Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip (2 page)

made the cake

and decorated

it with the colors

of Banesville High

and a graduate's cap,”

Twig said, dropping

cake crumbs on my bed.

I nodded.

Pops was

a great baker

of cakes.

That's one thing

I'd miss

when I was away.

“Let's make a

list,” I said,

“of everything

we need to do

for the road trip.”

“We don't need a list,”

Twig said. “Pack clothes.

Write poems. Eat, sleep,

pee, breathe.”

“Okay,” I said. “Time to create.”

Sprawled across

my sloshy waterbed,

we mulled alone then

in our own heads, thinking about

what we could yank out

and put down on paper.

Vapors of poems,

ghost poems,

floated in our

brains, part of us,

but not yet out of us.

Twig broke

the quiet diet of words.

“Remember what you called

your pillows,

when we were little?”

she asked.

“You don't expect

me to forget,”

I answered.

“Gloom pillows.”

My pillows,

like weeping willows,

had seen gallons

of tears through

the years, so I know

it sounds weird,

but I called them

gloom pillows.

They were as gray

as doom, the shades

of tombs, and some days,

soaked sopping wet.

“Maybe I'll write me a poem

or a sad, sad song

or a long sonnet

about my gloom pillows,”

I mused, pulling off

a blue pillowcase

and burying my face

in the gray.

“Hey,” said Twig.

“Don't start

excavating your heart

and feeling sorry for yourself,

Laura. This is no pity

party. Sorry if I got

you started, but now stop.

This is going to be

one fun summer, and our first road

trip ever. Pick yourself up!”

Twig pounced around like a pup.

I sighed, looking at

the photo of Mom

on my closet door.

I'd gotten it blown up

as large as possible,

hoping to make

Mom life-size again.

“The Zen of death

is that she's with you,

big as ever,

every breath, every step,”

said Twig,

guessing my thoughts,

messing with the

depths of my head.

“Stop reading

my mind uninvited,”

I said.

“Quit trespassing

in my brain.”

“Okay,” said Twig

with a grin. There

were red cake crumbs

on her chin. “Let's write.”

The silence returned,

and our muses churned.

The cool thing

about Twig and me

is that we don't need

to talk.

We can be quiet

at the same time.

No-Obligation Conversation.

I was writing poems.

Twig was writing poems.

My lava lamp rolled

slow and relaxing

like the melting wax

of an old Christmas candle

lit for the Fourth of July.

“We might be white,

but we can write

like soul sisters,

man,” said Twig, doodling

and chewing on the eraser

of her pencil.

“Listen to this,” she said.

“The title is ‘Revolution.'”

Then she read:

You say you want a revolution,

but the Constitution

and John Lennon are dead.

Yoko Ono's alone in the bed,

shaking her head over something

John said Yesterday. What a mess today.

I Want to Hold Your Hand,

somebody or anybody's hand.

Do you have a Ticket to Ride?

I lost mine, when John Lennon died.

I applauded.

“It's just like you,”

I said. “Political

and totally cynical.”

“Well, you know

I've been a Beatles

groupie since I

was a fetus,” Twig

said, “thanks to

my mother playing

records to her

pregnant stomach.”

Twig's parents are

eccentric. Way flaky.

Her mother does Botox

and her dad's always in detox

for one substance or another.

“I'm beside myself

for this gig,” Twig said.

“Can you dig it?

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.

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