Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch

by Judy Goldschmidt

  Next time you hear from me, I might finally know what it’s like to kiss a boy!

  11:06 PM, EST

  You guys didn’t buy that whole I-might-finally-know-what-it’s-like-to-kiss-a-boy baloney—did you?

  Of course you didn’t. You know me too well for that. Maybe even well enough to predict that things went a lot closer to this:

  I went home to change outfits for the party. I wanted to wear something sassy but nothing that would give my mother a sudden case of you’re-not-leaving-the-house-dressed-like-that-young-lady fever. So, I chose my brown velour hoodie and low-slung jeans from The Raisin Rodriguez Fall Line, an outfit that has the unique advantage of providing maximum coverage without qualifying for the next Vogue, Amish edition.

  Before leaving, I gave myself a quick once-over and realized something was missing. The festive bobby pin. Once that was in place, I swiped some Mango Madness over my lips, and I was ready to make my big entrance.

  But as it turned out, my big entrance made as much of a difference as a . . . as a . . . small standing still.

  Maybe less.

  For starters, CJ was nowhere. Not even behind the pair of sunglasses he was supposed to have handy.

  And everyone else was hooking up alongside the floor and on the couch. Even Fippy and Roman, who seemed to be enjoying a reunion of the tongues, and, get this, Galenka and Jacques, of all people, who were making out in a corner. Imagine! Galenka! Managing to get rid of her reputation before me and without the help of her interpreter, no less! And she’s not even a genuine Miss Priss. She’s got a boyfriend at home!

  I felt so ridiculous, standing in the middle of the room, the only person not paired up. The only person no one wanted. I needed to find Lynn and Jeremy, because at least no one wanted them either.

  I went looking everywhere for them. The game room, the laundry room, the pantry, the patio. Finally I decided to call them. First I called Lynn. When she didn’t pick up, I left her a message. “Hey, Lynn, where are you? I’m surrounded by couples. Get here soon.” Then I called Jeremy and left him the same message.

  Eventually I found Roger Morris playing a video game in the TV room. But when I tried to sit next to him, he told me it would cost me a kiss.

  Next I hit the snack table, where I discovered that one advantage to being a loser is that since no one pays attention to you, you can stuff your face without apology.

  “Hey, Raisin.” It was Roman, disproving my theory.

  “You’re right,” I said, nervously shoveling one last guacamole-covered tortilla chip in my mouth. “I should save some for the others.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Come to the game room and listen to our new song.”

  Ever since Jeremy made me the entertainment columnist for CoolerThanYou, Roman’s been asking me my opinion on his band, Rodenticide. He must think I know something about music.

  I was hoping that once we got to the game room, Jeremy and Lynn would be there. Or maybe, just maybe, CJ.

  So I followed Roman to the game room, where I was treated to such musical delights as “Hate Party,” “Annihilation Game,” “Nerve Damage,” and “Raccoon Love” (which was actually kind of catchy).

  The fact that my eardrums were bleeding wasn’t really what was bothering me. Roman’s a really nice guy, and I believe in supporting my friends’ art. I was hoping others would be there who shared in this belief. But the longer the band played, the clearer it became that no one else shared this belief, except for Fippy, who was also there. But she wasn’t there to support him so much as to cheat on him with Jacques. Which didn’t seem to bother Roman in the least, though I have no idea how Galenka felt about it.

  After the fifth song, “Bloody Sweet Sixteen,” Roman asked me what I thought.

  “I like it,” I said. “But maybe we should get a second opinion. Do you know when Lynn and Jeremy are getting here?”

  “Good idea,” Roman said, “I think they’re in the pantry. It’s through the back door of the laundry room.”

  Roman’s directions led me right up to Jeremy and Lynn.

  Leaning against a refrigerator.

  Locked in an embrace.

  And either Jeremy was cleaning the Dorito crumbs out of Lynn’s braces with his tongue, or the two of them were Frenching their heads off.

