Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip (6 page)

in too-high spiked heels,

and leaned down in his nifty little

glittery gown with not a hint

of a frown.

“It's only a homely

old Pinto,” he said,

waving his hand.

“A rusty fusty

old bucket of bolts.

No damage.

Don't worry about it,

girlfriend. It's not worth

the expense of an

insurance increase.”

“Geez,” I wheezed.

My knees were knocking,

rocking with

choked-back hysteria.

I blushed, or flushed,

got goose bumps,

and then gushed

with so much

appreciation.

It was my initiation

into the world of weird.

“We are way far

from home,”

I pronounced

as Mister Pink Dress

flounced away,

swaying, sashaying.

“Yeah,” said Twig.

“We're not in Kansas

anymore, Toto.

We're not even

in SoHo.”

“It went without a hitch,” I said.

“Just a glitch, a tiny stitch

on the fabric map of where

we're going.”

“Speaking of maps,”

Twig said, “are you lost?”

“I'm the boss,” I said.

“Hold onto the hoss, cowgirl,

because we're almost

in New York.”

With those words,

I made some tight right

turns as a fly-by bird

splattered a

shattered souvenir

of Newark smack-dab

in the middle

of the windshield.

Maybe that's why

I missed the YIELD

sign.

Or maybe it was

the sun

in my eyes.

Or the fact

that I couldn't stop

cackling about

the pink-dress

guy.

I don't know why,

but in the blink

of a winking

eye,

my Firebird

was smashed,

crashed,

bashed

on the driver's side

full force

by a Mustang

that was no dang horse.

When the universe

stopped spinning,

I thought maybe

I was dead

and in heaven.

But then again,

my wrecked head

was dizzy

and fizzy from

the crash.

Twig groaned,

and I heard the

ding-a-ling ring

of a cell phone.

“I guess this isn't heaven,” I said.

“You don't need

to call people

when you're dead.”

Twig and I kicked

wickedly

with our Doc Marten

boots,

pushing

our way

through

the ruckus-buckled

doors,

and the roars

of traffic

whooshing,

rushing,

whizzing past,

hissing,

blasted fast

into my head.

“What the heck

is up with all

these accidents?”

Twig asked,

and I shrugged.

“Beats me,” I said.

“Are you sure

we're not dead?”

Twig asked.

“All I saw was blue,

coming at you. Whew!”

Twig's knee was bleeding,

tiny droplets of blood leaking

through her skin.

I didn't know where to begin

figuring out how the crash happened.

“What the hell?”

somebody yelled.

“Everybody all right?”

I saw the white light

of fight, and was in

the mood for super-bad attitude.

“How rude!” I shouted,

but then doubted

my sanity and bit

my lip when I

caught a glimpse

of the cute dude

in the blue Mustang.

Dang, he was hot.

A lot. We don't

often see good-looking

guys in the boondocks

of Banesville.

I stuttered,

words spreading like butter,

heart fluttering,

muttering something

about how manically

sorry I was

to have blurted

impulsive stuff

to such a hunk.

I was such a punk.

The guy's eyes

were kind of like

green lime, except sweet.

Avocado-hotto green,

the shade of Kool-Aid

with sugar.

I'm a sucker

for hunky guys

with green eyes,

and was suddenly

struck shy.

“Hi . . . wh . . .what's

your name?”

I was so lame.

My claim to fame

isn't playing the game

of flirtation.

The sensation

of numbness

and dumbness

made my brain

fall asleep.

I was a geek.

I was weak

in the speaking

department.

“My . . . my

name is

Laura,”

I mumbled,

stumbling, fumbling

for something

not bumbling.

“Sister Slam

on this trip,”

said Twig,

and I jabbed

her with

my elbow.

“Oww!” howled Twig.

The guy smiled,

and his teeth

were like a

tooth whitener

commercial,

or an ad in a magazine.

I was smitten, bitten

by a love bug

or something.

I didn't

even care

that I'd

just been hit.

I was in deep smit.

My car (it had been Mom's car, too,

which made me kind of blue)

was totaled, and a passing tow truck

stopped to hook it up.

Soon, they'd be taking my Firebird

away to the Graveyard

of Crashed Cars.

I had a vision that my car

would rest in peace,

and that at least

I would get

a big insurance settlement

from the wreck.

“How are you

getting home?”

asked the guy

of the sweet green eyes,

and I shrugged.

The love bug

affected my tongue,

and I clung to Twig's arm.

I was charmed,

struck speechless.

“We're going

to the city,” said Twig.

“Me, too,” the guy said.

“I live near here,

but I'm meeting my parents

for a week of vacation.”

I still couldn't speak.

“You're, like, eighteen,” Twig said,

“and you still go on trips

with your parents?”

The guy shrugged.

I could have hugged

him; that's how cute the dude was,

with duck fuzz on his chin

where a goatee should have been.

