Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch

by Judy Goldschmidt

  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:

  I’m wandering the Spectrum wearing the same outfit as Galenka.

  I wonder if this makes me a loser.

  Not that Galenka’s a loser.

  More like a person with no friends.

  Mostly because she barely speaks English. But maybe also a teeny-tiny bit because she wears sweatpants with panty hose and patent leather pumps.

  And here I am wearing virtually the exact same outfit she’s wearing.

  I wonder if there are any lobster tails left. (Or whether they were part of the web of lies surrounding what would be offered at this bar mitzvah.)

  I hope I’ve accessorized the outfit better than Galenka has.

  And then finally it occurred to me:

  MAYBE GALENKA KNOWS WHERE CJ IS!

  “Nice outfit,” I said, entering the elevator.

  “Yes, thank you. You are wearing nice outfit too,” she said. I wasn’t sure if she realized they were both the same.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked her. (I couldn’t ask her where CJ was. That would have been too obvious.)

  “Everyone, dey are on level P,” she said. And then she sniffled. I noticed that her eyes were red too. She looked like m
aybe she’d been crying.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. She nodded. Just then the elevator landed on level P. I got out, but Galenka stayed where she was.

  “Go to skybox numeral twenty-one,” she said.

  “You’re not coming?” I asked her, keeping the door open with my hand.

  She shook her head.

  “You sure?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  I felt bad leaving Galenka behind. Especially if something was wrong. But who knew? Maybe I was jumping to conclusions. Maybe she had a cold and wanted to go home. Or maybe she was wearing red eyeliner.

  “’Bye,” I said, letting go of the door.

  “Have good luck,” Galenka answered as the elevator shut.

  It was surprisingly quiet as I walked down the hallway toward skybox twenty-one.

  But as soon as I opened the door to the skybox, I realized why there was no noise. A spectacle was in progress, and it was spellbinding to all who watched. The fact that this little performance happened to be my worst nightmare on display is merely an unhappy coincidence.

  Ladies, I won’t lie to you. I thought long and hard before deciding to tell you what exactly was going on in that skybox. Because when I tell you, you’ll want to pity me. And I don’t want your pity.

  So save it for someone more deserving.

  Even though pity’s almost all that’s left for me.

  I don’t want it.

  Even though I really do.

  Ladies, behind that door, amid the blur of other bar mitzvah guests, was none other than Ms. Junior Lingerie herself, Ms. Training Bra and Panties, Ms. My Stomach’s Flatter Than Yours (and BTW, so are her boobs. I’m just saying).

  The one,

  the only,

  Ms. Dylan Mulroney

  HAVING MY FIRST KISS WITH MY CJ.

  Just as I suspected all along!

  Yes. You heard correctly. I innocently opened the door of skybox twenty-one in the hopes of finally connecting with my friends and loved one. He was supposed to see me all dressed up in Sam’s green velvet dress and I was supposed to see him all dressed up in his blue suit and eyelashes and we were supposed to run into each other’s arms and twirl each other around and then we were supposed to kiss and kiss until Roger was finally promoted to eighth grade.

  Instead I found him two-timing me with that underwear model of ill repute. And all I could think of to say was, “Sorry, wrong room,” before booking out of there and bursting into tears.

  It’s just so unfair! I’ve loved CJ since the beginning of the school year. Underwear Breath has only been here for seventeen days. Plus she could have anyone. She’s an underwear model, for goodness sake. Boys must throw themselves at her feet on an hourly basis. Underwear model boys, even. She doesn’t know CJ. She can’t appreciate him the way I appreciate him. I bet she doesn’t even know what he keeps in that shopping bag he carries around with him all the time. She probably never even bothered to notice his cinnamon scent. Or his eyelashes. Even when they were brushing up against her cheeks! I mean, what kind of person doesn’t notice their boyfriend’s eyelashes?

  After stumbling around the hallways blurry-eyed, I eventually found a nice private terrace where I huddled in a corner. I hid out there until a photographer stepped out onto the terrace and told me he needed me to clear the area for a “photo op.” The paparazzi can be so heartless.

  I didn’t really know where to turn after that. I couldn’t go back to the skybox or even table A-11 without risking the possibility of running into CJ and Dylan. And my heart couldn’t have handled that. Seeing them together and happy would just have been too much. And since my mother wasn’t picking me up for another hour, the only thing to do was head back to my table.

