Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch (4 page)

“Well, it is,” he said as he tugged and tugged, unable to lift me out of the desk. Instead, with each tug, he just dragged me and the desk a little farther across floor. Finally I saw CJ getting up from his seat. And, horror of horrors, he was headed in my direction.

“Maybe I can help,” CJ said. But the mere thought of him seeing me so helpless and pathetic was enough for me to gather my strength and pull myself up from my chair. Kind of like those stories you hear about grandmas lifting cars up to save their grandkids' lives. When I become a grandma, that's the first thing I'm going to try.

“Oh, that's okay,” I said. “All taken care of.”

“Thanks, CJ. I got it,” Jeremy said, taking credit for doing nothing. “Guess that's why they pay me the big bucks,” he added, all chuckling and pleased with himself.

At that point I had no choice but to go to work. I put on a CD by a band called Pain Party. It was very angry and screamy and I didn't like it at all.

Though my dislike could easily be blamed on my mood. I'll die if CJ likes Dylan. There's absolutely no competing with her. She's kind of like me but better in every way.

Observe:

See what I'm saying? It's over. Any hopes I ever had of CJ loving me are simply a memory.

 
Logged in at 7:46 PM, EST

 
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Logged in at 7:57 PM, EST

Kitties,

I guess you're right, Pi. It's not a contest.

 
7:06 AM, EST

And besides, I'm the one CJ asked to help with his dad's wedding speech. Not Dylan. So I win.

 
7:08 PM, EST

And as the winner, I'm going to ask him when he wants to work on the speech. Ha!

 
7:09 AM, EST

PS—Claudia—that's great that Clint asked you to wear his magnetic earring. He must LOOOVE you.

Okay—off to school. I swept my bangs off to the side with a festive bobby pin. Not only does it hide yesterday's disaster, it's also a no-fuss alternative to the same old same old, for only pennies a day!

 
12:42 PM, EST

I have two words for you.

Jeremy Craine.

I have 378 more words for you.

. . . is a freckle-faced-loudyitis-who-thinks-guest-editor-is-a-really-really-REALLY-important- job-but-the-truth-is-it's-only-a-made-up-job-for-a -pretend-e-zine-that-no-one-really-reads-pain-in-the-butt PAIN.

I can't believe how carried away he's getting with this whole CoolerThanYou thing.

I asked CJ if he wanted to get together tonight to work on the speech. You know what he said?

He said, “X equals the square root of y divided by z.” But only because we were in algebra class and the teacher called on him just as I finished asking about tonight. But the real answer was even more ridiculous.

“I can't,” he said. He was making a doodle of some superhero girl. “Jeremy wants me to tweak the drawings for last month's strip.” His face got very red when he said the word tweak.

“But he's this month's guest editor, not last month's.”

“I know,” CJ said, and went back to superhero girl, whose belt buckle was taking on the distinct shape of a heart. You'll both be very proud to know that even though it occurred to me that the girl in the drawing was supposed to be Dylan and that the drawing was a gift of love for her, I didn't let myself be discouraged from asking him if he wanted me to talk to Jeremy.

I was discouraged by his answer, though. “That's okay,” he said. “I'm going to my grandparents' house tomorrow, and next week I have to rehearse for my, um . . . my violin recital, but maybe the week after.”

The week after! I can't wait until the week after. Who knows what could happen between now and “the week after”?!

I do. That's who. Dylan and her fabulous superhero powers could sweep him off his feet. And then it'll be too late for me.

What a waste of a festive bobby pin.

PS—He was too embarrassed to say the words violin recital, so he whispered them instead. Why does he have to torture me with his cuteness?

 
4:47 PM, EST

Have you guys started having bar mitzvahs yet? We have. Roger Morris is having his next week. I must say, I'm a little caught off guard by it all. For one thing, seventh grader or not, at seventeen, Roger's way too old to be having a bar mitzvah now. And for another, it just feels so grown-up. I remember back in Berkeley Middle School when the older kids started going to bar mitzvahs. They seemed so mature. Like they were one step away from going to cocktail parties, business lunches, gallery openings, and other events that call for a black pencil skirt and a smart pair of slingbacks.

I've got to say, everyone here seems in such a tizzy about it all. How they're going to look, what they're going to wear, what present to bring. Even Fiona seems nervous about it. I overheard her telling Hailey she booked three tanning sessions between now and then. And Jeremy told me he was buying a new suit for it. And even Lynn asked me if I thought it'd be hypocritical for her to go in a pink dress.

I'm curious to see how she looks dressed up. I've never seen her in anything but head-to-toe black—from her lipstick right down to the platforms of her boots. But frankly, if I were her, I wouldn't be as concerned about hypocrisy as I would be about footwear.

I wish I knew what the big fuss was. Something really huge must be happening. Maybe bar mitzvah is Hebrew for “sex party.”

I better find out. That's the kind of thing you want to be prepared for. Especially if there's someone you're in love with and you've never even kissed anyone before.

