Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch (9 page)

“Who has her period? Is it Miss Priss?” It was Roger Morris.

“Grow up, Roger,” said Lynn. “And she's not a priss, by the way. It's all a big misunderstanding.”

“Oh, really? Because I heard you wouldn't kiss my cousin. Or was that a big misunderstanding too?”

“Your cousin is nine years old,” I said.

“So what? He's inherited the Morris family good looks.”

“More like he's inherited the Morris family large bones,” I murmured under my breath.

“Don't worry, Raisin,” Roger said. “You don't have to be a priss forever. It's an easy thing to change. I can help you.” Then he wiggled his eyebrows just to make sure I understood what he meant by “help.”

“Get lost, Morris,” Lynn said.

I gave him a look of hate and headed for the exit door. How disgusting can one oversized sweaty boy be?

And why couldn't CJ be the one saying things like that?

The point is that even though it sucks that I have this new nickname, it's great that CJ and Dylan aren't together. Now I have a chance with him again! I'm so excited!

I better go tell Galenka what's going on.

 
12:57 PM EST

I found Galenka in front of her locker and explained why everyone was calling me Miss Priss.

“So you are Meesus Prees because you ran out of room. But why am I Meesus Prees?” she asked, tucking her sweater into her sweatpants.

“Well, did you play the kissing games on Saturday?”

“No, I leave room and start to crying.”

That explained why her eyes looked so red when I ran into her in front of the elevator.

“Because you didn't want to play?”

“Yes—I no want to play because I have boyfriend back home.”

“Well, it's simple, then. Just tell everyone the reason why you didn't want to play. Then they'll stop thinking of you as a priss.”

“Thees ees very good idea. Now I just need figuring out how to get people to talking to me,” she said.

And I thought I had problems. All I've got is a nickname. Poor Galenka has a false reputation and no one who'll listen to the truth.

Then again, she's also got a boyfriend and kissing experience.

Scratch that . . . I don't know what I was thinking . . . Galenka will be fine.

Poor Raisin.

 
4:36 PM, EST

Poor Raisin is no more! CJ and I are on for tomorrow night!

Once I realized that CJ wasn't kissing Dylan out of love, I decided to pick things back up where we'd left them.

I sent him a note during math asking him if he wanted to work on the speech tomorrow night. And he sent back a note saying that he did. He was in the middle of working on a new superhero drawing. This one had the face of a girl and the body of a grasshopper. And he was gazing at the girl face like he LOVED it or something. I won't say it didn't cross my mind once again that the grasshopper girl could be Dylan. But I did my best not to let that thought get in the way of my plans. I mean, why should I let the fact that CJ might be in love with Dylan ruin our special night together?

Anyway, Dylan and her grip on CJ aside, I'm so excited! I just wish I were a little more prepared in the kissing department. I mean, what if I don't do it right?

PS—What if CJ's heard my new nickname? What if he's afraid to kiss me because he thinks I'm a priss?

 
Comments:

 
8:15 PM, EST

Never mind the kissing. Forget about my reputation. CJ and I are already off again. When I came home from school, my mom and Horace were acting all weird. First of all, they were both home for the second night in a row.

Second of all, my mom brought me into the kitchen and offered me some of Lola's Dunkaroos. She never does that. She usually gets really mad when I eat them. Says she needs them for Lola. Makes me wonder if she's taken a good look at Lola's belly lately. Because unless there's a tapeworm baked into those cookies, I think Lola's much better off without them.

Then Horace took a seat on the stool next to me, gave me a friendly slap on the back, and said, “RR, baby?” (His nicknames for me are getting so much worse.) “RR, baby, how'd you like to join your mother and me for a nice piece of steak tomorrow night?” They almost never take me out to fancy restaurants unless it's someone's birthday.

“Actually, HB, tomorrow night doesn't work so well,” I said, getting off my stool. “Thursday or Friday would work much better,” I continued, trying to slip out the door before giving my mother a moment's opportunity to destroy all my chances at happiness.

“Raaay-zin,” my mother yelled, stopping me in my tracks. “Tomorrow is the only free night we have.” It's amazing how directly the sound of her voice links up with the failure of my love life.

“But Mom . . .” I started.

“I'm sorry. Whatever it is will have to wait.”

For what? A piece of meat? I wanted to say. But I didn't. Then she might have killed me. And I'm almost positive I have a better chance with CJ alive than I do dead.

Almost positive.

PS—It'd be great if I could use the extra time to get rid of my reputation.

 
Comments:

 
Logged in at 8:37 PM, EST kweenclaudia: how hard could it be to get rid of your reputation? just find someone and kiss him. anyone. how about that jeremy, for instance? someone like him, who's loud,
would be perfect. all he'd have to do is tell one person and the whole school would hear about it.

Feline Friends Forever,

I agree. Operation Reputation Removal must begin at once. But kissing Jeremy is not the answer. For all the little problems I have with him, Jeremy is like a brother to me. (Except for the freckle part. We in the Rodriguez family aren't susceptible to freckles or any related conditions.)

 
12:53 PM, EST

I just saw the absentee list. Dylan's been out since Monday. Probably has mono, the little make-out machine.

Must use Dylan's absence to own best advantage.

Too busy for pronoun usage as am in training for Operation Reputation Removal.

 
8:57 PM, EST

Oh, the emotional anguish!

Can someone please fly here and wash my brains out with soap? Boil my thoughts? Erase my memories? Or maybe I should just check into a mental hospital and stay until the damage is reversed.

You won't believe why my mom and Horace took me out to dinner!

They . . .

Took me . . .

Out to dinner . . .

Because . . .

Oh, I can't say it.

I can't even think it.

Trust me, though. It was awful.

