Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip (7 page)

was a potion of relaxation,

and the sensation of floating

took over.

In the dimness

of the Lincoln Tunnel

of love, snug as

a thumb in a glove,

I hovered over

the shifter and whispered,

“You are so totally cute.”

“How rude!” Twig fussed.

“That's lewd, just crude, to

swoon all moon-faced

with Jake, who you just met,

like, sixty minutes ago.”

I looked at the clock.

“Eighty minutes,”

I said. “And ten seconds.”

“I'm guessing that you must

be in shock,” Twig said.

“Maybe we should stop

at a hospital.

A
mental
hospital.”

“I might be in shock,” I said,

“but Jake rocks.”

“Ignore her,” said Twig.

“She's not usually like this.

She's never

even kissed a guy

in her entire life.”

“No way,” said Jake.

“Yes way,” said Twig.

“You're full of shit,” said Jake.

“No way,” said Twig.

“Wait a minute!” I said.

“What is this?

The
Jerry Springer
show?

My first kiss, you know,

is my business!

It'll be kismet, destiny,

what-will-be-will-be,

the best freaking ever

for me, happening

when it's meant to be.”

“Maybe when

she's eighty,”

said Twig.

We shot

from the tunnel

and into the city,

and I was feeling ditzy.

“What's up,

Big Apple?

What's happenin'?”

I shouted at people

on sidewalks and streets.

It was a smorgasbord

of humanity,

and profanity

slipped from my lips.

“Holy shit!

I never saw so

many different

races in the

same place!”

It was a

rat race, a

street pace

of faces

from light

to dark

and in between:

more skin

colors

than exist

in the

white-bread world

of Banesville.

“If we look

real close,

we might

see the host

of a game show,

or a sports hero,

or a size-zero

supermodel,”

Twig said.

“We might

see the

grooviest movie

stars,

or TV stars,

or famous players

of guitars!

Who knows

who goes

in all the limos?”

Horns blared,

and nobody cared

or stared

or dared to bare

their teeth

in the hint of

a grin.

I didn't know

where to begin

to look.

“I could

write a book

of poems

about this city,”

I said.

I felt New York

in my bones

and in my flesh:

a mishmash mesh

of a place

that starts

the race

for the rest

of America.

“This is just

like you see on TV!”

I said. Jake just

smiled and shook his head.

I was in a state

of hysteria, laughing and staring,

not even caring

what Jake thought,

or thinking that I ought

to be cool.

Jake played

tour guide, driving

fearlessly in bumper-to-

bumper craziness, unfazed.

“Here we are!”

Jake announced,

proud. “The Waldorf-

Astoria, to your left.”

Jake coasted

to the sidewalk.

“Is this where you park?”

I asked, in the dark

about how a car gets

parked in a place like this.

Jake shook his head.

“Parking garage,” he said.

It was like a ballet:

a valet and a mellow

yellow-tasseled bellboy

and a top-hatted, tailcoated

doorman, all in a dance

of service just for us.

They made such a fuss,

tipping their caps

and zapping us with happy

smiles and all that.

I felt so fat,

and not quite

dressed right,

and tried

with all my might

to be polite.

Jake knew

just how to act,

not lacking in manners

or cosmopolitan coolness.

He opened

the trunk, looking like

such a hunk, and lifted

a guitar case from inside,

along with a cool blue suitcase.

“I'll get your bags,

miss,” said the

whistling bell guy,

and it was then

that I realized

that . . .
Duh!

Twig and I

were so totally dumb,

and our suitcases

(and wallets)

were on their way

to the place

where wrecked cars go.

“You can borrow my clothes,”

said Jake as we waited

for the elevator.

“Thanks, but what size?

Don't lie. Your pants

don't have a chance

of fitting my ass,” I said.

“And Twig's too skinny.”

“My mom's a stick,” Jake said.

“Her stuff will fit Twig.

And my dad's big.

I mean, slightly large.

Or you could just

charge your credit card

and buy a whole bunch

of new clothes,

like at Saks or Macy's

or somewhere.”

I sighed. I could

have died. My wide

load was so fat

that it'd compare

to someone's
dad.

This was bad. Way sad.

So I just tried to laugh.

“Can you believe

how brainless

we were, to leave our

bags in the car!”

I didn't want

to confess that I didn't possess

a MasterCard or Visa

or any other plastic money.

Pops was funny about stuff

like that, and never allowed

me to apply for credit cards.

“The interest will get the best

of you,” he always said.

But now my head was exploding.

I had no clothes to wear.

I'd have to be a nudist

in New York.

What a doofus of a dork.

The Waldorf was the fanciest

hotel I'd ever been in.

I couldn't believe

we were going to sleep here.

