Free Sister Mischief by Laura Goode

all others. This is the stanza that made me think of Rohini and you American girls.” She begins to read in a musical voice:
     
    “How we could talk!
     
    Translating back and forth. We knew hundreds
     
    of lines by heart, the endless
     
    rhythms, counterpoint to the ocean waves. We wanted
     
    to take in all the wonder in the world, all
     
    the ecstasy, all the tenderness.
Ömhet,
     
    you loved to say this soft word for tenderness,
ömhet.
     
    I loved to listen to you.
     
    So strange to have loved something so much
     
    and not to have known it was a calling.”
     
     
    She finishes reading and looks up, gently searching our faces for a reaction.
     
    “That’s — that’s beautiful,” I croak, clearing my throat.
     
    “Isn’t it? I think it captures a kind of magic feeling, something mystical about the way life feels when you are young, and the love between women. It’s truthful that way. Do you know?” Dr. Rudra’s eyes return to the page for a moment.
     
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marcy slumped, staring at the floor.
     
    “I know we all need a little poetry sometimes,” I say, to break the silence, and because it’s true.
     
    Dr. Rudra nods firmly. “Yes. You are a very wise girl, to know that already.”
     
    I clear my throat again. Marcy shifts her weight.
     
    She looks at us again, searching. “Well, any time you feel like you need some poetry, you come to our house.”
     
    “Thanks, Dr. R. Have a good night at work.” She places a hand on both of our shoulders and slides past us, smelling like Rowie — gardenia and almond and something else. Marcy is still all hunched over and quiet. This mom shit, she’s never looked it in the face. I nudge her.
     
    “You cool, fool?” I ask.
     
    She raises her head, taking in a rush of breath. “Yeah”— it hangs for a second —“yeah. Let’s do this.” Without providing further opportunity for discussion, she walks out of the study.
     
    We scamper downstairs to find Rowie nestled in her bed underneath her enormous headphones and Tess humming “Poker Face” on the floor. Before I can nudge Rowie’s shoulder, Marcy leaps in front of her bed and flashes the Herb sign.
     
    “Herb for Holyhill!” Marcy cries.
     
    Rowie jumps like she’s been electrocuted and falls off the bed, on top of Tess.
     
    “Jesus Christ, Marce, you almost killed me,” Rowie gasps, yanking her headphones off her ears, rolling over, and catching her breath. Marcy doubles over, yukking.
     
    “Me too.” Tess coughs. “Where’d you get that?”
     
    “Some asshole’s lawn,” Marcy says.
     
    “What’s got you so lost in thought, girl?” I ask Rowie, patting her hair.
     
    “I’m trying to figure out how to isolate this beat and bassline from ‘Testify,’” she tells us. “I think we could use a sort of similar structure, like, give Tess a vocal hook that repeats throughout the whole track and lay the rhymes on top of it. Here, listen.” She unplugs the cord from her MacBook and Common fills the room.
     
    “I can pull that beat for sure,” Marcy says. “This track is totally post Common’s selling out, but still good shit.”
     
    “Have you started working on lyrics yet?” I ask, knowing she has.
     
    “Affirmative,” Rowie replies. “I’m thinking ‘Lemme Get a Hit of It’ as the title. But in the actual track, I want to put a pause between the two clauses so they sort of rhyme, like ‘Lemme get / a hit of it.’ So it’s like a call-and-response thing, like you’ll say something, and we all say ‘Lemme get / a hit of it,’ and then I’ll say something and everyone responds. . . . You get what I’m talking about?”
     
    “I think so. If you can work that into a chorus, I can write some verses around it. What you got so far for the call and response?”
     
    “Okay, so I think it just starts with you and me doing some MC improv as the beat starts and Tess’s vocals come in, you know, just talking like ‘Turn