Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch (2 page)

As soon as she said the word rules, there was a lot of booing and hissing. Roman threw off his dog collar and Jacques, the French foreign-exchange student, said something about America being a fascist state. Even Fippy muttered something under her breath, but it was hard to tell what it was because, as always, she didn't move her lips.

“Chill, please!” Lynn commanded, very in charge. “There's no reason to get all bent out of shape. The rules are pretty simple. They are (1) stay in the basement, (2) keep your hands to yourselves, and (3) don't break anything.”

Then it was time to go, and since I still had one panel left, I took the strip home with me. And just now, when I took it out of my bag to work on it, I noticed that on the top corner of the page, in his very dark, very tiny, very problem-child handwriting, CJ wrote me a note:

 
Dear Raisin,

Hi. It's CJ. Your CoolerThanYou friend. Sorry to bother you, but if it's not too much trouble, could you please call me when you have a chance? My phone number is 215-555-8435.

Sincerely,

CJ Mullen

 
7:41 PM, EST

What should I do?

 
7:43 PM, EST

What does this mean?

 
7:44 PM, EST

What should I do?

 
Logged in at 8:14 PM, EST

 
8:42 PM, EST

Pia, what would I do without you to convince me of things I already know to be true?

And Claudia, I'd probably be a lot better off without your sarcasm, but . . . you're pretty.

Anyway, CJ wasn't home. I wrote out a whole script for what I was going to say if he picked up, and then I just ended up leaving a message on his voice mail. I hope that's okay. Because now that I think of it, he only gave me the go-ahead to call him. He never said anything about leaving him a message.

Do you think he'll be angry? Do you think he'll feel violated? Do you think he'll ever forgive me?

... Do you think he listens to his voice mail?

Because not listening to voice mail would be just the kooky kind of quirk a quirky kook like him would have. He's the kind of person who might think voice-mail messages are evil. Just another scheme Hallmark's cooked up to get people to buy greeting cards. Or a new way of brainwashing teenage girls into thinking they're overweight. Actually, he might not be so wrong about that one: if he doesn't call me back, I plan to stuff my face.

Ooh . . . there's the phone. I hope it's him!

 
8:55 PM, EST

It was for Lola.

Eisenhower—who else?

I mean, really! He can't be missing her. He left her side less than two hours ago. I showed her how to use call waiting in case CJ calls while she's on the phone. She'd better not mess up. All she has to do is push a button. Which, come to think of it, requires about as much skill as pulling up her skirt. So she should be a master.

 
8:59 PM, EST

It's been six minutes and she's still on the phone! Can you believe it? She's only in nursery school. Even if she said every word she knows—twice—it wouldn't take up six minutes.

That's it. I'm going to pick up the phone and listen in.

Hmmm. They're both just breathing. Actually, Lola's sniffling a bit now too.

I'm going to give them ten more seconds, and then I'm going to say something.

 
9:00 PM, EST

I waited ten more seconds like I said I would, and then I chimed in. Unfortunately, the person on the other end wasn't Eisenhower.

“Hello, Eisenhower,” I began. “This is Raisin Rodriguez, Lola's older sister. I hate to be rude, but would you mind if I asked you to get off the line? I'm waiting for a very, very, very important call.”

“Uh, hi, Raisin, this is CJ,” said the voice on the other end. “But if you're waiting for a very, very, very important phone call, I can call back.”

I almost threw the phone out the window with me attached to the end of it. I didn't want him to think I was pushy.

“CJ . . . hi . . .” I started. “I was totally exaggerating. I only said three verys to get Lola off the phone. It's really only two,” I answered. Thank goodness I'm quick on my feet that way.

Suddenly I remembered the script I had written. I scurried around the room looking for it, but I couldn't find it anywhere, so I was forced to wing it.

“Did you know that when a lion and a tiger mate, it's called a liger?” I said.

“Huh?” CJ asked.

This wasn't going very well.

Just then I heard Lola. She'd been so quiet, I'd forgotten she was still on the other line. But now I could hear her trying to breathe through the mucous bubbles in her nose. Was she kidding me? Maybe Eisenhower was into that kind of thing, but if she thought she could get her hooks into my CJ using her old nasal tricks, she could think again.

“Lola? Isn't SpongeBob on?” I asked.

Click.

By now, my conversation with CJ was dragging. I had to think of something to liven things up. I do a perfect robot, but it kind of loses its effect on the phone. (Remind me to pick up a couple of Web cams, will ya? One for me and one for CJ.)

As I frantically scanned my brain for ideas, CJ finally spoke.

“So, Raisin,” he started. “You're a writer, right?”

How cute is that? I thought. He's done his research.

“Yes,” I answered coolly. “How'd you know?”

“Well,” he said, “from working with you on the 'zine.”

Oh, right.

“Anyway, my dads are having a commitment ceremony. Like a wedding? And I was hoping you could help me with the speech.”

“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooo,” I answered. Not because I didn't want to help CJ out, but because Countess came barreling into my room, chasing after one of Lola's Barbie shoes, and almost knocked me right off my feet. Someone really should sit that poor dog down and explain to him that he's a he once and for all. Then maybe he'll stop chasing after women's accessories.

“Oh, okay. Well, I just thought I'd ask,” CJ said.

“No, wait, I wasn't saying no to you. My stepsister's dumb dog almost threw me to the ground.”

“So you'll do it?” CJ said.

“Sure,” I told him.

