Sister Mischief Read Online Free PDF

paradigms
     
    The gaze we play ain’t for your eyes
     
    My conscious sisters realize
     
    I got to roll with Tess and Ro
     
    And DJ SheStorm got my vote
     
    We’re out to throw some pro-ho flow
     
    Sex-positivize your language, yo.”
     
     
    Rowie leaps into the transition with both hips and both shoulders, rushing it half a beat, but recovering after a little stutter.
     
    “So listen close, we’ll spell it slow
     
    I take attitude and add tempo
     
    My girls is high and you too low
     
    So Lawdy, Joe
     
    Already tole you so
     
    Y’all best find some solo hos and go . . .”
     
     
    My vision is cloudy with exhilaration, but I can make out the Hmong woman clapping politely and her little girl jumping up and down in delight as Rowie continues. Small victories: no one throws anything, and no one boos. One of the workers is alternately fiddling with his iPod volume and scowling at us, but the other one bobbles his head and smiles. One of the MegaMall-bound Japanese tourists raises his camera to his eye and snaps a souvenir photo of us, and I imagine what he will see when he flips through his vacation back home in his bedroom, or telling stories to his buddies at work, saying something like
And we were going through the city on our way to the biggest mall, and there they were, three whitegirls and a desigirl rapping on the train. No, I don’t know why. They were Americans; it could be anything.
     

 
    It’s lunchtime, and we’re parked in the commons. I don’t know why they call it
the commons
when it’s nothing but a big hallway. There’s nothing common about it; it is, at best, reluctantly shared. Little pockets of people are scattered throughout: the weird, formerly homeschooled Christians near the horny debate kids, all eating baby carrots; the theater and lit magazine kids spreading barbecue sauce on someone’s math homework, glaring at the popular Christians; Anders Ostergaard, Tess’s douchey sometimes-boyfriend, and his hockey harem, all pretending to ignore her, and finally us, the alienated smartgirls who couldn’t find a group to belong to.
     
    They say that only ten percent of the population is naturally blond and blue-eyed, but in Minnesota, it’s more like sixty percent. You can find members of the diaspora in Holyhill, I guess, if you squint. Making an unscientific count around the commons, I spot a handful of Asian kids — Jisoo Kim, Iris Hong, Rowie, Prakash Banerjee, a few others — a couple of them adopted, a couple more with engineer or doctor parents who had enough degrees to get visas and came here to work for Honeywell or 3M, the U of M or the Mayo Clinic. There’s even fewer black kids, most of whom seem kind of marooned in Holyhill’s ABS program, which, like, recruits smart kids from the inner city or whatever and ships them out to the suburbs, where the property taxes are higher and the public high schools are better. They all sit together at lunch. I think they live together in a chaperoned program house on the outskirts of town, and ABS actually stands for A Better Shot. There are these de facto boundaries that no one talks about, and I feel weird about them, and I think other people must too.
     
    “Well, as I live and breathe, it’s Dykes with Mikes!” Mary Ashley Baumgarten taunts as she saunters by in her SWASP sweatshirt, earning a round of cheap laughs from the hockey dudes and her cake-makeuped lunch gaggle. Every year the senior girls make sweatshirts with some kind of taboo acronym beginning with “SW” for “Senior Women.” This year, its SWASP, and apparently it stands for “Senior Women Always Say Please” or some stupid shit. But we know it stands for the model Holy Hell student: Straight White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. “I heard about your little girl group, bless your hearts.”
     
    “Hey, Marcy, your boxers are showing!” Anders calls. 11
     
    11. Text from Rowie:
Why does Tess suck face with that ass-clown every weekend?
     
    “Yeah,