Read Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip Online
Authors: Linda Oatman-High
“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 tripâSister 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)