Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip (11 page)

“I'm lucky, too,” I said.

“I don't know what I'd do

without you. Seriously. I'd be

deliriously wacked.

They'd have to lock me

in a padded room.”

“It's true,” Twig said.

“She'd be a lunatic

without you.”

Pops touched my cheek,

and we didn't speak, as

nurses squeaked

by and a baby

began to cry

from somewhere

out there.

“So how was your

poetry tour?”

Pops asked,

and I grinned.

“Cool,” I answered.

“It's too hard to

make a

long story

short. I'll try to

explain it

later. By

the way,

this is Jake.

He saved

my life.”

Pops was a

gentleman,

even in a

dress, and

he shook

Jake's hand.

“Pleased to meet

you, Jake,” he said.

“Thanks for

looking out for my

baby girl.

She's the

only one

I've got.”

“No problem,”

said Jake.

“He's my

best friend,”

I said, but then

Twig glared.

“After Twig,”

I said.

Pops rubbed

his head, a

faraway gaze

in his faded

blue eyes. “When

the pain in my chest

started,” he said,

“I had a vision

of you two—

Twig and Laura—

and you were

big stars, driving

fancy cars and

signing autographs.

Then I saw Mom,

right before everything

went black

with the heart attack.”

“Wow,” I said,

and took a big

breath. “Pow.”

I sat down

on the edge of

Pops's bed.

“So how's

Mrs. Smith's

been?” I asked.

“Same old

game,” Pops said.

“Cherry pies

churning out

like flies.”

“Pops works

in a pie factory,”

I explained to Jake,

no longer ashamed.

“A pie factory,” Jake said.

“Cool. Free pies.”

Pops's eyes gleamed,

and he seemed to

really be liking Jake.

“What's the meaning of

the Chinese blue tattoo?”

Pops asked.

Jake smiled

and held his

arm to the light.

“Dream, Believe,

Fly,” Jake said,

and then we

all got quiet

and watched

the light of Pops's

beating heart.

I was back

in the House

of Crapper,

and I was

happier than ever,

back in the 'hood.

It felt good—

like home,

only better.

Pops never said

one word about me

wrecking the Firebird,

and he laminated and framed

the news photos of me and

Twig, hanging them all

over the walls.

Back in my toad-colored,

gloom-pillowed room,

with my waterbed

and lava lamp bubbling

water-red, I felt content.

Pops—my 'rent—

was recovering,

and I was hovering:

fluffing his pillows

and dispensing his pills

lined up on

the windowsill.

I was filled

with gratitude,

and my latitude

and attitude

were cool with Pops.

“It's wonderful

to have your music

blaring from the bedroom,”

he said. “I'm so glad to have

you back home.”

I got a job

at Bibliophile

Bob's Books,

the only bookstore

for miles,

where the floor

had black and purple tiles,

and the ceiling was painted

with strange deranged angels

playing electric guitars

instead of harps.

“Aren't you Laura Crapper?”

asked the customers, and

I got looks of respect

mixed with envy

because they'd

seen the headlines

in the local paper

about my poetry caper.

“A.K.A. Sister Slam,”

I replied.

Twig was working

at Wild Child's

Beef Jerky,

and we called Scarecrow

to tell him that

we were back home.

“You're letting your

apartment go?” he asked.

“Bummer.”

“It was a good summer,”

I said. “But Pops needs me.”

Jake and I talked every

day—about everything from

temporary hair dyes

to lemon pies. We

dragged out our good-byes,

and Jake said that I

was his light on moonless

nights, like he was mine.

“You two make me sick,” Twig

complained. “You're like a crack

addict, except that you're

addicted to Jake.”

“You're just jealous,” I responded,

“because your brand-new boyfriend,
Ron
,

drives a rattletrap
Honda

and isn't nearly as hot as Jake.”

On Halloween,

his face painted

lizard-green,

Jake came and we

went trick or treating,

with me teetering in glittery

red
Wizard of Oz

shoes. Twig's costume

was a floozy, and her

doozy of a boyfriend

didn't even need a mask.

Thumbing our noses

at the ridiculous Banesville

rule about not being

over thirteen for trick

or treat, we walked

door-to-door, collecting candy

in pumpkin buckets.

“Let's see how many

treats we can eat before

midnight,” Jake

said, and Twig,

thinner than ever,

was the big winner

of a miniature

candy-bar dinner.

In November,

I drove Pops's

Chevy, alone,

(Pops was too tired to go,

he said) to Jersey

and had Thanksgiving dinner

in an expensive restaurant

with Misty and Vince

and Jake.

“Everybody say

what you're grateful for,”

said Misty,

and we listed gratitudes.

Mine included

Pops, my job, Twig,

and of course Jake.

“I'm grateful for Laura,

my car, and my guitar,” said

Jake. “In that order.”

Late that night, I hated

to leave Jake waving

in the rearview mirror.

