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Authors: Judy Goldschmidt

Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch (14 page)

BOOK: Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch
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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.
I'm supposed to go to CJ's at two because his dad's rehearsal dinner is at five. There's no way I can go. It's too disgusting. Countess won't even let me take him for a walk.
What am I going to do? It's only 8:o8 in the morning in Berkeley, and you guys are obviously still sleeping. Who's going to tell me how to fix this?
If only Samantha weren't giving me the silent treatment, I could ask her. She's always getting A-pluses to the power of ten on her chemistry tests. I'm sure she'd know how to get rid of the smell.
You know what? I'm going to go ask her. This is an emergency. And we're family, after all. If family can't band together in an emergency, then what's the point?
 
12:07 PM, EST
Sam told me to go away. So much for my theory on family.
 
12:08 PM
WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? SOMEBODY ANSWER ME! IT'S ALREADY 9:o8 IN THE MORNING OVER THERE! FOR THE LOVE OF THE HIGHER POWER, WAKE UP!
TODAY'S MY LAST AND FINAL CHANCE TO GET TOGETHER WITH CJ AND HELP HIM WRITE HIS SPEECH BEFORE HIS DADS GET MARRIED AND I BECOME THE OLDEST LIVING PERSON NEVER TO HAVE BEEN KISSED.
 
 
Comments:
Logged in at 12:36 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: Look, Rae, it's not as bad as it seems. If you
really, really smell as bad as you say, make up a good, BELIEVABLE excuse for why you can't make it and then write the speech on your own and e-mail it to him. He'll still have an excuse to talk to you on Monday when he gets back to school. Maybe he'll be so grateful he'll end up kissing you right at school!
 
Comments:
Logged in at 1:39 PM, EST
kweenclaudia: plus there's always the nunnery.
 
1:45 PM, EST
Nice work. I've gathered all of your suggestions and from them I've created a list of things to do:
Tell CJ I have to babysit my sister, last minute. Mention parents' no-guests-while-babysitting policy.
Write CJ's speech.
Wash hair. Lather. Rinse. Repeat until sandwich odor disappears.
Call nunnery. Make reservation just as a backup.
 
6:55 PM, EST
I crossed everything off my to-do list. Well, almost everything. I still have to call a nunnery. I just haven't found one with cable yet. But I did write CJ's speech. He really liked it. I know because he wrote back an e-mail saying
To Raisin,
I like the speech.
From
CJ
 
I'm glad that he liked the speech, but something wasn't right with the note he sent. So I changed it. The new version was much better. It was just, as they say in the magazine world, “a more satisfying read”:
 
To Raisin,
I like you.
From
CJ
 
Much better, I thought. But there still was room for improvement.
So I changed it one more time:
 
To Raisin,
I love you.
From
CJ
 
Now, that's one well-written note. It was so good, so touching, so tender, I read it all in one sitting. And then when I finished, I read it over again.
And over and over and over until it was time to go to dinner with Sam and Lola.
Sam didn't say a word to me at dinner. Not even when I sneezed on her food. You'd think she could manage a small “Cover your mouth please,” but nothing.
Sunday, December 12
10:31 AM, EST
To the Kittiest Kitties in all of Kittyland,
The most amazing thing just happened! CJ just called and asked me to please come to the wedding. CJ's invited me to his dads' wedding. Me, Raisin! Not Dylan, underwear model! He said he's nervous about giving the speech and he needs me to hold a copy of it and mouth the words along with him. But I think there's a teeny-tiny little part of him that just wants me there. Kind of as his date.
And you know what dates do . . . .
Dates kiss each other! Smoocharoo! Swap saliva! Make out!
I'm so excited I don't know what to do with myself. Well, other than rush off to Giselle's, purchase the most beautiful dress there, run back home to give myself a super-deluxe beauty treatment, and pinch myself to make sure it's all really real!
I'm off to Giselle's. My mother told Sam to go with me and supervise.
 
10:45 AM, EST
Sam just told me she's not going to Giselle's until it opens at twelve. I'm not taking any chances. Why risk the possibility of someone getting there first and buying out all the good stuff? If she thinks she's going to ruin the wedding for me the way she ruined the speech-writing date for me yesterday, she's got another thing coming.
 
1:00 PM, EST
I found the perfect dress. A powder blue satin strapless gown with a crinoline underneath and a matching “fun fur” stole that closes with a satin bow. I feel like a princess in it.
I can't believe how lucky I am. It was the last one too. The perfect shopping experience, all in all. Except for the saleslady. She asked me if I was in the wedding party three times. Once when I tried on the dress, once when I told her to wrap it up. And once when I told her to throw in a tiara as well.
I better get ready. Sam was late meeting me at the store, so I'm running behind.
3:15 PM, EST
I can't believe my mother. Up to her old tricks again, trying to ruin my life. When she saw me all dressed up for the wedding, she told me to get changed. She said it was “inappropriate.” And get this, that “people would mistake me for a member of the wedding party.” I mean, really, have she and the saleslady at Giselle's been trading phone calls?
So, I cried and cried until I almost threw up, and finally she gave in. Not because I was going mental or anything, but because there really wasn't anything else for me to wear. Samantha's velvet suit was at the cleaner's, and the dresses we wore to Mom's wedding were for summer. Next to those, the dressiest thing either of us owns is a skirt and blouse.
Even better than getting to wear the dress—Sam and I made up! I was totally right about her. She did think I was the one who told on her.
What happened was that while I was getting dressed for the wedding, Lola was playing on my bathroom floor. She likes to pour shampoo and conditioner and baby powder and whatever else she can get her hands on into a bowl and pretend she's a chef on a cooking show.
Today she was teaching her viewers how to make strawberry pancakes. “You pour in the strawberries and the syrup and then you put it in the oven,” she started, “and when they're ready, you bring them upstairs to Samantha and her boyfriend!”
When I heard that, I almost poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand I was using behind my mother's back!
“Samantha and who?” I asked.
“Samantha Macaroni,” she said, drifting back into her lonely world of gibberish and crazy talk. But I know what I heard.
BOOK: Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch
9.54Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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