Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip by Linda Oatman-High

Author:Linda Oatman-High
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2004-09-09T04:00:00+00:00

Lesson 15

Never Wash Your Face in the Bidet

“You can borrow my clothes,”

said Jake as we waited

for the elevator.

“Thanks, but what size?

Don’t lie. Your pants

don’t have a chance

of fitting my ass,” I said.

“And Twig’s too skinny.”

“My mom’s a stick,” Jake said.

“Her stuff will fit Twig.

And my dad’s big.

I mean, slightly large.

Or you could just

charge your credit card

and buy a whole bunch

of new clothes,

like at Saks or Macy’s

or somewhere.”

I sighed. I could

have died. My wide

load was so fat

that it’d compare

to someone’s dad.

This was bad. Way sad.

So I just tried to laugh.

“Can you believe

how brainless

we were, to leave our

bags in the car!”

I didn’t want

to confess that I didn’t possess

a MasterCard or Visa

or any other plastic money.

Pops was funny about stuff

like that, and never allowed

me to apply for credit cards.

“The interest will get the best

of you,” he always said.

But now my head was exploding.

I had no clothes to wear.

I’d have to be a nudist

in New York.

What a doofus of a dork.

The Waldorf was the fanciest

hotel I’d ever been in.

I couldn’t believe

we were going to sleep here.

The lobby alone put my home

to shame. I felt lame,

such a mess in my polyester vest

over a 1970s dress, bopping across

the lobby in scuffed-up

combat boots. Everybody else

was cute or rich: bitchy rich.

A lady in the lobby,

wearing a mink,

with a pink hat,

wouldn’t even bat

her snobby eyes at us.

“What’s up with that?

A mink coat

in the month

of June?”

Twig said

way too loud.

We didn’t

know how to act

in a place like this.

I was pissed

that I hadn’t dressed up

in something nice,

since I’d have to wear

it for the rest of my life.

The elevator came,

and I was so lame,

I just let Jake

push the button

for Forty-Four

and then sank to

the floor as we soared

to the sky.

“Are you

all right?”

asked Jake.

“Stomachache.

I’m afraid

of heights.”

“What a

bite,” Jake said.

“Wait until

you see the view

from our room.”

Impending doom

in my womb,

I just clutched

my stomach

and moaned.

“Laura,” said Twig,

“get a grip.”

When the elevator

finally came

to a stop,

I mopped

the sweat from my head

and caught

a glimpse

of myself

in the

golden mirror.

I was

a freaking mess.

I hated

this outdated dress,

and the vest

didn’t do much

to hide my breasts.

“To the left,”

Jake said. He led

us down the hall.

The walls were so

elegant. I was

an elephant. Even the

paintings were shaking

from my steps.

Jake kept walking

and walking,

and the hall felt like

forever, and Twig’s

step was light

as a feather,

and I thought

we’d never

get there.

I needed Nair

for my hairy

legs. The stubble

rubbed together

when I walked.

This made me sulk,

and I didn’t talk much.

I was such

a grump, a lump

of rump and legs

and breasts.

The underarms

of my dress

were wet

with sweat.

Jake came

to a stop by door

Four-Hundred

Forty-Four.

Jake opened

the door

with a plastic

key card,

and I caught

my breath.

The room wasn’t just

a room. It was

a freaking suite.

We were

in the towers, and

there were flowers

and furniture everywhere.

A lady with shiny

Barbie-blonde

hair was there,

and a man

with a tropical tan.

“These are

the ’rents,” Jake said.

“Vince and Misty . . .

Twig and Sister Slam.”

I stuck out my hand.

“Sir and ma’am,

pleased to meet you.”

Jake looked impressed.

I was on my best

behavior, because

Jake was our savior.

“Mom and Dad,” he said,

“you won’t believe this.

I just missed being killed

in an accident

because I wasn’t

paying attention. Anyway,

the Mustang is okay,

just a few dents and

dings. The cops came,

and they took away

Twig and Sister’s car,

and they’re far from home

without any money

or clothes.

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