Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip (8 page)

slams all over

this city.”

“Don't be silly,”

said Misty as she

wiped her lips

on a linen napkin.

“All we ask

is their

parents' permission.”

As I wished to

sink deep into a hole

in the floor, Twig heaped

more hors d'oeuvres

onto a plate, and I began

to hate her once more.

“Twig! Don't be

such a pig!”

I hissed.

“I'm starving

to death,”

Twig mumbled,

her mouth

stuffed full

of crumbled cracker.

“Look,” said Jake.

“They're hungry.

They're alone

in a strange

city, with no clothes

to wear.

They don't even

have clean underwear!

Don't you care?”

“Dude,” said Twig,

“you rock.”

A clock

chimed five times.

“That reminds me!”

said Misty.

“Tavern on the Green!

We have reservations

for six o'clock dinner!”

“Please join us,”

said Vince. “Our treat.”

I stammered,

then blabbered

and jibber-jabbered

something lame

about wishing

we could pay.

“No problem,” said Vince.

“If you'd like to freshen up,

there's an extra

restroom in the next

room, through that door.”

Twig finished her

pig-out feast,

and I was glad

that at least

she'd stopped eating.

We clomped

into the next

room, which

was spooky,

dark as a

tomb, with

the drapes drawn.

I yawned.

It had been

a long day.

“Hey!” said Twig.

“I bet that this

is Jake's bed.”

I turned red.

Twig jumped up,

her boots on the covers.

I shuddered.

“You need

better manners,” I said.

Twig jumped

up and down,

and I found

the light switch

to a rich-people

bathroom.

“Cool!” said Twig,

running in. “Look at this:

they have a little

pink sink,

to wash your face,

I think.”

“Twig,” I said.

“That's not a sink,

and it's not to wash

your face.

It's a bidet.”

“What the hey

is a bidet?”

asked Twig.

“It's to wash places,

not faces, that are,

you know . . .
down below.
”

Twig groaned.

“Gross,” she said.

“You mean like butts

and stuff?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I saw one on TV.”

I could have died,

because Twig tried it

that minute.

“This is way strange,”

she said. “Rich people

have some weird

ways:
bidets
and
bon appetits

and
hors d'oeuvres
and
caviar.

What's up with all the

French stuff?”

The bathroom door

wasn't closed,

and all of a sudden

Jake poked his nose

into the room.

“Whoa!” he said.

“You're supposed to knock,”

Twig said, pulling up her stockings.

Jake did a dance of embarrassment,

the harassment from Twig

not helping matters.

“I'm really sorry,”

he said, blushing

as the bidet went on flushing.

“It's just that we're

rushing to get to

dinner on time.”

We hadn't realized how many

minutes had raced by.

I could have died

a million times

of mortification.

I shoved a handful

of candy hearts

into my mouth.

Twig had been

so totally uncouth.

And it was then

that I lost a tooth.

Looking at the spit-out

red blitz of cinnamon heart

bits that I spouted

into my hand,

I was having fits.

This was the pits.

The gap in my yap

zapped me into

a state of shock,

and I grabbed

a plastic shower cap,

hiding my trap,

so that the empty

eyetooth space

wasn't in full

reddish-blue

view of anybody

who looked at me.

“Let's go!” called Vince.

I winced.

I needed

assistance,

an emergency

dentist, but I had

no insurance.

“Come on,

Miss Toothless,”

teased Twig.

She could be

way crude,

too rude,

for the sake

of a laugh

from a dude.

But Jake didn't

even crack a smile.

He bent down

and gently

pulled back

the plastic shower

cap, peering

at my mouth.

“Bummer,” he said.

I was on the

verge of blubber.

I flicked

the goop,

including my tooth,

into the

toilet bowl, playing

the role of Okay-ness.

“No way in this universe

can I stay

this way,” I said.

“I can't go out to dinner

like this.”

“Get a grip,” said Twig.

“We can't miss

a meal like this.

I mean,

Tavern on the Green!

That's a

famous, groovy

movie-star place!

It'd be a disgrace

to blow off

a fancy chance

like this.”

I was pissed.

Twig couldn't have

cared less

about how

embarrassed

I felt.

“Actually,”

said Jake,

tilting his head,

“you look kind

of quirky-perky

cute like that.

There are

high-throttle models

with gaps

in their teeth,

you know. I'd just

let it go. The essence

of Sister Slam

is eccentricity.

That's why I like you:

you're unique.”

“You mean, like,

a geek?” I asked,

and Jake laughed.

“No way!” he said.

“You're smart and

artistic. You're no

bimbo chick, flouncing

around primping and simpering.

You're interesting.”

“Me?” I asked.

“
Interesting
?”

“Yeah,” Jake said.