The lobby alone put my home

to shame. I felt lame,

such a mess in my polyester vest

over a 1970s dress, bopping across

the lobby in scuffed-up

combat boots. Everybody else

was cute or rich: bitchy rich.

A lady in the lobby,

wearing a mink,

with a pink hat,

wouldn't even bat

her snobby eyes at us.

“What's up with
that?

A mink coat

in the month

of June?”

Twig said

way too loud.

We didn't

know how to act

in a place like this.

I was pissed

that I hadn't dressed up

in something nice,

since I'd have to wear

it for the rest of my life.

The elevator came,

and I was so lame,

I just let Jake

push the button

for Forty-Four

and then sank to

the floor as we soared

to the sky.

“Are you

all right?”

asked Jake.

“Stomachache.

I'm afraid

of heights.”

“What a

bite,” Jake said.

“Wait until

you see the view

from our room.”

Impending doom

in my womb,

I just clutched

my stomach

and moaned.

“Laura,” said Twig,

“get a grip.”

When the elevator

finally came

to a stop,

I mopped

the sweat from my head

and caught

a glimpse

of myself

in the

golden mirror.

I was

a freaking mess.

I hated

this outdated dress,

and the vest

didn't do much

to hide my breasts.

“To the left,”

Jake said. He led

us down the hall.

The walls were so

elegant. I was

an elephant. Even the

paintings were shaking

from my steps.

Jake kept walking

and walking,

and the hall felt like

forever, and Twig's

step was light

as a feather,

and I thought

we'd never

get there.

I needed Nair

for my hairy

legs. The stubble

rubbed together

when I walked.

This made me sulk,

and I didn't talk much.

I was such

a grump, a lump

of rump and legs

and breasts.

The underarms

of my dress

were wet

with sweat.

Jake came

to a stop by door

Four-Hundred

Forty-Four.

Jake opened

the door

with a plastic

key card,

and I caught

my breath.

The room wasn't just

a room. It was

a freaking suite.

We were

in the towers, and

there were flowers

and furniture everywhere.

A lady with shiny

Barbie-blonde

hair was there,

and a man

with a tropical tan.

“These are

the 'rents,” Jake said.

“Vince and Misty . . .

Twig and Sister Slam.”

I stuck out my hand.

“Sir and ma'am,

pleased to meet you.”

Jake looked impressed.

I was on my best

behavior, because

Jake was our savior.

“Mom and Dad,” he said,

“you won't believe this.

I just missed being killed

in an accident

because I wasn't

paying attention. Anyway,

the Mustang is okay,

just a few dents and

dings. The cops came,

and they took away

Twig and Sister's car,

and they're far from home

without any money

or clothes. They're poets.

So, anyway, could they

stay? Like,

on the floor?

They sure do need

a place to stay.”

“Well . . . okay,” said

Jake's mom.

She was the bomb.

“Have you

called your

parents?” asked

Jake's dad.

“We don't

have cell phones,”

Twig said.

“And anyway,

Laura's mother

is dead.”

Twig was hit

by what she'd said.

She turned red

and put her hands on

her head.

“That didn't

come out right,”

she said.

“I mean,

she passed away,

so Laura only

has a father.

And I don't

bother much

with my parents,

because they're,

like, way into

themselves.”

Misty raised

her perfectly

tweezed eyebrows,

and Vince frowned,

crinkling his brown skin.

Twig couldn't win.

Everything she said

came out wrong.

“If you call

your parents,”

Vince said,

“I'll speak

to them.”

I dreaded

letting Pops know

about the wreck,

but what

the heck . . .

he had to find out

sooner or later.

A waiter-dude came

into the room,

wearing a bow tie

and holding

a silver tray

full of food.

I felt rude,

eating their food,

but Misty insisted.

“Bon appetit,” she said.

“Have some

hors d'oeuvres.”

The nerve

of Twig:

she just

dove right in,

helping herself

to a wealth of grub

that cost big bucks.

I was reluctant

and said, No,

thank you

very much,

that I'd already

had lunch,

but Misty made such

a big deal

out of needing

to eat

a mini-meal

in between

each big

meal that

I finally

gave in.

“It's a sin

to waste,” Misty said.

I tasted

a paste

of something

expensive

spread on a

Ritz cracker,

and felt like such

a slacker,

not offering

to pay.

“So, can

they stay?”

Jake asked.

I couldn't believe

my ears,

but he really seemed

to be into Twig and me

sleeping here.

I wasn't clear as to why,

but the guy had made

up his mind to be

way kind to Twig and me.

“They may stay,”

said Vince, “if their parents

give permission.

It's their parents' decision.”

“But they're eighteen,”

Jake said,

and his green

eyes gleamed.

“I have an idea.

They'll write

poems about you.

They're poets,

you know.

They'll make

you famous,

saying your

names at poetry