“Hey,” he said,

“we stay at the Waldorf,

okay? It's cool.

I'd be a fool

to turn down a free week

at the Waldorf-Astoria.”

I was filled

with euphoria.

This was phantasmagoria:

a dream come true.

Not only was he

cute, but the dude

had bucks. It sucks

not
to have bucks.

“What luck!” I said.

“It's a coincidence!

That's kind of like

where we're going, too!”

“Laura,” said Twig.

“What about SoHo?”

“Oh, no. No SoHo.

Waldorf all the way. Hey!

Do you have room for two more?

We'll sleep on the floor.”

“Sure,” said the guy.

“My parents won't mind.”

I started to climb

into his car.

“Laura!” said Twig.

“We need to wait

for the police.

And at least

you should know his name,

for heaven's sake!”

“Jake,” he said.

I liked the shape

of Jake's head:

big enough to hold

a good brain.

“It's great;

it totally rates

to make your acquaintance,

Jake,” I said.

Manners are a banner

advertising a good upbringing,

so I shook his hand.

Man, it was electric,

metric-system mathematics

full of static shocks

when our eyes locked.

One plus one equals two

out-of-the-blue

in love, or lust, busted.

Twig was disgusted.

She sighed

and rolled her eyes.

Jake had two

ear hoops

and a fine tattoo

of a Chinese

squiggle-symbol

on his arm.

“You look like

a poet, don't

you know it?” I said.

Jake smiled,

and I went wild inside.

“A musician,” he said.

“Guitar strummer, drummer,

writer of songs.”

“You can't go wrong,” I said.

Twig just shook her head.

“A drummer,” she said.

“What a bummer.

Remember the Mummers

in the Philadelphia parade?

I would've paid

those drummers to shut up.”

I was mortified,

embarrassment fortified

by Twig's wacked

lack of respect for Jake.

Sirens shrilled,

and I could have killed

Twig. I willed

myself filled

with a balm of calm.

“Here come the cops,”

said Twig. “Hey, maybe

they'll throw us in jail.

It never fails,

in the movies,

that the groovy

people end up

in jail, no bail.”

“We're not going

to prison,” I said.

The officer wore dark shades,

and he asked our names,

butt-strutted around to

look at our plates,

then got on his radio

walkie-talkie thing

to call in to somebody

who cared about stuff

like this.

Static crackling,

the officer started cackling

when he heard

that I got a ticket

for hitting a pig.

I don't know how

you get a gig

where you can make a big

deal out of stuff like this.

But he did.

“Kid,” said the cop,

“you have too many

Pennsylvania points

on your license. By

the way, I need to see

your license.”

“It's in the glove compartment

of that crushed car over there,”

I said, and the officer shook his head.

“Is she going to prison?”

Twig asked.

The officer shook his head.

“You should've just stayed in bed

this morning,

because you've crashed and bashed

your way

into losing

your driver's license, young lady.

It'll be revoked.”

Holy smokes. I was
so
not stoked.

But then I remembered:

I didn't have wheels anymore anyway.

It was my big day.

I'd have to just ride away

into the blazing sunset with Jake.

This was no mistake.

This was fate.

My first date,

and I couldn't wait

one minute more.

Jake's car was

dented but driveable,

and I'd never

felt more alive

in my life.

I felt like fluff,

a bubble,

floating, buzzing,

no more trouble.

My senses were on

high alert, and even

though my head

and neck hurt,

I fretted about my

breath and kept

getting mint Certs

from Twig.

“Stop bumming,”

said Twig,

who was humming

the Beatles song

“Let It Be.”

(I beat

her to the car,

so my seat was up

front, with Jake.)

A bundle of stress,

I sweated and fidgeted:

a midget in the

presence of greatness

with Jake-ness.

Jake had six

bags of candy

in the backseat,

and he reached

back and fished

out a bag for me:

spicy red cinnamon hearts.

“You're so nice.

I love spicy

candy,” I gushed.

I wished I'd worn

some glamorous

purple eye shadow

and mascara,

so I could bat

my lashes

in a passion

of flirtation,

but I'd been too lazy

for makeup.

That proves

that it grooves

to always look

your best,

because you

just never know

who you're going

to wreck into.

I hoped that Jake

wouldn't notice

my lack of cosmetics,

and that he'd get

romantic about my

intellect instead.

I dumped a handful

of candy

into my mouth,

then shoved the bag

in the pocket

of my vest.

It was best

if I didn't invest

much attention

in sweets.

(“Hi. My name

is Laura

and I'm a sugar-holic.”)

The skyline of the city

shimmered, glimmered,

mysterious in the distance,

and I started to sing

that goofy old tune

“I Love New York.”

Jake drove like an expert,

never once swerving.

I funneled

my emotions,

pouring out boring

words, rambling

on and on.

“So I was born

in Banesville,”

and stuff like that.

The motion of the Mustang