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
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