Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip Read Free Page A

red flashing lights,
    and I wouldn’t be surprised
    if they’d had their fingers
    on the triggers.
    â€œI’m not exactly
    America’s Most Wanted,
    you know,” I informed
    Officer Cream Puff.
    He just kept writing stuff,
    biting his bottom lip,
    probably because he had
    to really think hard
    to write a ticket for this.
    I got a ticket—a big ticket—
    for something like reckless
    endangerment of swine,
    and leaving the scene
    of a pig that’s been hit.
    â€œOh, shit,” I said,
    dropping my head
    onto the steering wheel.
    â€œLet’s make a deal.
    I don’t hit any more pigs,
    and you don’t give me
    this ticket.”
    The officer
    added something
    to the ticket.
    Twig hissed,
    â€œKeep your big mouth
    shut, Laura. Cockiness
    will get you nowhere.”
    But the injustice
    of him busting us
    for something like this
    had Sister Slam pissed.
    â€œThis,” I said, “was an act of God.
    It was like lightning,
    or a tornado,
    or an earthquake.
    I didn’t make that pig
    go on the road.
    God made him waddle
    out there,
    right in front of me.
    There was no time to stop,
    Officer.
    In fact, I did stop, but
    the pig was already hit.”
    I was in deep shit.
    I should have just
    kept my mouth closed.
    If only I’d known.
    Second rule
    of the University
    of Gray Road, Blue Sky,
    and Yellow Lines:
    Never Try to Talk Your Way
    Out of a Ticket When You’ve
    Already Admitted That You Hit the Pig.
    And then the cop
    got his dig.
    It was almost as mean
    as the cool group could be,
    back in the old days
    at Banesville High.
    â€œBody for Life
    is a good diet.
    You should try it.”
    That’s what he said.
    I wished I were dead.
    Just shoot me now,
    before I hit a cow.
    My jaw must have dropped
    because the cop
    rubbed his double chin
    and tried to suck up.
    â€œI wasn’t intending to insult you.
    It’s just that the diet has helped me,
    and I want to help others.”
    Oh, brother.
    What a loser.
    Probably a boozer, too,
    when he wasn’t
    in that uniform.
    The cop patted his gut.
    â€œBest shape I’ve ever been in.
    I feel great.
    Now be on your way.
    Don’t hit any pigs.”
    Ha, ha.
Sarcasm isn’t attractive
    in an officer of the law.
    I took off, wheels screeching,
    peeling out.
    With a pout,
    Twig sighed.
    â€œI could’ve died,” she said.
    â€œ
You?
What about me?
    I need a diet.”
    â€œWhat a riot,” Twig said,
    spastic and sarcastic.
    â€œThis
is
a trip.”
    I bit my lip.
    â€œTwig,” I said,
    â€œdo you ever
    care whether
    I’m fat or thin?”
    Twig grinned.
    â€œLaura . . . I mean,
    Sister Slam.
    I like you just
    as you are. I
    even like your car.”
    Twig’s gift
    is being able to lift
    my spirits
    when I’m sad.
    â€œIt’s bangin’
    to be hangin’
    with you,” I said.
    Then we sang along
    with the radio,
    which was playing
    a Barenaked Ladies song.
    We got most of the words
    wrong. Those guys are poets.
    â€œHow far to Tin Can?”
    Twig yelled to a man
    at a shabby gas station
    we passed.
    â€œHey,” I said.
    â€œWe’re way low
    on gas.” It’s amazing,
    all the gas
    you have to buy
    when you’re in charge
    of the trip.
    I did a U-turn, quick,
    showing off,
    burning black rubber.
    â€œYee-haw,” Twig yelled.
    Now she was getting
    into the spirit of the
    thing. She flapped her arms
    like wings.
    â€œDon’t hit a chicken!” she squawked.
    When we got out
    to fill the gas tank,
    this skank of a yellow-headed,
    dad-aged, cabbage-shaped
    dude got really rude,
    saying something crude
    about my boobs.
    I flicked him the middle finger,
    figuring that would make him
    go away.
    He couldn’t take a hint.
    â€œI can’t believe this,” I said
    to Twig.
    â€œPeople in the real world
    are as messed up as
    kids in school.
    It’s bull:
    all that stuff they
    say in school
    about maturity
    and real