  Experience led me to believe it was the second. After all, I’d been watching people make out all afternoon, but it was weird to see those two together like that. Maybe because they’re my two closest friends here. Jeremy included (even though he bugs me like crazy sometimes).

  “But you guys told me there weren’t going to be any kissing games at this party,” I said.

  The moment they heard my voice, they broke apart. Lynn pulled a strand of hair out of her braces, and Jeremy tried to wipe her black lipstick off his mouth.

  “Is this like a practice round or something?” I asked as I sat myself down on the floor. “Where is everybody?” But they just stood frozen, each looking like they were waiting for the other to come up with an answer.

  Suddenly I noticed there was no bottle. I began to feel really uncomfortable. Like I was about to find out something I didn’t want to know. Or something I should have realized all along. I felt like the biggest idiot in the world, and all I wanted was to be left alone.

  “Should I go find a partner?” I asked, bolting for the door.

  I was in so much of a rush to get out of there, I couldn’t be bothered with the extra half a second it would have taken to duck under the clothesline. There was a fitted sheet hanging from it, and as I zoomed by, it latched onto the festive bobby pin in my hair, which pulled it off the line.

  “Raisin, wait,” Lynn called after me.

  But I didn’t want to wait. “I’ll go find Roger. He’s not busy. Or Roman. He and Fippy seem to have some sort of understanding going on.”

  “But there’s something we have to tell you first,” Lynn finally said.

  “It’ll just take me a second,” I said as I continued walking, not wanting to listen to anything “we” had to say.

  “I’ll be right back,” I added, not realizing that the sheet was still attached to my head and its train was now wrapped around my feet. I tried to take the next step, but my foot got caught in the fabric. Since the top half of my body was already moving forward, my legs had no choice but to follow, flying right out from underneath me and landing me on all fours, right back on the floor.

  The cement floor.

  I’m not sure whether it was the pain of tripping and falling over my own two feet or the shame of tripping and falling over the love affair my two closest friends in Philadelphia had been hiding from me, but I was finding it very difficult to keep the tears on the inside, where they belonged.

  “Don’t cry, Raisin,” Jeremy said, loud enough to be heard over Rodenticide’s rehearsing. Now anyone not snubbing me for being a priss had the additional option of snubbing me for being a crybaby. “We were going to tell you.”

  “I’m not crying because of you guys.” I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “I’m . . .” I wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. I was going to say that I was crying because I’d hurt myself. And then it occurred to me that crying over a scraped knee was not any cooler than crying because your friends were keeping secrets from you.

  “I’m not even crying at all. I’m tearing up. There’s a difference, you know. Must be all the dust in here,” I said as I stood up and brushed myself off. “Don’t you think?”

  “Definitely. Very dusty . . .” Lynn said as Jeremy wiped his finger along the washing machine. He held it up and inspected it for dust. It came up spotless. Freckled but spotless. “The point is that we weren’t keeping it from you to be mean,” Lynn added.

  “Then why were you keeping it from me?” I asked, in a voice that may have sounded like a scream. I felt my face turn red-hot as tears vomited out of my eyes. The only thing I wanted to do more than disappear was to find out why on earth they couldn’t tell me wh
at was going on.

  “We just weren’t sure you could handle it,” Jeremy said. “We got together playing spin the bottle at Roger’s. Our bottles kept landing on each other. We thought we were doing it as a joke, but then we realized we were kind of doing it on purpose. And that we’ve liked each other for a while. We were going to tell you, but then when you ran out of the skybox, it seemed like you were freaked out by the whole thing.”

  “What whole thing?”

  Lynn hesitated, as if she was trying to find the right words. “Human sexuality,” she finally said. And Jeremy nodded in agreement.

  That answer made me furious. It was so wrong.

  “I am not,” I yelled. “I am not freaked out by . . . what you said. I mean, okay, the word itself, I feel kind of silly saying it—like pubescent or underpants. But that’s not really the point, is it? The point is that I told you why I ran out of the skybox. I told you why I wouldn’t let Meatloaf Morris kiss me. But that wasn’t enough for you. And so what if I never kissed anyone?! It’s only because I’ve been waiting to do it with right person. But that doesn’t mean I can’t handle it when it happens for other people. Especially my two supposed best friends.”

