Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip (12 page)

“Hark, the herald

Twig does bring!” Twig

said. “Open it!”

I did, and there

was a matching

fur coat, exactly

like Twig's, except

bigger, and a pair

of dingly jingle bell earrings.

“For our next slam,”

Twig said. “Gotta

look good for when

we find another poetry jam.”

“I'm jonesing for a

poetry slam,” I said.

“You're jonesing for

a certain green-eyed man,” Twig said.

I put the earrings in my

lowest hole. I tried

on the coat.

“You look way great,”

Twig pronounced.

“Date bait.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Great.”

“Somebody just

pulled into the

driveway,” Pops

said. “Bet it's

Fred.” That was

Pops's bud, a dud

of an old fud.

“Dude!” said Twig,

peering through

the window.

“It's a white limousine!”

It was Jake,

and I freaked.

I hopped

up and down,

looking like a

clown, and

Pops laughed.

“You're half

crazy for that

boy,” he said,

and I didn't

deny it.

We watched

as Jake parked

the car, lit by

the stars of

Christmas.

This was

a miracle,

the pinnacle,

and I was
so

not cynical.

“Joy to the world,”

I belted out,

“the dude has come!”

“Don't act so dumb,” Pops said.

“He'll think you're one fry

short of a Happy Meal.”

I squealed, and then

got myself together

before I ventured outside.

“Hey, Jake,” I said,

calm as milk, smooth

as silk in my Santa

PJs and white fur coat.

Jake smiled

and threw his

arms wide, and

I couldn't hide

my insanity any longer.

I threw myself

at him, and Jake

hugged me tight

in the snow-flurry night.

“I have a surprise,”

Jake whispered.

I shivered,

and he lifted his guitar

from the car.

We went into

the living room,

where our aluminum

tree gleamed

silver and green.

Jake beamed

in the sheen

from the tree.

“Sorry that I

haven't called,”

he said, and my

head waltzed

with my heart.

“I've been really busy

working on your gift,

and I just knew that

I'd blow it and spill the secret

if I talked to you.”

He started to hum,

then strummed a riff

of chords, his

fingers flashing magic

of wonder and wings

across the strings

of his guitar.

My heart was pinging.

Jake started singing

my poems, the

words of my slams,

turned into

cool, beautiful

tunes, music of

red and yellow

and purple and blue.

“I worked on them

for weeks,” Jake said

at the end. “And one

more thing.”

He pulled from his pocket

a rockin' silver ring.

“Look inside the

band, the part

that's against

your hand,” he said.

Inscribed inside

were etched words:

“Dream, Believe, Fly.”

“Well, try

it on!” Jake said,

and I did. It fit

perfectly.

“Your present,” I blubbered,

“is a whole bunch of

poems. I'll read them

to you later, when I

can talk. I also got

you some awesome

guitar picks.”

“Cool,” said Jake.

“And there's one

more thing, from

my 'rents, for Twig

and you: a gig on

the Starlight Roof

of the Waldorf-

Astoria. You'll

slam some, and then

I'll play the songs

with your words.

Not promising

anything, but

Mom and Dad

did this rad

thing: they

arranged for

the MTV people

to be there.

You know:

people on the

go, people in

the know,

people who

make shows.

Who knows:

maybe a video

will end up

on MTV!”

“Sweet!” I shrieked,

and Twig freaked.

She screamed.

“What about Ron?” I asked,

and she waved her hand.

“Ron who? He'll find something

else to do.”

“Pops is coming, too,

to see you two

do your thing,”

Jake said. “We're

leaving tonight.

The 'rents are paying

for a week at the

Waldorf, so we'll

all be there for

New Year's Eve.”

“I can't believe

this!” I squeaked. “Sweet!”

Jake lifted

his guitar.

“I called Scarecrow

to let him know.

Ready to go?”

“No,” I said.

“Not yet.

There's something

I need to do

first. Something

that Pops and I

haven't done

for way too long.

It was once

a tradition

on Christmas Eve,

but we just couldn't seem

to keep it up

after Mom died.”

Twig smiled.

She read my mind.

“It's time

to start the tradition

again,” she said.

I went to my bedroom,

and there on the shelf

were all of the

books we'd read when

I was a kid.

I chose four:

one each for Jake

and Twig and Pops

and me.

I read
Green Eggs

and Ham
,

in the style of slam,

and then

Jake read

Frosty the Snowman
.

Twig's book was

The Last Chimney

of Christmas Eve
,

and I could feel

I was starting to

believe in magic

once more.

Then it was Pops's

turn, and the words

of
The Cat in the Hat

took me back

to Christmas Eve

with Mom.

It was the bomb,

because I felt

Mom's presence,

her essence,

and that was

the best present ever.

“Now we can go,”

I said, and we unplugged

stuff and packed bags.

I remembered Pops's medicine.

“One pill, two pills,

red pill, blue pill,” I said,

and then we left the house in

complete darkness,

heading together to

the car.

The stars

in the sky

were at the height

of bright,

and the light

from the moon

lit up the blue

magnetic sign

on the driver's

side door:

SISTER SLAM, TWIG,

AND THE POETIC MOTORMOUTH

ROAD TRIP

I wrapped my arms

around Jake's

neck, and then

we kissed. It

was bliss, kismet,

a blitz of our lips zipped

together, close and warm

and just as I'd

always dreamed

it would be

in the best

serendipity fantasy.

Pops whistled. “Where's

the mistletoe?” he asked.

“Get a room,

you two!” said

Twig, and we

pulled apart,

my heart

doing cartwheels.

Bells were pealing

somewhere in

Banesville, and

flurries of snow

were falling soft

on our noses,

and all of a sudden

there was the smell

of roses.

I breathed in deep.

“What's that smell?”

asked Jake.

“Evergreen,” Twig said.

“It's Christmas Eve.”

Then, leaving home

behind, we climbed

into the limousine,

and the full moon beamed

a wreath of green-cheese teeth

with a sheath of stars.

We settled into the car

and started our most-hip

road trip—Sister Slam and

Jake, Pops and Twig,

below the moon that lit

both New York City

and home.

With loads of gratitude to:

Deborah Warren
, my wonderful, sparkly, and smart agent.
Thanks for finding a good home for Sister Slam.

Victoria Wells Arms
, a whiz of an editor and a true book angel.
Thanks for giving Sister a home at Bloomsbury.

Carolyn Magner
, a cool and crazy chick with no clue as to what a
great writer she is. Thanks for reading and encouraging.

My family
, thanks for putting up with the Sister and the Twig in me.
And a special thank-you to my poet son Zach,
who almost washed his face in the bidet.

Copyright © 2004 by Linda Oatman High

Electronic edition published in December 2012

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to
Permissions, Bloomsbury Children's Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

Published by Bloomsbury, New York and London

All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
available upon request

eISBN: 978 1 5823 4896 4 (e-book)

www.bloomsburyteens.com