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

me
    a line of crap about how
    my father was bothered
    by his daughter’s AWOL,
    and how I ought to be ashamed
    and maybe even blamed
    for causing all the stress
    and distress that might
    have made
    Pop’s heart explode.
    â€œWhoa, dude,” said Jake.
    â€œNobody’s to blame.
    No offense, sir,
    but it’s not
    Laura’s fault.”
    â€œNo, it’s not,” said Pops.
    â€œIt’s not Laura’s
    fault. It’s all the
    malted milk shakes
    and Tastykakes I ate.
    Give Laura a break, Doc.”
    â€œPut a sock in it,” said
    Twig, as Doctor Proctor
    stomped off without another word.
    Pops grinned. “Hi, Twig,”
    he said.
    Twig leaned over Pops’s
    hospital bed and kissed
    his bald head.
    â€œThey said I’m lucky
    to be alive,” Pops said.
    â€œI’m lucky, too,” I said.
    â€œI don’t know what I’d do
    without you. Seriously. I’d be
    deliriously wacked.
    They’d have to lock me
    in a padded room.”
    â€œIt’s true,” Twig said.
    â€œShe’d be a lunatic
    without you.”
    Pops touched my cheek,
    and we didn’t speak, as
    nurses squeaked
    by and a baby
    began to cry
    from somewhere
    out there.
    â€œSo how was your
    poetry tour?”
    Pops asked,
    and I grinned.
    â€œCool,” I answered.
    â€œIt’s too hard to
    make a
    long story
    short. I’ll try to
    explain it
    later. By
    the way,
    this is Jake.
    He saved
    my life.”
    Pops was a
    gentleman,
    even in a
    dress, and
    he shook
    Jake’s hand.
    â€œPleased to meet
    you, Jake,” he said.
    â€œThanks for
    looking out for my
    baby girl.
    She’s the
    only one
    I’ve got.”
    â€œNo problem,”
    said Jake.
    â€œHe’s my
    best friend,”
    I said, but then
    Twig glared.
    â€œAfter Twig,”
    I said.
    Pops rubbed
    his head, a
    faraway gaze
    in his faded
    blue eyes. “When
    the pain in my chest
    started,” he said,
    â€œI had a vision
    of you two—
    Twig and Laura—
    and you were
    big stars, driving
    fancy cars and
    signing autographs.
    Then I saw Mom,
    right before everything
    went black
    with the heart attack.”
    â€œWow,” I said,
    and took a big
    breath. “Pow.”
    I sat down
    on the edge of
    Pops’s bed.
    â€œSo how’s
    Mrs. Smith’s
    been?” I asked.
    â€œSame old
    game,” Pops said.
    â€œCherry pies
    churning out
    like flies.”
    â€œPops works
    in a pie factory,”
    I explained to Jake,
    no longer ashamed.
    â€œA pie factory,” Jake said.
    â€œCool. Free pies.”
    Pops’s eyes gleamed,
    and he seemed to
    really be liking Jake.
    â€œWhat’s the meaning of
    the Chinese blue tattoo?”
    Pops asked.
    Jake smiled
    and held his
    arm to the light.
    â€œDream, Believe,
    Fly,” Jake said,
    and then we
    all got quiet
    and watched
    the light of Pops’s
    beating heart.

Lesson 22
Never Take Your Friggin’ Soul Mate for Granted
    I was back
    in the House
    of Crapper,
    and I was
    happier than ever,
    back in the ’hood.
    It felt good—
    like home,
    only better.
    Pops never said
    one word about me
    wrecking the Firebird,
    and he laminated and framed
    the news photos of me and
    Twig, hanging them all
    over the walls.
    Back in my toad-colored,
    gloom-pillowed room,
    with my waterbed
    and lava lamp bubbling
    water-red, I felt content.
    Pops—my ’rent—
    was recovering,
    and I was hovering:
    fluffing his pillows
    and dispensing his pills
    lined up on
    the windowsill.
    I was filled
    with gratitude,
    and my latitude
    and attitude
    were cool with Pops.
    â€œIt’s wonderful
    to have your music
    blaring from the bedroom,”
    he said. “I’m so glad to have
    you back home.”
    I got a job
    at Bibliophile
    Bob’s Books,
    the only bookstore
    for miles,
    where the floor
    had black and purple tiles,
    and the ceiling was painted
    with strange deranged angels
    playing electric