Sister Mischief Read Online Free PDF Page A

real home, I think, and not the sterile minivan parade of Holyhill. We pull into the parking lot, where the light rail sits jacketed like a hornet in yellow and black. It’s Saturday night and we came to drop bombs. We buy four tickets and get on the train.
     
    “Guys, seriously, I don’t know if I can do this,” says Rowie, looking a little pale. I plunge a hand into my bag and pull out my trusty Nalgene. I believe in hydration.
     
    “Drink some water and sit down while we warm up,” I say, handing her the bottle and stroking her hair.
     
    Rowie has the shiniest hair ever, thick and lustrous in her vampy bob. Marcy is pulling our portable beatbox out of her backpack, a hot-pink heart-shaped set of iPod speakers, and cueing up our newest track. Tess sits a few feet away, practicing her breathing exercises. She looks like she’s practicing Lamaze, but homegirl can
sing,
so I don’t say anything. Rowie, still swigging my water, looks slightly better, but she’s clearly fighting to duck the monkey on her back.
     
    It’s about seven thirty and there are only a handful of people in our car: a couple of worn-out-looking construction workers, a Hmong woman toting three children, one of whom can’t keep her eyes off Marcy’s magic pink sound machine, a black girl who looks a year or two younger than us, two camera-loaded Japanese tourists clearly on their way to the Mall of America.
     
    “Ladies. It’s time,” I declare.
     
    We are four points strong and near to bursting. Each one of us glances around the circle, waiting to see who’ll light the fuse. I like to think I’m reliable for tasks like this.
     
    “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” I howl like a WWF announcer. “Twin Cities commuters! We do NOT apologize for the interruption. You are in for the best light rail ride of your life. Me and my sisters are four mud-slinging, bomb-dropping, clam-jamming bringers of mischief, about to spit some rhymes like you’ve never heard.”
     
    I trip on a purse strap loose on the floor and tumble forward, eliciting a few snickers.
     
    “So, uh, ladies and gentlemen,” the Ferocious in me continues, rising and brushing myself off, “hold on to your hosiery, because we’re about to load you up with a fat dose of wickedness, whimsy, thievery, sensation, charm, and general ruckus-making. Without further ado, here now, making our Twin Cities public transportation debut, is Sister Mischief with our soon-to-be hit single ‘Gynocracy.’”
     
    I lope back to the ladies, who are still exchanging bewildered looks. Marcy raises her eyebrows at us. Swallowing the anxious mass of bile rising in my throat, I nod.
     
    “Let’s do it,” I say. “Count it off, SheStorm.” Marcy does. She fumbles with the speakers, but they won’t turn on. Frustrated, she smacks them with the butt of her hand. The loop loaded on the magic pinks coughs and begins, a sample we lifted from 9th Wonder’s “No Comparison,” and Marcy begins to beatbox over it a measure later, picking up the slack. Tess leans into her opening vocals, belting in that rangy voice that makes the church ladies twitch in their seats:
     
    “I got sisters on one side and mischief on the other
     
    Saying that we better recognize our foremothers
     
    We got a positive psychology of peace and camaraderie
     
    So get with positivity or you best not be botherin’ me.”
     
     
    I grab Rowie’s hand for a moment, squeezing it for courage. She gives me a tight deer-in-headlights smile. The first verse is mine.
     
    “We’re done with sex hypocrisy
     
    up in this here gynocracy
     
    So what’s with dudes up in my grill
     
    I’m all get over it, get real
     
    I see you there, you think you fly,
     
    You think you’re stealthy, smooth and sly
     
    Frontin’ like girls who say they’re bi
     
    Just to entertain some guys
     
    So step up, bro, and recognize
     
    That I’m rolling deep to ride
     
    On with my girls, and tell you why
     
    We’re over it with