 
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Logged in at 9:10 PM, EST

 
9:25 PM, EST

Fine. Be that way. I'll tell you what happened. Don't worry about me. If you don't hear from me in a few days, just assume my brain withered due to hideous memory poisoning.

So, my mom picked me up after school. I knew we were in trouble as soon as I set eyes on Lola sitting in the backseat.

“What's she doing here?” I asked as I opened the car door. “And why is she allowed to wear purple lipstick if I'm only allowed to wear clear gloss?”

“It's not lipstick,” my mother said. “She had that purple ketchup with her fries before we left the house, and she got it all over her face.”

“If she already ate, then why's she coming?” I asked as I climbed into the backseat.

“Couldn't find a babysitter,” my mom said, pulling up to her office building.

“Why are you stopping here?”

“To pick up your stepfather. Remember him?” she said, sounding annoyed and impatient.

“Dude . . .” Horace said when he slid into the front seat next to my mom. “Ready for some raw fish?”

“Aren't we having . . . a . . . nice piece of meat?” I asked.

“No, sweetheart,” my mom started. “I thought we could try out this nice sushi restaurant I read about in Philadelphia magazine.”

And with those words, I was briefly lulled into a false sense of promise. My mom never let me eat sushi before. She said it causes parasites in young stomachs. For a moment there it felt like we were turning a corner together. Like she was finally seeing me for the savvy, sophisticated, iPod-owning, soon-to-be-non-priss I've become.

But by the time we were seated and had ordered, I realized how off-base I was. I'm not sure what tipped me off. It was either that she switched my salmon roll to a vegetable tempura roll at the last minute (she didn't even consider my stomach old enough for raw vegetables) or that she said, “Raisin, Horace and I would like to talk to you about where babies come from.”

Either way, it turned out to be a good thing that she switched my order. Because after she dropped her little bombshell, my jaw fell and my vegetable tempura roll came rolling right out of my mouth. And knowing Horace, he would not have liked seeing salmon, or worse, a nice piece of meat, go to waste like that.

(Actually, come to think of it, nothing did go to waste. Lola picked up the remains of my tempura roll and devoured it. If there's one thing you can safely say about the little meatball, she's sure easy to please. Gosh, she looked so happy sitting there eating my saliva-coated food. If only there had been some purple ketchup for her to put on it. She'd have thought she'd died and gone to heaven.)

And so, as Lola sat happily chewing my cud, the three humans seated at the table attempted to continue the conversation.

“But I already know where babies come from. You explained it to me when you and Dad got pregnant with Lola. Also the year before that, when Aunt Liesa got pregnant with Margaret. And the year before that, when Cousin Eloise got pregnant during her junior year of high school. That year you explained it to me about once a month.”

“Looks like your mother's been very careful not to let you get your information from the wrong source,” Horace said, patting the back of my mother's hand.

“Well, to tell you the truth, the person I learned everything from was Josh B. in kindergarten. We were in the playground. At first I didn't believe him, but then he showed me a picture from one of his father's magazines,” I said, trying for the third time to use my chopsticks correctly.

The moment I said that, Horace got a hair ball the size of Countess in his throat and my mom's sweater became coated in imaginary hair. I guess it made them a little uncomfortable.

“Well, good,” Mom said, once there was no more sweater left to pick at. “And when it comes to boys, how much would you say you've done beyond kissing?”

I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. NOT ONLY DID SHE ASK ME THIS EXTREMELY PERSONAL QUESTION IN FRONT OF THE TWO WORST PEOPLE—HORACE, THE MOST VOMITY STEPFATHER ALIVE, AND LOLA, MY PULL-UP-WEARING SISTER WHO IS ALREADY MORE EXPERIENCED WITH BOYS THAN I AM. WHAT GETS ME IS THAT EVEN SHE, MOTHER STRICTINA, THINKS I'M A PRISS.

AND ON TOP OF THAT, LET'S NOT FORGET THAT IF I HADN'T BEEN FORCED TO ATTEND THIS CELEBRATION IN HUMILIATION, MY INEXPERIENCYITIS MIGHT HAVE ALREADY BEEN CURED.

PARENTS: THEY GET YOU COMING IN AND THEY GET YOU GOING OUT.

LETTERS: THEY COME IN CAPITAL AND THEY COME IN LOWERCASE. (I NEED A THIRD KIND. SOMETHING TO FULLY EXPRESS MY ANGER, EMBARRASSMENT, HUMILIATION, AND CRAVING FOR A YELLOWTAIL ROLL.)

“How much have I done besides kissing?” I repeated, finally getting the chopsticks right. “Not much.”

“Not much, you say?! What do you mean by not much?!” my mother yelled, loud enough to startle Lola into tears and me into dropping the chopsticks I'd worked so hard at mastering. Did she have no respect? “Raisin Ramona Rodriguez, you explain yourself, young lady.” Jeez . . . What was she so upset about anyway? Aren‘t mothers supposed to know when their kids are talking trash?

Horace pulled Lola onto his lap to comfort her, but my mother continued to focus all her attention on me.

“Don't you think you should make sure Lola's okay? After all, she doesn't really know Horace that—”

“Raisin! Please don't change the subject. What do you mean by ‘not much'?” As she waited for an answer, she refused to look away. She wouldn't even blink. Or wink. Not even long enough to let me figure out whether to save my dignity or my life.

“I mean, I never really kissed a boy,” I said, coming to my senses. How dumb would it be to lose my life over saving face with my mother?

“Raisin! Don't lie to me!” she said.

CAN YOU IMAGINE THE SHAME? I WAS READY TO UNSCREW MY HEAD AND FLUSH IT DOWN THE TOILET. EVEN MY MOTHER DIDN'T BELIEVE I NEVER KISSED A BOY!