Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip Page 2

  Our words are big,

  Sister. They stick

  like burrs in the skin.

  I can’t wait for the

  slam to begin.”

  Twig had this

  smug mug of a

  satisfied face,

  and she was

  wearing a chaste

  pitch-black

  lace dress: the best

  poet’s dress, I must confess.

  The rest of her getup

  consisted of fishnets,

  a Wish Upon a Star

  hat from Disneyland,

  a ring on every finger

  of her hands, and Twig’s

  favorite Chuck Taylor

  sneakers: high-top

  black and white.

  I myself was a mess,

  with a bird’s nest

  of bed head, elastic—

  waist imitation leather

  pants, a feather headband,

  and a red polyester vest.

  I wear lots of vests

  because they are best

  for hiding my breasts,

  which are the size of Texas.

  I was hexed and vexed

  by the size of my chest,

  which brought

  too much negative

  attention from pests.

  All of a sudden,

  I knew what my

  first slam poem

  should be about,

  and I shouted

  it out in the quiet

  of my room:

  “Gloom Pillows

  and Huge Boobs!”

  Twig looked at me

  like I was crazy.

  But baby, I knew this was it.

  I’d be the hit of the gig

  in Tin Can, New Jersey:

  the first-prize surprise of a

  big-bosomed poet chick,

  quick as a whip with words.

  Maybe I’d get a silver trophy

  or a golden medallion

  or a wad of cash or

  a flashy engraved plaque

  with my name on it.

  But mainly,

  I wanted to get revenge

  on the royal pains

  from my gym bench

  (by being better and

  more famous than them),

  and also to remember

  Mom and how I cried

  into my gloom pillows

  when she died,

  and for a long time after.

  Lesson 3

  Never Run from Hitting a Pig

  Packing my Firebird

  with all the happy crap

  of two hip-hoppin’,

  poetic rap girls,

  we hung strands

  of pink pearls

  from the radio knobs.

  It was kind of like

  a Mardi Gras bash

  (except Twig and I

  didn’t plan to flash

  anything at anybody).

  “How do you like my bag?”

  I asked Twig. She gave

  me the thumbs-up sign.

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  “Girly pink. Sensible,

  yet feminine.”

  My suitcase was an old

  My Little Pony bag that

  Mom gave me when I was eight

  and taking ballet class.

  My ass hadn’t danced since then.

  “On the road again,” Twig sang

  as we threw junk

  into the trunk of the car.

  Pops added gas cans,

  jumper cables, and tools,

  which I wouldn’t know

  how to use anyway.

  “Laura,” said Pops,

  “maybe you should just

  stay in Banesville,

  where I know you’re safe.”

  “Don’t worry, Pops.

  That’s what cops

  are for,” I said,

  hoping to reassure him.

  “Safe is a state

  of mind,” added Twig.

  “You don’t have to go,

  you know,” Pops said. “Minds are

  made to be changed.”

  “That would be wrong,”

  I said. “It would be

  like a song without music.

  Like a gong without the boom.

  It would be the ultimate of doom,

  to stay here where we don’t belong!”

  Pops sighed.

  He tried to smile.

  “Pops,” I said, “I’m now

  an official graduate of

  twelve years of torture

  in Banesville High,

  which was the low point

  of my entire life. It’s

  time to come alive.”

  Twig slapped me five.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “We’ll be driving

  into the so-cool

  School of Real Life.

  The College of Reality!

  The University

  of Gray Road, Blue Sky,

  and Yellow Lines.

  A free ride.”

  Pops cleared his throat.

  “It’s not exactly free,” he said.

  “Don’t forget who’s financing

  this trip. Remember the loan?”

  “How could we forget my

  rockin’ pops with the generous

  wallet?” I said. “And Twig’s

  gram? You’re the sponsors

  for Sister Slam, Twig, and the

  Poetic Motormouth Road Trip.

  We’re going to be a big hit!”

  “Please be careful,” Pops said.

  “You’re still my little girl, you know.”

  “I’m bigger than you think.

  Just because I carry a pink

  My Little Pony bag doesn’t mean

  that I’m a baby,” I replied. My

  voice sounded like a whine, even to me.

  I climbed inside the car, settling

  into the driver’s seat, as Twig leaped

  into the passenger side.

  Pops waved good-bye

  and he was brave,

  keeping the tears

  inside of his eyes.

  “Buckle your seat belts,”

  he yelled as I started

  the car and moved the

  gearshift from park. I

  raced the engine and

  peeled out of the driveway.