  And then I ran out of the pantry and into the bathroom. Where I cried so hard, I almost choked.

  Once I had cried myself out, all I wanted to do was leave the party. So I snuck out from the bathroom and went upstairs. I didn’t want anyone to try and talk me into staying. Not that they would have.

  On the way upstairs, I ran into Dylan, who was just arriving at the party, looking gorgeous as ever in her denim miniskirt and wraparound sweater.

  “Feeling better?” I asked her.

  “Yeah. Thanks for asking. I had a really bad flu,” she said.

  Flu? I thought. That’s not what they call it where I come from.

  Samantha wasn’t scheduled to pick me up for another hour, so I called her and asked her to come as soon as possible. She sounded a little annoyed with me. I’m not really sure why. Maybe she had other plans, but she’s been very unfriendly to me lately. I’m starting to worry that she thinks our parents found out about Sid from me. I really hope not. I would never rat her out. Lola, maybe, but not her.

  I took a bottle of water and waited for Sam out on the porch. I needed to rehydrate after all the crying.

  The funny thing is that the outdoor thermometer read thirty-one degrees, yet the water didn’t turn into ice.

  The tragic thing is that while I was waiting for Sam, CJ happened to arrive at the party. Just in time for my exit and Dylan’s entrance.

  But oddly enough, CJ seemed in no rush to get down to the party. Which would have been great except for the fact that after spending a good portion of the half hour before in hysterical tears and the last five minutes before in the freezing cold, I looked like a baby guinea pig.

  If only CJ had left his eyeballs at home.

  But no such luck.

  He had his eyeballs intact and a severe case of sudden-onset chattyosis. That’s the kind that’s hard to get rid of. He was just saying random things for the sake of talking. Making things up. Nonstop. Like chatting up was the new ignoring. “How are you?” “Did you have fun at the party?” “I had to get my tuxedo for the wedding.” “I can’t wait till vacation.” And, “I can’t really hear you with your scarf over your face like that.” I mean, how was he coming up with this stuff?

  And finally, when he’d used up every other phrase in the book, he actually went to “I like your sweatpants.”

  And that’s when Samantha pulled up to Roman’s house.

  Now, to be fair, I’m not a hundred percent sure that CJ actually said he liked my sweatpants. I mean, I think that’s what he said. I pray that’s what he said. I beg the higher powers to go back in time and change whatever he did say to that if it’s not what he said.

  But like I said, I’m not 1oo percent sure. And that’s why I didn’t thank him. Because, say for instance what he really said was, “I hiked to west France,” I’d seem like a nincompoop for thanking him. So instead I just said, “There’s my stepsister—I gotta go.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well . . . do you still want to help me with the speech?” CJ asked.

  ”Sure, I do,” I said.

  “Okay, good. How about tomorrow night? You know, ’cause the wedding’s on Sunday.”

  “Sounds great,” I said, and raced into Sam’s car.

  I was hoping Sam would act a little friendlier toward me than she has been lately. I really needed her to help me figure out a few things. For example:1. Did CJ say, “I like your sweatpants”?

  2. If he did, what exactly does that mean?

  3. If he did, will he ever forgive me for not thanking him?

  4. If he didn’t, then why not?

  5. When he saw Dylan downstairs, would he once again be overcome with a sudden urge to play spin the bottle?

  But it was clear from the way Sam growled at me when I got in the car that her attitude toward me had not improved. It was also clear from the mascara streaks running down her cheeks that she had her own problems. And finally, it was clear from the way Sid was the only other person in the car that he was the cause of these problems.

  So instead of getting my much-needed answers, I was forced to sit quietly in the back and eavesdrop.

  Actually, I feel awful for Sam. I think Sid was breaking up with her. “I feel like I’m not just going out with you, I’m also going out with your parents,” he said.

