeys, for his love and support throughout the unenviable task of living with me as I was writing this book. My heart, my home.

To my parents, the indomitable Lar and Car, who have always believed in me, or at least suspended their disbelief at my most outlandish dreams. I love you. Thank you.

To the ferocious mind of my editor, Katie Cunningham, who got it from the beginning, and to my agent, Ted Malawer, dear genius, who first talked me into this adventure.

To Justin Hulog, my San Francisco sibling, and to our understanding of the search for sameness.

To my poet cadre — Ethan Hon, Emily Wolahan, Sara Femenella, Stephanie Adams-Santos. To words, and toward them.

To my teachers at Columbia — Timothy Donnelly, Sophie Cabot Black, Leslie Woodard, Eamon Grennan, Julie Crawford, Michael Golston — for their generosity and mentorship.

To Sandy Close and the NAMily for giving me the time, space, and brain food I needed, and for their truth-telling. Love especially to Rupa Dev and Neela Banerjee for being such clever desi babes and to Carolyn Ji Jong Goossen.

To Justin Lopez and the max unit B8 of the San Jose juvenile hall. Stay up.

To my Minnesota homies — Jess Dunne, Mike Fabio, Brother David Highhill, Alison Silvis, Laurel Somerville, and Maureen O’Connor, who is not adopted. To Paul Farris, departed brother, who pointed me home.

To Sara Blachman and her mama, Eve, whom I love no shit. To Lauren Lillie, the original Lizzie Borden.

To Vince Passaro (Virgil) in particular, and 1020 Amsterdam (Inferno) in general, who raised me from a pup.

To Jon Brilliant, for his beautiful portrait of an author as a young authors’ portrait.

To Yvonne Woon, with whom I commiserated hard, and Kate Berthold, who shared her openhearted history with me.

And to all the smart girl word nerds. This one’s for you.

Laura Goode
was raised outside Minneapolis and now lives in San Francisco. She received her BA and MFA from Columbia University, and her poems have appeared in the
Denver Quarterly, Slope, Cannibal, JERRY,
and as a chapbook in
Narwhal. Sister Mischief
is her first novel.