  Surprisingly, disguised

  as heartburn,

  I had a slight yearning

  to turn around

  and stay in the town

  I knew by heart.

  “Laura!” hollered Twig.

  “Watch where you’re going!”

  I swerved, just missing

  a kissing couple on the

  side of the road.

  PDAs—Public Displays

  of Affection—are accepted

  after graduation, I guess. I must confess

  that no boy had ever kissed me in public

  or in private.

  “Call me Sister Slam,” I said to Twig.

  “I’m Sister Slam on this trip.”

  Twig nodded, pressing

  her hand to her chest

  as if I had startled

  her almost to death.

  She took deep breaths.

  “Relax,” I said. “Kick back.

  You’re in the good hands

  of safe Sister Slam. So just chill.”

  I pressed the pedal to the metal

  and settled deep into the seat.

  A sinful wind was blowing

  through my just-dyed spikes,

  and the dizzy spinning

  of wheels on road felt good.

  The red needle

  of the speedometer

  was pointing higher

  than I’d ever gone before.

  The roar of the motor

  was like a lion,

  and the
steering wheel

  vibrated like fate

  beneath my driving—

  fast hands.

  “Laura,” said Twig.

  “Slow down.”

  So I did. Then I said,

  “Sister Slam, Twig.

  “I’m Sister Slam on this trip.”

  “Shut up,” said Twig.

  “You’re already making me sick.

  You’re getting on my nerves

  way too quick.

  Maybe this trip

  was a big mistake.

  Maybe you should take

  me home, or just dump me

  somewhere along the road.”

  That was not like Twig:

  wigging over nothing.

  I slammed on the brakes,

  for heaven’s sake,

  and the car screeched to

  a stop with a whopping thump.

  I turned off the ignition.

  Twig’s skinny arms

  were crossed,

  and she had this saucy

  look on her face,

  like she was the boss of me.

  “Whatever,” I said, and Twig

  shook her head.

  “So you wanna get out,

  or what?” I shouted.

  Then I saw that Twig

  was getting half-moon circles

  beneath her blue-sky eyes.

  That’s Twig’s warning sign

  that she’s about to cry.

  So I apologized,

  even though I hadn’t done anything.

  “Listen,” I almost whispered.

  Twig’s eyes glistened.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s cool.”

  Twig uncrossed her arms.

  We were parked by a farm.

  The odor of pig manure

  was disgusting. The car motor

  ticked like a clock,

  and it was hot.

  “That’s okay,” Twig said.

  “I just don’t want to be dead

  before I get to be twenty.”

  Steam was hissing

  from under the hood,

  and I thought:

  This isn’t all good.

  The radiator was overheating

  again, and when

  I started the car,

  it sizzled like a hot star.

  “Darn,” I breathed,

  and heaved

  myself from the car

  so that I could check

  under the hood.

  It was then that I saw it:

  we’d hit a pig, a big fat

  hog of snorting pink.

  “Holy cow!” I shouted.

  “Twig! We hit a pig!”

  Twig leaped out

  and leaned over the pig.

  “Come on. Get up,” she whispered.

  And the pig listened!

  Just like that, the chubby thing

  struggled to its hooves

  and waddled off,

  just like this was any

  ordinary carefree day.

  Twig looked at me.

  I looked at Twig.

  We cracked up,

  doubled over

  with hysterical laughter.

  “Hungry for pork and beans?”

  said Twig.

  “Ham and greens?

  Maybe some bacon?”

  We climbed back into

  our poetmobile, and I squealed

  out, leaving rubber skid marks

  on the road.

  If only we’d known then

  what we know now:

  Mister Farmer Brown

  was writing down

  every letter and number

  of my license plate.

  First rule

  of the University

  of Gray Road,

  Blue Sky, and

  Yellow Lines is this:

  Never Run from

  Hitting a Pig.

  Lesson 4

  Don’t Get Cocky with Cops

  The cops stopped us

  somewhere southeast

  of Geasterville, Pennsylvania.

  In blue uniforms,

  with mirror sunglasses,

  and Dunkin’ Donut butts,

  all two members

  of the police department

  of Geasterville

  pulled me over.

  They even used sirens

  and red flashing lights,

  and I wouldn’t be surprised

  if they’d had their fingers

  on the triggers.

  “I’m not exactly

  America’s Most Wanted,

  you know,” I informed

  Officer Cream Puff.

  He just kept writing stuff,

  biting his bottom lip,

  probably because he had

  to really think hard

  to write a ticket for this.