  Which is a really mean thing to say. I mean, how dare he? It’s one thing to say that going out with her is like going out with my mother. But Sam is beautiful and scary smart and has flowing blond hair. To imply that going out with her is like going out with HA is downright rude.

  So I am hereby breaking up with Sid. Not that he’ll ever know this. But it’s the thought that counts.

  Sam dropped me off at home, and then she and Sid drove off. I hope she’s going to be okay. I’m sure she will be. She doesn’t need Sid. She’s got friends and school, which I wouldn’t even bother mentioning for most people, but she actually likes it. And besides, she can have any boy she wants. Me, on the other hand, I can only imagine myself with CJ.

  Which brings me back to my original questions:

  Did CJ say, “I like your sweatpants”?

  If he did, what exactly does that mean?

  If he did, will he ever forgive me for not thanking him?

  If he didn’t, then why not?

  When he saw Dylan downstairs, would he once again be overcome with a sudden urge to play spin the bottle?

  Comments:

  Logged in at 12:09 AM, EST

  PiaBallerina: From the sounds of it, CJ did say, “I like your sweatpants.”

  Which means that he likes you but is too shy to say so. Next time you see him, be really nice to him or he’s going to think you don’t like him.

  Like I said, I think he did say, “I like your sweatpants.”

  As stated above, I think CJ likes you. (Not Dylan.)

  Logged in at 12:11 AM EST

  kweenclaudia: i have some questions too.

  why didn’t rae realize on her own that jeremy and lynn were going out?

  wasn’t it obvious that she liked him when she made him guest editor?

  his bloody lip. her braces. you do the math.

  come to think of it, the way he was acting at roger’s bar mitzvah could also have been a sign. it wasn’t just the red bull that was making him bug out. it was love!

  Saturday, December 11

  9:07 AM, EST

  To My Love Kitties,

  Pia Bia Fo Fia, Bananna Ramma Fo Fia,

  Pi-a.

  You are a goddess! I love you!

  (You’re okay too, Claud. But if you really want to succeed in Raisin’s world, you might want to brush up on your telling-me-what-I-want-to-hear skills.)

  I still don’t get why I acted like such a weirdo when CJ complimented me. It doesn’t make sense. Ever since I met him,
all I’ve ever wanted was for him to pay attention to me, and when he did, I spazzed out.

  Maybe it’s because I was afraid of seeming too grateful for the compliment. Because then he’d know how much I like him. And if he knew that, then he wouldn’t like me anymore.

  I think.

  On the other hand, by not thanking him, I might have made him feel that I don’t like him at all.

  Which isn’t good either.

  How do you know how much to let the guy know?

  Why isn’t there a book about that?

  Or an instructional video?

  Or an invisible giraffe that only you can see, who whispers the answers in your ear just when you need them most?

  I better go.

  All this thinking is cutting into my beauty preparation time.

  PS—Speaking of beauty preparation time, have you ever noticed how much being a girl is like being a gardener?

  Girls shower. Gardeners water.

  Girls shave. Gardeners mow the lawn.

  Girls pluck their brows. Gardeners trim the hedges.

  Girls blow-dry their hair. Gardeners blow the leaves.

  Girls apply makeup. Gardeners . . . apply a 10 percent fee on all late payments.

  PPS—Not that I would want to be a gardener, but ours has a really cute pair of yellow plastic clogs I wouldn’t mind borrowing.

  PPS—Which would look really great with some red hearts painted on them.

  PPPS—Are you sure CJ won’t hold it against me that I never thanked him for complimenting me on my sweats?

  10:03 AM, EST

  OH. MY. GOD.

  11:06 AM, EST

  OH MY GOD!!!

  I was gardening myself in the shower, and I remembered how all the fashion magazines tell you to put mayonnaise in your hair for a lustrous shine.

  Well, I did, and now I can’t get it out. I’ve washed my hair at least ten times and I still smell like a sandwich. I bet Dylan never smells like a sandwich.