Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip Read Free

knew by heart.
    â€œLaura!” hollered Twig.
    â€œWatch where you’re going!”
    I swerved, just missing
    a kissing couple on the
    side of the road.
    PDAs—Public Displays
    of Affection—are accepted
    after graduation, I guess. I must confess
    that no boy had ever kissed me in public
    or
in private.
    â€œCall me Sister Slam,” I said to Twig.
    â€œI’m Sister Slam on this trip.”
    Twig nodded, pressing
    her hand to her chest
    as if I had startled
    her almost to death.
    She took deep breaths.
    â€œRelax,” I said. “Kick back.
    You’re in the good hands
    of safe Sister Slam. So just chill.”
    I pressed the pedal to the metal
    and settled deep into the seat.
    A sinful wind was blowing
    through my just-dyed spikes,
    and the dizzy spinning
    of wheels on road felt good.
    The red needle
    of the speedometer
    was pointing higher
    than I’d ever gone before.
    The roar of the motor
    was like a lion,
    and the steering wheel
    vibrated like fate
    beneath my driving-
    fast hands.
    â€œLaura,” said Twig.
    â€œSlow down.”
    So I did. Then I said,
    â€œSister Slam, Twig.
    â€œI’m Sister Slam on this trip.”
    â€œShut up,” said Twig.
    â€œYou’re already making me sick.
    You’re getting on my nerves
    way too quick.
    Maybe this trip
    was a big mistake.
    Maybe you should take
    me home, or just dump me
    somewhere along the road.”
    That was not like Twig:
    wigging over nothing.
    I slammed on the brakes,
    for heaven’s sake,
    and the car screeched to
    a stop with a whopping thump.
    I turned off the ignition.
    Twig’s skinny arms
    were crossed,
    and she had this saucy
    look on her face,
    like she was the boss of me.
    â€œ
Whatever,
” I said, and Twig
    shook her head.
    â€œSo you wanna get out,
    or what?” I shouted.
    Then I saw that Twig
    was getting half-moon circles
    beneath her blue-sky eyes.
    That’s Twig’s warning sign
    that she’s about to cry.
    So I apologized,
    even though I hadn’t done anything.
    â€œListen,” I almost whispered.
    Twig’s eyes glistened.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said.
    â€œDon’t worry. Everything’s cool.”
    Twig uncrossed her arms.
    We were parked by a farm.
    The odor of pig manure
    was disgusting. The car motor
    ticked like a clock,
    and it was hot.
    â€œThat’s okay,” Twig said.
    â€œI just don’t want to be dead
    before I get to be twenty.”
    Steam was hissing
    from under the hood,
    and I thought:
    This isn’t all good.
    The radiator was overheating
    again, and when
    I started the car,
    it sizzled like a hot star.
    â€œDarn,” I breathed,
    and heaved
    myself from the car
    so that I could check
    under the hood.
    It was then that I saw it:
    we’d hit a pig, a big fat
    hog of snorting pink.
    â€œHoly cow!” I shouted.
    â€œTwig! We hit a pig!”
    Twig leaped out
    and leaned over the pig.
    â€œCome on. Get up,” she whispered.
    And the pig listened!
    Just like that, the chubby thing
    struggled to its hooves
    and waddled off,
    just like this was any
    ordinary carefree day.
    Twig looked at me.
    I looked at Twig.
    We cracked up,
    doubled over
    with hysterical laughter.
    â€œHungry for pork and beans?”
    said Twig.
    â€œHam and greens?
    Maybe some bacon?”
    We climbed back into
    our poetmobile, and I squealed
    out, leaving rubber skid marks
    on the road.
    If only we’d known then
    what we know now:
    Mister Farmer Brown
    was writing down
    every letter and number
    of my license plate.
    First rule
    of the University
    of Gray Road,
    Blue Sky, and
    Yellow Lines is this:
    Never Run from
    Hitting a Pig.

Lesson 4
Don’t Get Cocky with Cops
    The cops stopped us
    somewhere southeast
    of Geasterville, Pennsylvania.
    In blue uniforms,
    with mirror sunglasses,
    and Dunkin’ Donut butts,
    all two members
    of the police department
    of Geasterville
    pulled me over.
    They even used sirens
    and