The truth is, I'm pretty disappointed. I mean, it's nice that he thinks I'm a good writer, but what does that say about his feelings for me? Not much, that's what! Anyone can write. You don't have to be pretty to write. You don't even have to be a girl to write. And writing certainly doesn't involve kissing.

I guess it's over. We're supposed to figure out a time to meet during the week. But now I'm not even sure I want to. I mean, what's the point?

 
Logged in at 9:44 PM, EST

 
Logged in at 9:46 PM, EST

 
Logged in at 9:49 PM, EST kweenclaudia: oh ... right. well, i was just trying to be helpful.

 
9:51 PM, EST

Really? You think he was just using the speech as an excuse? That's so adorable of him.

I better go get together a nice outfit for tomorrow. Wouldn't want him changing his mind.

 
9:55 PM, EST

Why is Horse Ass such a horse ass?

He just passed my bedroom as I was pulling outfits from The Raisin Rodriguez Fall Line for tomorrow.

“Getting ready for a date?” he asked.

“No, my friend Lynn needs to borrow an outfit, so I'm bringing a few choices to school tomorrow.”

I really don't appreciate him having thoughts about me and boys.

“Lynn. . . is she the one with the freckles?” he asked.

“No,” I told him. “That's Jeremy. He's a boy.”

“Jeremy. Hmmm,” he said, thinking for a moment. “Don't know him.”

“Yes, you do,” I told him. “He's your friend Eric's son.”

“Oh yes, Jeremy. Nice kid. Well, you two have fun.”

I mean, for crying out loud, how am I supposed to create under these conditions?

 
10:03 PM, EST

Do you think it's too late to call in a team of beauty experts?

 
10:05 PM, EST

Or to have my face feng-shuied?

 
10:06 PM, EST

Are false eyelashes too much?

Kitties,

Forget the team of beauty experts; call 911. I'm having a hair emergency.

I set my alarm for five today, figuring if I paced myself, two hours and eighteen minutes would be just enough time to get ready for CJ. I finally settled on an outfit last night (sassy student from The Raisin Rodriguez Fall Line), so it was just a matter of getting my hair and makeup together. Of course, there are some things in life we can't prepare for. Friends doing weird things with their tongues, the sudden-onset birth of a sibling, natural disasters . . . I learned about that last one the hard way.

This morning I woke up to a weather report of 8o percent humidity. Actually, I didn't even need to hear the weather report. My hair told me everything I needed to know. It said, “We have a code-red situation.”

My hair was right. Luckily, Samantha has secret hair issues of her own. Turns out she's not spending all her time contemplating the introduction of iambic pentameter and its influence on the atmosphere of Uranus (your anus! Ha!). Based on my observations regarding her use of the flatiron, I happen to know for a fact that she's spending at least some of her time like the rest of us girls—worrying about frizz!

Usually she keeps the flatiron in the cabinet under the sink in our bathroom. But today there was nothing in there but a box of tampons. Now, really, what good are those? If I were curling my hair, maybe. But for straightening?

I checked everywhere, but the iron was nowhere in that bathroom. By this time I was starting to panic a little. Which made me sweat a lot. Which made my hair frizz even more.

There was only one thing to do. I had to get inside Samantha's room and find that iron.

Luckily Samantha suffers from advanced-stage snoryitis, so I didn't have to worry that she'd hear me coming in. It amazes me that a perfect Barbie doll nose can manufacture such ugly noises.

The iron was sitting on her bookshelf, its metal plate shining like a beacon of hairstyle hope. “We'll fix you up for CJ,” it seemed to be saying.

Until . . .

I stepped on her radio alarm clock and set it off. It was so loud and startling, I was afraid she'd hear it over her snoring. So I flipped back the switch as quickly as I could and ran out of the room without even throwing a glance her way.

I was hoping that the nightmarish experience might have scared my hair straight. But it did no such thing. I had to come up with a new plan.

What about using a clothes iron? I thought. It can't be that different from a hair iron. They both use heat to smooth things out.

I headed straight for the laundry room to check out my theory. Then I plugged in the iron, put my head down on the ironing board, put a paper towel over my hair, and ironed away.

It worked so well, I was ready to alert the fashion media. I just had to go over my hair one final time.

And that's when I found out the hard way why people don't use household appliances to style their hair. Because most of them are smart enough to know that if they're not super-careful, they'll SINGE THEIR BANGS INTO BURNT STRAW ON THE MOST IMPORTANT AND LIFE-CHANGING DAY OF THEIR WHOLE ENTIRE ROMANTIC LIFE.

Yes, ladies, once again, Raisin Rodriguez has turned her hair into a sideshow attraction.

Now what am I going to do? I look like the scare-crow from The Wizard of Oz. One look at me and CJ might hop on the Yellow Brick Road and take it as far away from me as he can.

I better go reevaluate my wardrobe plans for today. Something that hides my head would do nicely.

PS—I wonder if I can still work in the eyelashes somehow.

 
7:03 AM, EST

What am I going to wear? I don't own anything that goes with this hair!

I've gone from preppy punk to punky prep, then to all pink, which is the new black, and to all black, which is of course the old black, but nothing looks right. It's time to face facts. Even the most beautiful designer evening gown, made especially to be worn to the Most Fabulous Human in the Universe Awards (broadcast live from Television City in Hollywood), hand-sewn in purple satin . . . with a ruched bodice . . . and a magenta velvet bow . . . trimmed with Swarovski crystal, could not look good with the industrial-strength Brillo pad that's growing out of my scalp. (But let's put it on hold for my next good hair day.)