Sister Mischief

by Laura Goode

  “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.

  NAME AND PURPOSE OF GROUP:

  Sister Mischief: Hip-Hop for Heteros and Homos is proposed as a discussion group for queer inquiry — inqueery — into the language, music, and culture of hip-hop. As a safe space for GLBT students, the group will also serve as Holyhill’s first gay-straight alliance. By directing our questions about gender, race, class, and art toward both the discipline of hip-hop and the terrain of Holyhill High School in a spirit of tolerance, we hope to break down boundaries of what a hip-hop language, or a Holyhill student identity, may include.

  NUMBER OF MEMBERS (ESTIMATED):

  There are currently four members, though several hundred are expected to join when they realize that our group is way more fun than other groups.

  ARE YOU REQUESTING FUNDING?

  Not at this time.

  MULTIMEDIA/TECHNOLOGY REQUIREMENTS (PLEASE LIST ALL):

  Audio/video equipment for listening to music and viewing films; Internet-equipped meeting space.

  FACULTY ADVISER:

  We’re working on it.

  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 w
hole 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.

  18. Text from Rowie: I just got an original-release LP of CunninLynguists’ Will Rap for Food. When are you coming over?

  Me to Rowie: Omfg, that’s like seeing a unicorn. On our way in 10.

  Blowing on my piano-key fingernails, I attempt to shove on my emerald-green boots without using my hands, no easy feat considering the boots are eighteen inches tall. I hook my bag over my elbow crook, turn off the TV, and clump out to the kitchen.

  Per usual, Dad is pushing food on Marcy.

  “Seriously, Luke, I just ate,” she protests weakly.

  “Little girl, you haven’t tasted egg salad like this in your life. Did you know curry powder makes everything better?” Dad’s going through a curry phase. Coconut curry, various veggies in curry sauce, now curried egg salad.

  “I gotta admit, the egg salad is pretty tricked out,” I chime in. “But I contest the allegation that curry powder makes everything better.”

  “Cite your evidence!” Dad cries, actually shocked.

  “Uh, last Sunday’s maca-curry-and-cheese? Not meant to be, Pops.”

  Bob guffaws. “Luke cooks like a girl.” This sends Marcy and me into peals of laughter.

  He laughs. “Okay, okay, I’ll chalk that one up to my overzealous palate. But for real, just try one bite of this.” He spoons a lump of today’s special into Marcy’s mouth, and her eyebrows shoot up.

  “Damn, that’s tasty.” Marcy coughs. “Nice work, Rockett man.”

  “Ez, you want some? Skinny girl, you’re wasting away.”

  “Dad, we had dinner like half an hour ago. Marcy and I really gotta bolt. Bob, didja bring Forrest Gump?”

  He bashfully produces the DVD from under his coat, along with a six-pack, a bag of corn chips, and a can of Frito-Lay nacho cheese dip. Bob Crowther wears John Deere hats unironically. “Now, how’d you know it’d be that and not Platoon this time?”

  I grin. “Lucky guess.”

  Pops throws his hands up in mock exasperation. “What do you expect the man to say? We old men are creatures of habit. Bob likes war movies. I love by feeding. Go. Get out of here. Consider your welcome overstayed.”

  I remember my hobo feet. “Wait, Pops, can you lace me up? My nails are wet.”

  Dad shakes his head a little, chuckling, and kneels down to work on my magnificent shitkickers.

  “Luke, I gotta bail on Sunday night,” Bob says as Pops laces.

  “Why?” Pops looks crestfallen. “We haven’t, um, been bowling in months.”

  “You know you guys sound a lot gayer when you come up with euphemisms for playing blackjack at Mystic Lake, right?” I say.

  “Seriously,” Marcy says. “The jig is up. No one can come home from bowling smelling that much like Kool cigarettes and despair.”

  “Well,” Bob says, “I suppose you were bound to figure it out.”

  “Why can’t you go?” Marcy asks. “You don’t have practice on Sunday nights.”

  “Maybe I should ask you,” Bob says. “You got any idea why Ross Nordling wants a meet with me first thing Monday morning?”

  “Nope.” Marcy suddenly appears engrossed in cracking open the dip can.

  “Mary Marcella, are you sure?” Bob asks sternly. Marcy hates her full name.

  “You bet,” Marcy says. Pops and I exchange a look in which I try to convey I’ll tell you later.

  “Did I buy you these?” Pops interjects. “They’re kinda nutty.”

  “You mean they’re kinda beautiful? No, you didn’t buy them. I got them for ten bucks at Value Village with Rowie. Can you believe someone left these homeless?”

  Marcy, Bob, and Dad exchange a look, then nod in unison.

  “I’m breaking up with all of you. Later, Pops. Love you no shit. Later, Bob.”

  “Love you no shit. Where are you going? Do you have your phone?”

  “Just over to Rowie’s, and yes. Bye.”

  I toss Dad a quick peck on the cheek, followed by an identical peck from Marcy. Marcy kisses my dad, but not her own. Just as we’re about to walk out the front door, the doorbell rings. Surprised, I turn back to the kitchen.

  “Hey, Pops, you expecting someone?” Is Dad dating behind my back? That hasn’t happened in a while, not since Marcy and I scared away his last girlfriend, Felicia, by stealing a sign from the Holyhill Veterinary Clinic that read BUFFALO MEAT FOR SALE and putting it on her front lawn. Sign stealing is one of Marcy’s and my favorite pastimes. Truth be told, I still feel kind of bad about Felicia. There wasn’t anything overtly wrong with her except that she smelled like cottage cheese.

  “Nope,” he calls back. “See who it is.”

  I open the door to find none other than the despicable Mary Ashley Baumgarten, a
long with another girl who looks like her freshman doppelgänger. Why can’t I ever get away from this girl?

  “What in God’s name are you doing at my house?” I ask MashBaum.

  She pretends to gawk. “This is your house?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes. And this is my door.” I begin to close it, but Mary Ashley thrusts a foot in and comes back with a syrupy smile.

  “Go ahead.” She nudges her mini-MashBaum.

  “I’m canvassing today because the Holyhill Teens for Christ are selling poinsettias to support our Preserve Unborn Lives initiative,” the girl starts.

  “Who’s the clone?” I ask.

  “This is Kristina, my freshman buddy. She’s learning how to canvass for Christ.” MashBaum wraps an arm around her minion. “Right, Stina?”

  “Perhaps you’d like to know that the first poinsettia is seventeen ninety-five, and each additional plant is just fifteen ninety-five,” Kristina rattles off, looking eagerly back at Mary Ashley for approval. “We guarantee delivery by December first, and for today only, we have a special offer of five plants for eighty-nine ninety-nine.”

  “Oh, spare me,” I groan.

  “That’s a total rip-off,” Marcy mutters. “If you buy one plant at seventeen ninety-five and then four at fifteen ninety-five, the total is only eighty-one seventy-five.”

  Mary Ashley’s face twists, and she says, more for Kristina’s benefit than ours, “Look, it’s never too late for you girls to come to Bible study sometime, and just own up to your sins and learn about Jesus, and hear about everything we’re doing to save the unborn. Everyone is welcome. Teenage pregnancy is a big problem in Holyhill —”

  Marcy cackles. “You should know, right, Mary Ashley?”

  “We meet Wednesday afternoons, third lunch . . .” I can hear Kristina’s waning voice as I slam the door in her face.

  “Unbelievable,” I say.

  “Now we have to wait for her to leave before we can,” whines Marcy, watching through the window as Mary Ashley and Kristina cross the street.

  “Like hell we do. Let’s run her over,” I say, opening the door and walking out.