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Authors: Judy Goldschmidt

Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch (6 page)

BOOK: Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch
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We learned this from a speech given by Rabbi Benjamin H. Levy to Roger Morris on his bar mitzvah day. One should take Rabbi Levy's lesson to heart. For not only is he a rabbi, he also wears a harmonica on his head and pronounces the ch sound in Chanukah the real way—like he's going to cough up a hair ball.
But not all of the word's meanings are relevant to all people at all times. Take one Raisin Rodriguez, for instance. For young Raisin, the word shalom means only one thing. Not “hello.” And not “peace.” But the third meaning. The saddest and loneliest of all—“goodbye.”
So long . . . farewell . . . auf wiedersehen . . .
Goodbye.
What can I say? It all started out so promising. When my mother dropped me off at the Spectrum, I looked beautiful. I know this because my mom said, “Raisin, you look beautiful.” I couldn't wait for CJ to see me.
Don't judge me for preening. Seven minutes from now, you'll have nothing but that potato salad feeling in the back of your throat for me. And that's before you'll have even found out that Galenka Popodakolis was wearing the same dress as me . . .
The Spectrum was the biggest building I'd ever seen. Imagine the basement where Krishna Ginsberg had his confirmation ceremony and multiply it by twenty thousand.
As I walked toward the entrance of the building, a long red carpet was laid out. I walked it just like a real celebrity. A guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a fishing hat even asked me for my autograph.
When I got to the door, there was a blond lady in an evening gown waiting for me.
“And who are you wearing?” she asked, poking a microphone at me. There was a man standing behind her with a camera.
“It's Samantha's. But she said I could,” I answered.
“Cut the camera,” the lady said to the guy behind her. Then she bent down to my level and put a hand on my shoulder. “Listen,” she whispered, “we're making this video as a gift for Roger. The theme of the bar mitzvah is Hollywood Award Show. So how 'bout we play a little bit? You know, have some fun.”
If you ask me, she was the one who needed to be told to “have some fun.”
“Take two,” the lady said to the camera guy. It made me feel like a real celebrity.
“Hi, Roger,” I began. “Um . . . the dress I'm wearing is a Giselle's original. And the shoes . . .” I had to stop and take off one of the shoes to check the sole. “The name is rubbed out, but I can find out when I get home and tell you tomorrow. Um . . . happy bar mitzvah.”
When I got inside, another lady in a different evening gown asked me my name. When I gave it to her, she handed me a gold statuette. It looked like the kind they hand out at awards shows, but instead of a bald man or an angel or a phonograph, it was in the likeness of a boy dressed in a suit standing at a lectern. He had a book in his hand and a harmonica on his head. His mouth was open as if he were singing or praying. I'm not exactly sure who he was supposed to be. He was too small to be Roger.
The lady told me to check underneath the statuette for my table number, which was C-8. I prayed that the C was a sign that CJ would be seated at my table. She also told me to hang on to the statuette because there was going to be a surprise later. Then she directed me toward an elevator and told me which floor number to press.
As I rode the elevator, another guy asked me for my autograph.
I wished CJ had been around to witness my fabulosity. Then again, I wouldn't have wanted to make him feel jealous. We've all heard stories about how sticky things can get when people's loved ones rise to the top.
After I left my crazed fan in the elevator, I turned a corner and ran into the Fiona and Haleys.
“Where'd you get your outfit?” Fiona asked. Which, loosely translated into regular-person-speak, means, “I like what you're wearing. But I could never tell you or else I'd have to kill you.”
Fiona didn't look too shabby herself. She was wearing a mint-green chiffon dress with an empire waist and butterfly sleeves.
“I like your dress too,” I said back. Amber and Madison exchanged knowing glares and Haley just stared at the floor. I instantly regretted what I had said.
“I meant I like your dress period. Not too. I don't know why I said too. ‘Too' doesn't even make sense. It would only make sense if you told me that you liked my dress and you didn't.”
