Sister Mischief (7 page)

I close the diary and look at Anne’s picture on the front, at her grainy black bob, and in profile, I see the black wall of Rowie’s bob, its smooth surface disturbed by the rapid action of her pencil, her head bowed, unaware of me just on the other side, watching.

Fall is a heady apple-tree season in Minnesota; the sinking feeling of winter hasn’t quite sunk, and the wind is aromatic with embering pumpkins and unpacked quilts and dirty, wet red leaves and a distinct, immodest scent of anticipation veiled over it all. Football season bleeds into hockey. The bottle blondes begin to lowlight a little. College scouts sniff around, and it rains until it snows. I’m in my last-period art elective on Friday, which would be the easiest class in the world to skip if I didn’t actually like it, when Ms. Mayakovsky, the severe-looking but appealingly crazy art teacher, hands me a note summoning me to the principal’s office directly after class. It doesn’t say why, though I have an idea. My suspicions are confirmed: all three of my comrades-in-arms are gathered outside the office, waiting to be called in.

“Guys, this is going to sound pathetic,” Tess confesses, “but this is the first time in eleven years of public school that I’ve ever been called to the principal’s office.”

“Me too,” Rowie says. “There goes my perfect record.”

“I punched Ryan Hoffstadt for tripping me in kickball in first grade,” Marcy says. “He lost four baby teeth, they made me sit at the bad kids lunch table for three days, and people called me the Tooth Fairy until middle school.”

“Savage from day one,” Rowie says, chuckling.

“Well, ladies, you must be happy to be sharing your first time with us public-school menaces.” I headlock Marcy and noogie her hard.

“Oh, eff off, poser,” Marcy says, calling me out and wriggling free in a matter of seconds. “Name one time you’ve ever gotten sent to the principal’s office.”

I blush. “I got sent to the guidance counselor once for telling everyone in my second-grade class that Santa Claus was invented by advertisers.” I hadn’t even known what that meant, really, I’d just heard Pops say it.

“Doesn’t count!” Tess gleefully points at me. “You’re just as big a square as we are.”

Principal Ross Nordling opens his door, quelling our clowning. “Ladies? Would you like to join me?”

We straighten up and hustle in. Principal Ross Nordling is a tawny man, the same golden pink from his hair (mustache, eyebrows, eyelashes) to his skin to his dress shirt. He’s youngish — I’d say late thirties — and not particularly intimidating, though you can tell he thinks he is; he gives off that red-meat scent of hanging on by a thread all the time.

“Please, sit down.” He gestures us toward four chairs. His demeanor suggests a host’s, as if he’s just invited us to sit for tea. We sit.

“The office is collecting and sorting this year’s signed Holyhill school policies,” he begins, glancing through the new copy of the
Holyhill West Wind,
the school paper, on his desk. “And I was surprised to learn that four of Holyhill’s most outstanding students hadn’t yet responded to a second reminder to sign the policy.”

None of us says anything for a moment.

“You don’t say,” Marcy replies, earning a raise of two strawberry-blond eyebrows.

“In fact, Miss Crowther, I do,” he challenges her.

“
Ms.
Crowther,” she corrects him. He takes a moment and gives us all a long elevator-eyes scan.

“Ms. Crowther”— he offers a shyster smile —“would you like to tell me why you did not sign the policy?”

“I’d be happy to,” she says. “We didn’t sign the policy because it’s narrow-minded and counterproductive. First of all, outlawing hip-hop is ridiculous, considering it’s everywhere, and second, a policy like this prevents anyone from
learning
from hip-hop.”

He sizes up the rest of us. “And this is how all of you feel?” We nod.

I pull out a folder with a copy of our application to be a recognized student group.

“The four of us are definitely in agreement on that,” Tess says, “and that’s why we’ve applied to create a discussion group about hip-hop music and culture.” She smiles at him. “We thought that if we showed how hip-hop can be a positive force for debate and learning, the administration might reconsider its ban on it. In case you haven’t gotten a chance to look it over, here’s a copy of the application we submitted about a week ago.”

Nordling takes the paper and gazes vacantly at it for a moment.

Nordling clears his throat. “Yes, Ms. Grinnell, I’m familiar with this application, and I’m sorry to have to inform you that it’s been denied.”

“Why is that?” I ask. “Because it violates your hip-hop policy or because you don’t want to deal with the fallout from creating a gay-straight alliance at Holyhill?”

“Is that what this group is?” he asks dubiously, holding up our application. “Because to me, it looks like a group without a faculty adviser dedicated to the study of a music and culture of violence, drugs, and licentious sex. I must say, I’m surprised that four bright girls such as yourselves would be so devoted to music that objectifies and degrades women.”

“I think if you studied it more, Mr. Nordling,” I retort, “you’d find that hip-hop isn’t nearly that simple, and that discussing and exploring its questions of culture and gender and identity are fascinating, legitimate courses of inquiry. Inqueery.”

Our conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door. Marilyn DiCostanza, our AP English teacher and head of the department, pokes her head in.

“Ross,” she says, “sorry to interrupt, but what are these signed school policy sheets my homeroom is handing in? I don’t remember any new school policies being discussed at the last faculty meeting.”