When I get home tonight, I'll have to ask Samantha. I'd ask Lynn, but since that hand-kissing incident, I'm trying to be more careful with my questions. Who knows what she'll try and do if I ask her about a sex party. . . .

 
5:36 PM, EST

I found Samantha sitting on the edge of the tub with her jeans rolled up, shaving her legs. I'd wanted to ask her about the sex party, but the shaving sidetracked me.

“Why are you shaving?” I asked her.

“Because I'm going out with Sid later.”

“So, boys don't like when girls have hair on their legs?” I asked her.

“Well, they like it better when our legs are smooth,” Sam said.

“But they have hair on their legs. Why don't they shave?”

“Because body hair is considered masculine,” she said.

I'm not sure I get why it's okay for guys to be hairy and not for girls. But when I took a look at the fur growing on my legs, I realized that they could easily be the problem. I mean, nobody, girl or boy, should have legs that look like they could be growing out of the body of a wildebeest.

“Can I shave my legs?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she said, shaking the can of shaving cream. “But just be sure it's something you really want to do, because once you start, it grows back thicker, and there's no turning back.”

I thought about it for a minute and decided I was ready to make the commitment. If things worked out with CJ, I'd have to start keeping my legs smooth anyway. And if they didn't, I'd probably end up joining a nunnery, where the newly thickened fur would be hidden under a habit.

Sam handed me a can of raspberry-scented shaving cream and a fancy-looking teal razor. I started with the left leg. It was kind of fun. And it didn't hurt at all. Not even when I cut myself and the bleeding wouldn't stop for fifteen minutes.

When I was done with the first leg, I showed Samantha how smooth it was. She pointed to my toes and said, “You need to do those too.” And she was absolutely right. I never noticed it before, but those things were like hairy little apes. Well, the big toes were. The small toes were more like hairy little monkeys. Maybe CJ's right. Maybe I am part beast.

When I finished, I asked Sam if I should do my feet too.

“Why? Do they have hair growing on them?” she asked.

I checked. “No.”

“Then you should probably leave them alone. But you might want to check under your arms.”

I was amazed. How did Sam know my secret? For the last few weeks, there's been a faint but very ugly line of hair growing on each of my armpits. My cousin Nestor's mustache before his voice changed comes to mind. Dark, skinny, and sad. Why do all the signs of puberty need to be so unattractive?

I've been trying to hide them, but I guess Samantha caught on to my sneaky little game. Sometimes it takes a stepsister to help you see the ugly truth about what's growing on your body.

When I got to the second armpit, I pretended I was also getting ready for a date. With CJ, of course.

“Something about you looks different tonight,” he'd tell me. “I can't put my finger on it, but you look even prettier than usual. I'm so glad I chose you over Dylan.”

And then later in the evening, when we'd share our first kiss in the gazebo, or in McDonald's, if it was raining, I'd feel extra-confident knowing that my armpits, legs, and toes were completely hair-free.

By the time I finished shaving, I remembered why I was there in the first place.

“Hey, Sam,” I said. “Is a bar mitzvah a sex party?”

I could tell she was trying to hold back a laugh. “What makes you think that?” she asked.

“Well, everyone's making a big deal about looking good at Roger Morris's bar mitzvah. And usually when people want to look good, it's because boy-girl things are going to happen.”

“Hmmm,” she said as she brushed her gorgeous long blond hair. “Well, the Morris family is very wealthy. So I bet it's going to be super-fancy. Which is another possible reason why people want to look good. Does the invitation call for formal attire?”

“I don't know,” I said, making swirlies with the bit of shaving cream that was left over on my leg.

“Well, can I see it?”

“I don't have one.”

Suddenly Sam got really quiet.

“Why? Am I supposed to have one?”

“Kind of,” she said, looking down at the floor.

“Does that mean I can't go?”

Again, quiet.

“Well, I have to go. Everyone's going.”

“You mean everyone was invited?” she asked, brushing on some blush.

“I think so,” I answered.

“Then I'm sure you're invited too. Maybe the invitations weren't all mailed on the same day.”

“Okay, great,” I said, wiping off the last bit of shaving cream from my thigh and admiring my work. Then, just as I was about to walk out the door, Sam called after me.

“Raisin, just so you know, you never have to do anything with a boy you don't want to do until you're ready.”

“Okay,” I said. “But what if I am ready?”

Sam looked at me in horror. “Ready for what?!”

“You know, for kissing and stuff. I mean, when you were my age, didn't you kiss boys?”

“Oh! Kissing! Okay . . . yeah. I kissed a boy when I was around your age. But people should do things at their own pace,” she said, squeezing my shoulder.

Whatever. I've been doing things at my own pace for long enough. It's time for me to start doing things at other people's pace.

And the timing for this initiative couldn't be more perfect. Because now, even though CJ and I won't be meeting about the speech for a while, we can still have our first kiss at the bar mitzvah. With all the formal attire and fancy pantsiness, it sounds like a very romantic setting.