“Different. A mix

of bizarre and

beautiful in

a psychedelic

fairy-tale-

mermaid kind

of way. Like

you're not meant

to stay

on the dirt

of Earth.

Like you

belong in

blue air, or

the water.”

“Like Flubber?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“I never meant

that. Don't

you know

how to take

a compliment?”

Jake's face

was sincere,

clear as a star,

and I gasped,

falling hard and

fast, stumbling into

something like

a crush, gushing love

for Jake.

Part of me

couldn't believe

this stroke

of pixie-dust luck,

and I felt as if

I'd been

struck by a

Pizza Hut

delivery truck

or a hockey puck.

I was a sitting duck.

Without thinking, I said,

“You're the nicest guy

I've ever met

in my entire life.”

Jake grinned,

and dimples

creased his cheeks.

I made up my mind

that I'd try to become

the person Jake saw.

“Let's go,” I said.

When we stepped

out of the hotel,

someone had cast

a magic spell,

and I let out a yell,

because there was a limousine

with a driver

named Miguel.

I felt like a

southern belle,

or a pearl

pried from

an oyster shell.

I felt like

the Queen

of Caffeine

or the Cocoa

Bean, like I owned

an automatic

teller machine.

Dressed in

my Halloween-tangerine

1970s dress, this

felt like a dream.

I was not serene:

I was a Mexican

jumping bean.

“Yippee!” I shrieked.

The limousine

was a sleek bright white,

and it stretched elegantly,

luxuriously long.

Nothing more could go wrong.

I climbed into

the limousine,

and it was the

coolest car I've

ever seen:

tinted windows,

shimmery bottles

of expensive wines

for the kinds

of people who dress

fine, and champagne.

It was raining,

but we were

in a moon-white cocoon

of luxury.

“Wish I had

the bucks

for wheels

like this,”

I whispered

to Jake.

He smiled, and his eyes

were like Easter-lily vines:

aquamarine seas just for me

to dive into.

“It belongs to the 'rents,”

he said, as if they weren't

even there. “They let

me drive it once in a while.”

You could have knocked

me over with a feather

and named me Heather,

I was so blown away.

This was so
way

my day.

“Where in the heck

do your 'rents

get all this money?”

Twig whispered.

“Are they drug dealers

or something illegal?”

I stared at a beagle

on a leash in the street.

Twig was such a geek.

Jake just snickered.

“The only drug they

do is liquor,” he said.

Misty and Vince

ignored us, pouring

blood-red wine

into long-stemmed glasses.

“My 'rents are like

big shots in their jobs

at MTV,”

Jake explained.

“They also buy lots of stocks

on Wall Street.

Investment

can't be beat

for getting ahead,

they always say.”

“Cool,” Twig said.

“Way cool,” I said.

But in my head,

I was thinking,

My pops works at a stinking

Mrs. Smith's pie factory

in Banesville, Pennsylvania.

What's Jake going to say

about that?

Then, feeling fat

but happy, I flashed

a gaping grin at Jake, thinking

that I'd savor every minute

of this party favor

lifesaver wild ride:

my once-in-a-

lifetime slide into

euphoria, starting

at the Waldorf-Astoria.

Tavern on the Green

was the most enchanted restaurant

I'd ever seen:

twinkling white lights

and sculptures of ice.

This was no freaking

Mickey D's, KFC,

Dairy Queen,

or Park-N-Eat.

We were seated

in the Crystal Room,

and it shimmered

with chandeliers.

It was magic,

and so tragic

that Twig didn't

know how to act.

She was wacked,

giddy and not

as witty

as she thought.

When they brought

the dish of butter,

it had a cookie-cutter

green insignia

pressed in the

shape of a

leaping deer.

Twig peered

at the logo

and said something

so loco:

“Oh, look here!

A John Deere

tractor picture,

smack-dab

in the middle

of the butter pat!”

Misty batted

her mascara-

brash lashes.

“Twiggy, darling,” she said,

“that's the Tavern

on the Green's

trademark:

a leaping deer.”

“Don't forget

that these chicks

live in the sticks,”

Jake said with

a wink.

I could have fainted.

Only someone

from Banesville

could have been

so clueless.

Twig could make

a career

out of being weird.

Our waiter—

named Weston—

addressed

our table.

“Ladies,” he said

to Twig and me,

“it's refreshing:

a breath of fresh air

to have girls

from the country.”

“They're poets,”

said Jake,

as if that

explained us.

“Sister Slam

and Twig.”

“Splendid!”

said Weston.

“Impressive.”

“Let's have

a recitation

right here,

right now,

in the restaurant,

for the rest of

the customers,”

said Misty.

“I've been here

when they've had

musicians and other

entertainers. Now

it's time for poets.”

“Come on,” said Vince.