“This isn’t the ideal time to discuss it, Marilyn.” Principal Nordling maintains a forced smile.

“Now’s the time to discuss why a Christian prayer group is allowed to meet on school grounds but our hip-hop GSA isn’t,” I say.

“We could use a faculty adviser, Mrs. D.,” Tess pipes up.

Mrs. DiCostanza smiles. “It looks as though you have your hands full right now, Ross. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Thank you, Marilyn,” he manages through pinched lips.

“Mr. Nordling, not all Holyhill parents are Christian, and neither are its students. And I think you should consider the idea that maybe students who don’t fit your Holyhill SWASP ideal might need a space where they feel safe too,” I say.

“SWASP?” he asks.

“Straight White Anglo-Saxon Protestant,” Rowie rattles off.

Nordling takes a deep breath and massages his temples. “Listen, girls. Whether we all like it or not, we live in a Christian community in a Christian nation. Don’t you think it’d be much easier for everybody if you just accepted the administration’s denial of your student group application and pondered all these things on your own time?”

“Mr. Nordling,” Tess says in a voice full of honeybees, “we are not interested in what is
easy.
We live in a melting-pot nation in which our freedom of expression is protected by the First Amendment. Our Christian community wouldn’t want the ACLU breathing down your neck. A First Amendment, or gosh, a church-and-state lawsuit — that would be so
pesky,
wouldn’t it? Hmm?” She sits back, crossing her legs.

“Ms. Grinnell, I must say I’m a little surprised at you. I wouldn’t have expected a stunt like this from a young woman such as yourself,” Nordling says.

“Actually,” Tess replies, “I believe this stunt, as you call it, is perfectly in line with my Christian values of love and tolerance. Nothing offends those values more than when people use Jesus’s words as a lame justification for their own small-mindedness.”

“Well, I’d hardly say —” he starts.

“We have some contacts in the local media,” Marcy says. I wonder who she’s referring to until I remember Rooster’s KIND-11 gig.

“There must be some way we can reach a compromise here,” Tess says, sweetly pounding Ross Nordling into the ground. “I’m sure my parents, Darlene and Dr. Gary Grinnell, would be so pleased to hear that you listened to us and made a fair decision. Hmm?”

Tess’s laid her whole hand on the table now: everyone, and I mean
everyone,
in Holyhill knows the Grinnells. Darlene is not a woman one wants as an enemy, and Principal Ross Nordling knows this exceptionally well, having overseen the education of both her daughters. However, he also knows that she’s not a woman one would think likely to support a queer hip-hop collective. Principal Ross Nordling drops his head and furiously kneads his forehead with his thumbs, weighing his options.

“How about this: you keep your group quiet, sign the policy, and”— he glances back at our application —“Hip-Hop for Heteros and Homos can meet in the old warming house out by the track.”

“Wait one hot minute,” Marcy says. “That warming house isn’t even technically on school grounds if it’s past the track.”

“It’s the best offer I’m making, Ms. Crowther. And how do you know so much about school boundaries? Does
your
father know about this group of yours?”

Marcy starts a little, but holds her bluff. “Of course he does.”

“Good. Do we have a deal, ladies?” He holds up the unsigned policies.

We exchange looks.

“Ladies?” he says.

“Well — all right,” I say.

“Really?” He brims over with glee.

“Naw, I’m just playing with you,” I say. “I’m not signing anything. And if that warming house isn’t on school grounds, it seems like we can pretty much meet there whether you say so or not.”

“I’ll have to check with my mother about signing.” Tess folds her hands delicately on her lap and smiles. “And possibly our family lawyer.”

“No, thank you.” Rowie smiles.

He looks unoptimistically at Marcy. “Seriously?” she scoffs. “No way.”

“All right, ladies. I’ll meet you halfway. You meet in the warming house for the rest of the semester. If, in that time, you can demonstrate to me that this group is truly positive and purposeful and that other students are interested in having it, we’ll find a space on campus for it next semester.”

“That”— Tess stands up, sticking out her hand —“is a better offer.” He shakes it.

“So you’ll sign?” Nordling asks, hoping this meeting is over.

“We’ll think about it,” Marcy says. Nordling shakes the rest of our hands and we retreat, holding in our laughter until we make it to the parking lot.

Later that night, waiting for Marcy to pick me up for our celebratory jam session with the ladies,
¹⁸
I’m painting my nails black and white and watching
Hedwig and the Angry Inch
for the five hundredth time when I hear Marcy and Coach Bob walk into the kitchen, shooting the shit with my dad. They’re all old buddies, and I think I hear Marcy and Pops practicing their secret handshake. Sometimes I think my dad knows more about Marcy’s life than her dad does. No doubt he’s easier to talk to than tank-like Coach Bob, who’s shaped like a refrigerator and learned how to communicate in the Marines. I know my dad isn’t like other dads; I mean, he carves wood furniture for a living and miniature houses as a passion, for one. We’re pretty broke by Holyhill standards — it’s a good thing Marcy inherited Rooster’s old car, because Pops and I could never afford a second one — but I guess that’s just the price I pay for having a dad who’s pretty chill and empathetic and liberal by Holyhill standards, too.