“Peace out!”

he shouted. “Ciao!

Keep your eyes

on the road.”

I blew him

an invisible kiss,

then drove

home thinking

about how

Jake's eyes

caught the star glow.

He called

as soon as I

got back home.

“Just wanted

to say that I

really meant

what I said,”

he said.

“What: Peace out?”

I asked. “Ciao?

Keep my eyes on

the road?”

“No, crazy,” Jake said.

“About being

grateful for you,

the car, and the guitar,

in that order.

No girl's ever had

that honor before.”

“Well, this is one

flattered fat chick,” I said.

“Laura,” said Jake,

“please don't say stuff

like that. Don't call

yourself fat. You are

the coolest girl I know.”

But then,

in the beginning

of the freezing

winter season,

for no reason

that I knew,

from out of

the cold blue on December

twenty-two,

Jake's calls stopped,

and my pillows

were sopped

from sobbing.

“I'm wrecked,

a mess, in distress,

feeling less

alive than

dead,” I said

to Twig.

“It's not even been a week,”

she said. “Maybe he has

laryngitis and can't speak.”

I tried to

be cool,

but I felt

like such

a fool.

“There are

lots more sharks

in the aquarium,”

Twig said.

“We'll go to

the Guy-arium

and buy one

on sale.

Dudes are

a dime

a dozen.”

“Maybe he

found some

hussy,” I fussed.

“So bust him. Call.

E-mail. Drive to Jersey.”

I shook my head.

“I don't want to

seem desperate,

even though I am,” I said.

“Forget him,” said

Twig. “He's only

one of a trillion

male species beasts.”

“But Twig,

Jake is my friggin'

soul mate.

I'm wiggin' out without

him, not diggin'

it big time.”

“Get a grip,”

said Twig.

“It's been only

three freakin'

days, Laura.”

“But I hate

days without

Jake,” I said. “It's

like German

chocolate cake

without the icing.

Like blades

slicing my

heart, or

Cupid shooting

poison-ass darts,

or somebody

stealing my

Pop Tarts.

Life farts without

Jake in it.”

“Ohmygod. It's been only

three days,” Twig repeated.

“But three days

without Jake is like

a year without anybody

else,” I muttered,

and Twig shuddered.

“It's not like he's water

or air,” she said.

“You don't need him to survive.

You can stay alive

without a drink of Jake.”

Twig grinned.

“Hey, I just had a brainstorm!

How about I fix you up

with that divorced guy Norm,

from my work?”

“He's a jerk,” I said.

“I don't want some

beef jerky
dude.

Not to be rude,

Twig, but no thanks.”

“Listen, Sister,” Twig said.

“You're a girl who doesn't

need pearls or curls or

a romance with a man. You can

stand on your own two

combat-boot feet.”

I was bummed,

and my cup

was empty. I

was a Humpty

Dumpty fallen

off the wall.

I tried to call

again and again

but just kept getting

the beeps of the machine.

There was a

blue hole in my soul.

I coped with a poem:

I've paid the debt

of deep regret.

Lamented, repented,

yet stuck in cement.

I can smoke another cigarette,

get myself a red Corvette,

eat another crepe suzette,

drink lots of anisette.

But there's one thing

I can't forget:

the shadow of his silhouette.

“Get a grip,” Twig said.

“You don't smoke

or drink.”

“I think that I might

start,” I said.

Then I went

to bed, feeling dead

in my head,

and in my legs,

and most definitely

in the red of my heart.

It was Christmas Eve,

and our holiday doorbell

chimed to the tune of

“Silent Night.”

“We have too much

annoying joyful noise

in this house,” I groused to Pops.

Pops is into all this animated

Christmas stuff: Santa snoring,

Mrs. Claus pouring milk,

motion-activated elves putting

toys on shelves.

Pops and I had

cookies galore

from the

Wal-Mart store,

but still, I felt

bored, out of

sorts, numb to

the core.

“It's Christmas, Sister!”

Pops said, trying to

cheer me by using my slam name.

“Big deal,” I said.

“It's just another day.”

So anyway,

the doorbell

was blaring away,

and I didn't care

who was there,

because it wasn't

Jake, and Santa

Claus is a fake. I

was a Scrooge, a

grouch with an ouch

in the part of me

that used to believe.

I flung open

the door, and it

was Twig, all

decked out in

this retro

fur coat from

a vintage shop,

with jingle bell

earrings swinging.

She was bringing

my gift, which

was wrapped in

an old road map.

“Hey, Sister,”

she said, and

slapped me a

high five.

“Look alive!

Happy holidays!”

“Yeah,” I said.

I was trying to

get into the spirit

of things, wearing

my Rudolph fuzz slippers

and Santa Claus PJs

of red velour.

Twig handed

me the road-

map-wrapped

box. I'd already

given her toe socks

and Pop Rocks

and a clock

that glows pink

in the dark.