Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch (11 page)

“It's hot in here,” I told Lynn.

“Really? I'm kinda cold,” she responded.

“You want to borrow my sweater?” I extended my arm to hand her the sweater, hoping she'd notice the hickey.

“It's really nice,” she said, throwing my whole plan off course. She was looking at the wrong thing.

“Thanks. It's soft too,” I said running it along my arm, hoping to draw attention to the you-know-what. “And I love the way it's leopard print but different kinds of pinks and magentas instead of browns and oranges. And the crystal buttons.”

“Yeah, but it's not really my style. Maybe if it were regular leopard print. And a rougher material with regular buttons. Or all black. But thanks anyway,” she said.

She certainly has an interesting mind, that Lynn. The challenge was to figure out how to catch the attention of that mind's eye. But with subtlety.

“Look at my hickey,” I finally said.

“I was wondering what that was.” She paused to stare at it. “It's not a hickey, though. A hickey is when someone kinda bites your neck and su—”

“This is a hickey. I got it from—”

“You gave yourself a hickey?” I heard a voice asking from behind me. It was Fippy. “That's kind of funny.”

“I didn't give it to myself. Who would do a crazy thing like that? Someone gave it to me. We were playing a game.”

“No way,” said Fippy. “Why would anyone give you a hickey on your arm?”

“That's how they do it in Lower Merion Middle School. You go into a closet and make out. And then you give each other hickeys as proof. I think some people cheat and just go for the hickey, but not me. I was like, ‘Woo-hoo! Make-out city!'”

Fippy and Lynn exchanged glances. But they were nothing like the glances they exchanged after Lynn asked me what the guy's name was.

“I don't know. We didn't get married. We were playing a game.”

“You went into a closet with a complete stranger and you didn't find out his name?” Fippy asked. I could tell she was outraged by the way she actually moved her lips when she spoke.

“Wait! I do remember his name. It was . . .” At that moment, what I should have done was take the time to think up a name. Instead, I opened my mouth again and just spoke. “It was . . . Hick-ley.” Okay. I admit it. Not the most brilliant save of all time. I guess I was thrown by all the disbelief.

 
Comments:

 
7:37 PM, EST

Rina baby—What are you saying? Are you mad at Claudia? Where is she, anyway?

 
8:04 PM, EST

Is that true? Is she really not spending time with you? This is awful. Oh, wait! I know. Maybe you and Claudia need to write to one of those teen magazines, where they tell you to pick a night of the week that's reserved just for alone time together. Or maybe you need to call in to one of those teen radio shows where they tell you to find a special activity that the two of you could do together. Or maybe you should read one of those books that tells you to join a sports team together.

I don't know. . . . I wish I had a solution.

 
Comments:

 
8:33 PM, EST

You're not being selfish, Pi. I know how you feel. I want a boyfriend too.

Maybe it's the way the media tells us all we're not normal red-blooded American girls without one, or maybe it's the way I talk about it morning, noon, and night, but I'm guessing you knew that.

Dear Kitty(s? Claud, I hope you're reading this too. It's going to take at least the power of two to figure this one out.)

Today I took a stab at phase two of Project Reputation Removal.

I was sitting in the stairwell, eating lunch with Lynn and Fippy. The guys were in the lunchroom sitting at Jeremy's old table playing table hockey.

“That was pretty funny how I faked that hickey yesterday, don't you think? I'm just trying to get rid of that pesky reputation I've developed. I'm really not a priss at all. Whether or not people believe me, I only ran out of the skybox because I didn't want to continue watching what I thought was a make-out session between the man of my dreams and the underwear model of my nightmares. And I don't care what Roger Morris says—not wanting to kiss an overgrown nine-year-old thug doesn't prove a thing. But I guess faking a hickey isn't the way to go either. So why don't we just have a straightforward, honest discussion about how much experience we've had? I'll go first. I've made out with ten guys. How about you two?”

“Three,” Fippy said.

“Four,” Lynn said.

Suddenly ten seemed ridiculously large. “Only four? But you already told me that you've made the first move lots of times!”

“I guess I exaggerated a little. I was trying to encourage you.”

“Well, I guess things just move a little faster on the West Coast. Are you including guys from seven minutes in heaven and spin the bottle?”

“No,” said Lynn. “That's totally different.”

“Oh. Okay. You should have told me. In that case . . .” I started counting on my fingers. “I've only kissed—wait a second—five.” I waited to see their reaction. They seemed to buy it. So I threw out the next question.

“And who was the best kisser?”

“Roman,” said Fippy. “We went out for three weeks at the beginning of the year.”

Lynn just sat quietly without answering. She looked a little like she was holding in a laugh.

“Lynn?” I asked.

“Um . . . no one you know. Just this guy from my neighborhood,” she said as the giggles seeped through. That guy must have been quite the jokester. “How about you?”

“Oh, just this dude,” I said casually. “His name is Krishna Ginsberg,” I said. This time, I came prepared.

Then we talked about bumping noses, open eyes versus closed, and how it's weird when the boy is shorter than the girl, and I was pretty sure I was holding my own.

“I have a question,” Lynn said. Which caught me by surprise. I thought I was the one asking the questions. “Is it just me, or when you guys are making out with someone, do your teeth ever grind against theirs?”