When I found the entrance of the party room, Lynn, Roman, Jeremy, Jacques, and Fippy were all waiting to get inside. I didn't notice CJ anywhere, though. But seeing the rest of them all dressed up was a welcome distraction. For about a second. Especially Lynn, who was wearing a gorgeous, flowy, pink slip dress.
I felt like I was the friend in one of those movies on the ABC Family Channel where the star suffers from uglyitis until she takes off her glasses, washes her hair, and wipes off that awful black lipstick and then suddenly she's the princess of an unknown but very wealthy principality.
“You look beautiful,” I told her as I grazed my finger along the hem of her garment.
“Thanks,” she said, breaking into a smile and then catching herself. Her orthodontist put studs on her teeth, and now she's self-conscious about smiling.
“I kept the price tag on so I could return it. Don't want to be giving all that money to The Man.”
“What table are you at?” I asked her.
“A-11,” Lynn said, running off to her table before I could tell her where I was seated. I was really surprised Roger hadn't seated us together.
“How 'bout you?” I asked Roman. He looked good too. His blue suit really brought out the blue in his hair. And it looked like he'd removed his dog collar for the occasion.
“I'm also at A-11,” he said.
“I theenk we all are at zees table,” Jacques added. Then they all sped off to catch up with Lynn, leaving me behind to find C-8 on my own.
I didn't even want to find C-8. It was pretty obvious that everyone besides me was seated at A-11. And since CJ is part of everyone, I assumed he was there too.
And then it occurred to me: just because the bottom of my statuette said a certain table number didn't mean I had to sit at that table. I mean, maybe my food would come to that table, but I hadn't come for the food. I came to have my first kiss with the boy I love.
On my walk from the entrance to A-11, I noticed that rich people can buy things for their bar mitzvahs that regular people don't even know about. Like:
1. Popcorn machines. There was one set up between every two tables. And a soda fountain—just like at the movies.
2. Movie screens. They were mounted to all the walls. Not like the dinky kind at school, but the real kind. Like the ones they have at theaters. And they had really great movies playing on them like Star Wars and The Wizard of Oz and Breakfast at Tiffany's and The Matrix.
3. Movie camera centerpieces made out of flowers. White roses. I don't know if white roses are more expensive than other flowers, but I do know that they must be special. Whenever my mom sees them, she says, “Ooh . . . white roses,” in the same voice I might use to say, “Ooh . . . banana split with hot caramel sauce and marshmallow topping,” or, “Ooh . . . CJ.” When I got to table A-11, no one was there. Just a bunch of picked-over gift bags, some popcorn kernels, and Lynn's black toothbrush. Now that her orthodontist makes her brush after every meal, she takes it with her wherever she goes.
I examined the table for clues to where everyone had gone, but there were none. I did discover a rolled-up Banana Republic bag underneath one of the chairs. Which meant that CJ was sitting at that table.
I had no idea where to go looking for him. I didn't know who to ask, either. There were no kids in sight, and as you guys know, I don't really like speaking to adults.
So I decided to walk over to my table, hoping some kids would be there who might be clued in to CJ's whereabouts.
A half hour later, I arrived at table C-8. It wasn't even on the same floor as A-11. And yes, there were kids seated there, but not the kind I could converse with. Unless I said something like, “Goo goo, ga ga, Teletubby, Mama.” Still, I was so tired from walking, I decided to sit down for a moment.
“I'm Meatloaf; what's your name?” asked the boy who'd just slid into the chair next to me. He slipped me his beefy hand, which I shook. I was so happy to be speaking to someone my own age who might know where CJ was that I almost hugged him. I didn't, though. He was all sweaty and the middle button of his tuxedo shirt had popped.
When I told him my name was Raisin, he licked his lips. I guess it was the mention of food.
“How do you know Roger?” I asked.
“He's my cousin. How do you know him?”
“I'm in his class,” I answered.
“He must not like you very much if he sat you at the kids' table,” Meatloaf said, inching his head closer to mine.
“This isn't only a kids' table,” I reminded him, pulling my head away. “You're here.”