  I got a ticket—a big ticket—

  for something like reckless

  endangerment of swine,

  and leaving the scene

  of a pig that’s been hit.

  “Oh, shit,” I said,

  dropping my head

  onto the steering wheel.

  “Let’s make a deal.

  I don’t hit any more pigs,

  and you don’t give me

  this ticket.”

  The officer

  added something

  to the ticket.

  Twig hissed,

  “Keep your big mouth

  shut, Laura. Cockiness

  will get you nowhere.”

  But the injustice

  of him busting us

  for something like this

  had Sister Slam pissed.

  “This,” I said, “was an act of God.

  It was like lightning,

  or a tornado,

  or an earthquake.

  I didn’t make that pig

  go on the road.

  God made him waddle

  out there,

  right in front of me.

  There was no time to stop,

  Officer.

  In fact, I did stop, but

  the pig was already hit.”

  I was in deep shit.

  I should have just

  kept my mouth closed.

  If only I’d known.

  Second rule

  of the University

  of Gray Road, Blue Sky,

  and Yellow Lines:

  Never Try to Talk Your Way

  Out of a Ticket When You’ve

  Already Admitted That You Hit the Pig.

  And then the cop

  got his dig.

  It was almost as mean

  as the cool group could be,

  back in the old days

  at Banesville High.

  “Body for Life

  is a good diet.

  You should try it.”

  That’s what he said.

  I wished I were dead.

  Just shoot me now,

  before I hit a cow.

  My jaw must have dropped

  because the cop

  rubbed his double chin

  and tried to suck up.

  “I wasn’t intending to insult you.

  It’s just that the diet has helped me,

  and I want to help others.”

  Oh, brother.

  What a loser.

  Probably a boozer, too,

  when he wasn’t

  in that uniform.

  The cop patted his gut.

  “Best shape I’ve ever been in.

  I feel great.

  Now be on your way.

  Don’t hit any pigs.”

  Ha, ha. Sarcasm isn’t attractive

  in an officer of the law.

  I took off, wheels screeching,

  peeling out.

  With a pout,

  Twig sighed.

  “I could’ve died,�
� she said.

  “You? What about me?

  I need a diet.”

  “What a riot,” Twig said,

  spastic and sarcastic.

  “This is a trip.”

  I bit my lip.

  “Twig,” I said,

  “do you ever

  care whether

  I’m fat or thin?”

  Twig grinned.

  “Laura … I mean,

  Sister Slam.

  I like you just

  as you are. I

  even like your car.”

  Twig’s gift

  is being able to lift

  my spirits

  when I’m sad.

  “It’s bangin’

  to be hangin’

  with you,” I said.

  Then we sang along

  with the radio,

  which was playing

  a Barenaked Ladies song.

  We got most of the words

  wrong. Those guys are poets.

  “How far to Tin Can?”

  Twig yelled to a man

  at a shabby gas station

  we passed.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “We’re way low

  on gas.” It’s amazing,

  all the gas

  you have to buy

  when you’re in charge

  of the trip.

  I did a U-turn, quick,

  showing off,

  burning black rubber.

  “Yee-haw,” Twig yelled.

  Now she was getting

  into the spirit of the

  thing. She flapped her arms

  like wings.

  “Don’t hit a chicken!” she squawked.

  When we got out

  to fill the gas tank,

  this skank of a yellow-headed,

  dad-aged, cabbage-shaped

  dude got really rude,

  saying something crude

  about my boobs.

  I flicked him the middle finger,

  figuring that would make him

  go away.

  He couldn’t take a hint.

  “I can’t believe this,” I said

  to Twig.

  “People in the real world

  are as messed up as

  kids in school.

  It’s bull:

  all that stuff they

  say in school

  about maturity

  and real life

  will be different

  and all that.

  It’s bogus.”

  The obscene geek guy

  opened a lemon pie

  and shoved it in his venom-trap,

  chewing with his mouth open

  like some kind of

  Conan the Barbarian

  moron.

  “Fat pig,” he blubbered,

  his flubbery gut

  bouncing as he lumbered

  away.

  “Dork,” I responded.

  That’s when the retard

  retaliated by bombarding

  my car with his smushed-up

  lemon pie.

  And then I

  knew Rule Number Three

  of the university:

  People Are Rude in the Real World, Too.

  Without a clue

  as to what to do,

  I just turned and threw

  a hunk of chewed-up gum

  at the dude’s fat buns.

  Lucky he didn’t have a gun,

  because I would’ve been one

  dead poet.

  But don’t you know it,

  when we left the station,

  Mister Hideous Lemon Pie Idiot