“Sure, all the time,” I said, not sure if that was the right answer or not.

“That's definitely happened to me,” Fippy answered, filling me with relief. “It's almost as embarrassing as when you drool,” she added.

The teeth grinding wasn't so surprising, but the drooling—that was just too disgusting to imagine.

“Forget embarrassing; for someone wearing braces, like you, it must get dangerous,” Fippy continued.

“Totally,” said Lynn. “Bloody too.”

Then Fippy asked if boys' tongues ever tasted like vinegar. I never thought about the tongue's taste. But until the moment before, I'd never thought about drooling either, so I figured anything was possible.

“And I thought it was only me,” I said, letting out an enormous sigh for effect. At least I was learning the game. “Sometimes after making out for a few . . . ummm . . . a few . . . hours . . . the taste is so strong, I start craving pickles.”

Fippy started laughing. Lynn looked like she was trying hard to hold herself back too.

I was getting the feeling that yes had been the wrong answer.

“What's so funny?” I asked.

Both Fippy and Lynn looked down at the ground.

“Fippy was just kidding around about the vinegar, Rais,” Lynn said.

I think Lynn saw how embarrassed I was because she quickly added, “Rais, it's okay if you've never kissed a boy. There's nothing to be ashamed of.”

Easy for her to say.

PS—I saw CJ during math. I was hoping he'd say, “Are you free on whenever to get together to write the speech?” or, “I'm still not finished with the strip, but as soon as I am, I'll call you,” or, “You look beautiful today, you unprissy thing, you. Have you heard the news? Dylan's moved. Somewhere really hot, I heard, so she can walk around in nothing but her underwear at all times. Venus, I think.” But he didn't say a thing, and neither did I. Maybe it's just getting too weird now.

 
7:46 PM, EST

Claud—if you're reading this, close your eyes.

Pi—You sound really sad. Don't be. You can get your own henna tattoos. That's if you even want them. I think they make people look like they have some sort of flesh-eating disease.

And if it's the boy part that's making you sad, think of it this way—at least you're not dating one that looks like he has some sort of flesh-eating disease.

Claud, you may open your eyes.

Back to me.

Roman is having a party on Friday. This bodes well for me. I'll use it to stage my comeback, my emergence from the prissy CJ-repelling Raisin of yesterweek to the unprissy irresistible-to-CJ Raisin of nexterweek. Sophisticated, worldly, iPod-owning, and knowledgeable in the ways of boys, making out, and scraping teeth.

Not only will I play all the kissing games, I'll win them too.

 
Comments:

Here, Kitty Kitty(s),

Pi—As far as kissing games go, I admire you for your good sportsmanship, I do, but I can't operate that way. When Raisin Rodriguez plays, she plays the only way she knows how.

She plays to win.

 
7:07 PM, EST

After school, Lynn and Fippy were going to South Street in Center City to shop for clothes and makeup. South Street is kind of like every shopping street in Berkeley, only more expensive. And the submarine shop, as I've learned, calls their sandwiches “hoagies.”

Lynn needed new makeup, and Fippy wanted to check out the shoe stores. Since black isn't part of my palette for lipstick or eye shadow and I prefer my shoes to have heels rather than orthopedic soles, I was mostly there for the company.

As Lynn tried on her seventh shade of lipstick (apparently Midnight sends a stronger political statement to The Man than Black Licorice does), I asked her if she was going to wear her new purchase to Roman's party.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked.

“I was just wondering if guys minded getting black lipstick all over their mouths.” I picked up a sample of Total Eclipse lipstick from the display and examined it.

“Which guys?” she asked, exchanging a suspicious-looking glance with Fippy.

“The guys. Our guys. The ones who'll be playing those kissing games at Roman's party,” I said, smoothing the lipstick across my mouth. “I just realized something,” I continued, waiting for Lynn to finish looking at herself in the mirror so I could check myself out. “If I end up having to kiss Jeremy, that would be totally weird. He's kind of like a brother to me.” As Lynn turned her head back for another one of her exchanged glances with Fippy, I snuck a peek at myself. Black lipstick was definitely not for me. I looked like I'd been eating dirt.

“Um . . . there aren't going to be any of those games at Roman's party. They're a little bourgeois,” Fippy said, rubbing some black lipstick on her cheeks as if it were blush. I couldn't believe she was using that word. Why didn't she and Lynn just move to France if they wanted to speak French so much?

“That looks awesome, Fippy!” Lynn said, practically dipping Fippy and planting a sloppy wet one on her.

If I hadn't been so in need of the inside track on Roman's party, I would have had a connip fit right there. “It does not look awesome,” I would have said. “If anything's bourgeois, the word awesome is, and what the heck does the word bourgeois mean anyway?” But I held myself back.

“I know what you mean about those games,” I said, following the girls to the cash register. “But to be honest, I was looking forward to them as a chance to get rid of my reputation as a priss.”

“Don't worry. You'll get rid of it sooner or later,” Fippy said.

As we left the store, Lynn talked about her orthodontist's giant nose and how she thinks she's seen his brain through the opening in his nostrils. My mind wandered as she described what gray matter looks like. I wondered what could possibly help me lose my reputation at this point.