“Yeah, but I'm only nine.” He grabbed a piece of shrimp from a glass plate and shoved it into his mouth.
It was hard to believe that he was only nine, but he was a Morris, and they tend to run large.
Just then I noticed something very important was missing from my place setting. “Have you seen my gift bag?” I asked him. There was one on every plate. But not mine.
“Over there,” Meatloaf said, pointing under the table, where a boy about the age of seven was holding a lit match to my beautiful gold satin sack. “You want me to stop him?”
“Yes.”
“Will you give me a kiss?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Then will you French me?” he persisted.
“No,” I said, forcing myself not to reach through the gap in his shirt and give him the worst purple nerple of his short, portly life. I couldn't believe I had come to the bar mitzvah to be kissed by beautiful CJ and had ended up with an offer from Meatloaf instead.
“If you don't do something quickly, that kid could set this entire table on fire. And everyone seated here.” Suddenly I remembered the most important thing. “And my iPod,” I screamed, near tears.
With that, Meatloaf gave the little boy a swift kick, and the match dropped out of his grasp. Then Meatloaf bent down underneath the table, snatched the gift bag away from the boy, and handed it to me. As soon as I held it between my fingers, I could tell something was wrong. I opened it up and looked inside.
“Where's my iPod?!” I yelled to the little boy under the table.
“Stop saying ‘iPod,'” Meatloaf said. “Only one person gets it, y'know. There's a raffle, and the iPod is second prize. First prize is a digital camera.”
I was pretty disappointed. Not as disappointed as I was about not finding CJ, but at this point I wasn't sure if I ever would. So if nothing else, I still wanted a chance at the iPod. Plus if I won, maybe CJ would admire me for my incredibly good fortune.
And incredibly good fortune is almost as admirable as incredibly good underwear-modeling ability.
After looking inside my bag, I decided to look around me. I can easily say the following without fear of exaggeration:
I was not pleased.
This is what I saw:
• A four-year-old boy named Abner wearing a tuxedo jacket and matching shorts and his mother, bent over next to him, asking him to tell mommy if he needed to make a BM.
• Two six-year-old girls holding napkin rings up to their eyes as if they were eyeglasses. Then laughing hysterically as if to suggest this was humorous.
• Meatloaf Morris giving me a look of love.
I dipped my hand into my glass and splashed cold water on my face. Then I pinched my cheeks, got up, and did a quick skyward stretch, followed by a long cleansing breath. I had to get out of there and find CJ. But the place was so big, I didn't know where to begin.
“Hey, Meatloaf, do you know where the bumper cars are?”
“They're on the fourth floor,” he answered.
“How 'bout the disco?”
“Fifth floor.”
“And the skating rink?”
He scratched his head as he gave it some thought. “Oh, right. The skating rink is in the sub-basement.”
“What about that rock band whose identity is to be kept a secret?”
“Well, I'm not supposed to say who they are, but if I were you, I'd be sure to make it back here by the time Roger finishes his speech.”
I thanked him, then made my way to the sub-basement. CJ seemed much more like an ice-skater than a dancer or bumper car person.
But after forty-five minutes of scrambling around the Spectrum, I realized that Meatloaf had been messing with me. There was no sub-basement. Or fifth floor. Or fourth.
Or bumper cars, skating rink, or disco.
By that time, I was roaming parking level three in search of elevator bank D. If all went according to plan, I could be back in my seat in time for Roger's bar mitzvah speech.
What else did I have to look forward to? I had all but given up—on CJ, on the iPod, and even on my career as a Hollywood celebrity. No one had asked me for an autograph in almost two hours. And you know you're a washup once the fans start leaving you alone.
I finally found elevator bank D just as the elevator was arriving. Maybe I was turning into a person with good fortune. A ding went off, and the shiny doors parted. For a moment, I just stood still, taking in what I thought was my reflection. Then I realized that my reflection only had on the same outfit as I did—but not the same head. And that the head belonged to Galenka Popodakolis.
My thoughts, in this order:
BOOK: Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch
3.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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