Read Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip for Free Online Page B

I’d never
    felt more alive
    in my life.
    I felt like fluff,
    a bubble,
    floating, buzzing,
    no more trouble.
    My senses were on
    high alert, and even
    though my head
    and neck hurt,
    I fretted about my
    breath and kept
    getting mint Certs
    from Twig.
    â€œStop bumming,”
    said Twig,
    who was humming
    the Beatles song
    â€œLet It Be.”
    (I beat
    her to the car,
    so my seat was up
    front, with Jake.)
    A bundle of stress,
    I sweated and fidgeted:
    a midget in the
    presence of greatness
    with Jake-ness.
    Jake had six
    bags of candy
    in the backseat,
    and he reached
    back and fished
    out a bag for me:
    spicy red cinnamon hearts.
    â€œYou’re so nice.
    I love spicy
    candy,” I gushed.
    I wished I’d worn
    some glamorous
    purple eye shadow
    and mascara,
    so I could bat
    my lashes
    in a passion
    of flirtation,
    but I’d been too lazy
    for makeup.
    That proves
    that it grooves
    to always look
    your best,
    because you
    just never know
    who you’re going
    to wreck into.
    I hoped that Jake
    wouldn’t notice
    my lack of cosmetics,
    and that he’d get
    romantic about my
    intellect instead.
    I dumped a handful
    of candy
    into my mouth,
    then shoved the bag
    in the pocket
    of my vest.
    It was best
    if I didn’t invest
    much attention
    in sweets.
    (“Hi. My name
    is Laura
    and I’m a sugar-holic.”)
    The skyline of the city
    shimmered, glimmered,
    mysterious in the distance,
    and I started to sing
    that goofy old tune
    â€œI Love New York.”
    Jake drove like an expert,
    never once swerving.
    I funneled
    my emotions,
    pouring out boring
    words, rambling
    on and on.
    â€œSo I was born
    in Banesville,”
    and stuff like that.
    The motion of the Mustang
    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,
    â€œYou are so totally cute.”
    â€œHow rude!” Twig fussed.
    â€œThat’s lewd, just crude, to
    swoon all moon-faced
    with Jake, who you just met,
    like, sixty minutes ago.”
    I looked at the clock.
    â€œEighty minutes,”
    I said. “And ten seconds.”
    â€œI’m guessing that you must
    be in shock,” Twig said.
    â€œMaybe we should stop
    at a hospital.
    A
mental
hospital.”
    â€œI might be in shock,” I said,
    â€œbut Jake rocks.”
    â€œIgnore her,” said Twig.
    â€œShe’s not usually like this.
    She’s never
    even kissed a guy
    in her entire life.”
    â€œNo way,” said Jake.
    â€œYes way,” said Twig.
    â€œYou’re full of shit,” said Jake.
    â€œNo way,” said Twig.
    â€œWait a minute!” I said.
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œMaybe when
    she’s eighty,”
    said Twig.
    We shot
    from the tunnel
    and into the city,
    and I was feeling ditzy.
    â€œWhat’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.
    â€œHoly 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.
    â€œIf we look
    real close,
    we might
    see the host
    of a game show,
    or a sports hero,
    or a size-zero
    supermodel,”
    Twig said.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œI could
    write a book
    of