  As soon as I stepped foot inside the hall, I spotted Meatloaf bouncing off the walls. He appeared to be slam dancing. Which wouldn’t have been so weird if everyone else around him hadn’t been praying.

  This was a little too much for Abner’s mom, who was back at the table. She ordered Meatloaf to sit down.

  “You could poke someone’s eye out the way you’re dancing,” she said as she pulled back the elastic waistband of her son’s tuxedo shorts and checked to see what was going on down there.

  Meatloaf sat down and pulled something out of his ears.

  Earphones.

  Which were connected to an iPod.

  Which he waved in my face.

  The iPod that I was supposed to win.

  THE ONE THAT WOULD MAKE CJ REALIZE THAT WHAT I LACK IN LENGTH OF LEG, I MORE THAN MAKE UP FOR IN INCREDIBLY GOOD FORTUNE.

  THE ONE THAT WOULD FORCE HIM TO GET A GOOD LOOK AT ME AS I WALKED UP TO CLAIM IT. IN MY BEAUTIFUL GREEN VELVET OUTFIT.

  THAT’S MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN GALENKA’S. EVEN THOUGH IT’S THE SAME ONE.

  BECAUSE I KNOW HOW TO ACCESSORIZE.

  THE ONE THAT, IF NOTHING ELSE, WOULD CONSOLE ME OVER NOT HAVING MY KISS WITH CJ.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me where I got this?” Meatloaf asked, smirking a very smirky smirk.

  “Why would I do that?” I asked.

  “I just thought you’d be interested, considering how much you wanted one before.”

  “Well, things are different now. I’ve gone through some changes. You probably won it in the raffle, so good for you. Now please leave me alone with my suffering.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I just thought that maybe you’d want to know that you had the winning ticket for the iPod. Guess I was wrong.” Then he put the earphones back in his ears and started shaking his head to the music. At which point I almost wrapped my hands around his throat and wrung his neck.

  “Give it back,” I said.

  “Make me!” he said, springing to his feet.

  “Give it back,” I repeated as Meatloaf started running around the table. I chased him for a while, but I couldn’t catch up.

  Finally Meatloaf started running out of breath. “I’ll give it back to you if you dance with me,” he said.

  “Fine,” I said, after giving it some thought. It wasn’t as if I’d really have to dance with him. We’d be doing the electric slide. It’d be more like dancing next to him.

  But when we got out on the dance floor, instead of joining the others on the dance line, Meatloaf grabbed my hand and started twirling me around the dance floor. I asked him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen.

  “Just till the end of this song and then I’ll give you your iPod,” he said. In truth, I didn’t mind it so much. He wasn’t such a bad dancer and it wasn’t like anyone else was asking me. So I just went with it.

  Just as the song was ending and I was preparing to claim my booty, I felt myself backing up into someone and then tripping over their feet.

  “Sorry,” I said, without even seeing who it was.

  “You were seated at the kids’ table?!” a voice said back to me loudly. It was a boy’s voice. And it sounded freckled.

  I quickly let go of Meatloaf’s hand.

  “Hey, Jeremy. Um, have you met Roger’s cousin, Meatloaf?”

  Jeremy didn’t answer me. He just finished off a sip of whatever he was drinking and raised his glass at Meatloaf. “S’happenin’, yo? Those fourth-grade girls giving you trouble?”

  S’happenin’, yo? He could talk street as much as he wanted. It still wouldn’t change those freckles on his face.

  “Yeah, but I’m only feelin’ it for Raisin,” Meatloaf said. If only he could have magically morphed into CJ at that moment.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked Jeremy, trying to call attention away from Meatloaf’s crush on me.

  “Red Bull. Have you ever had one? It’s totally awesome. I’m totally wired,” he said, throwing punches at the air. “Totally wired.”

  Totally wired was right. He was bouncing off the walls, in fact. I’m not kidding. There was a column in the middle of the floor and he kept pushing himself off it with his feet. Which looked like something I might have enjoyed too if I hadn’t been in mourning for my life.
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  “Can I have a sip?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said, passing me his glass. But right before he handed it over, he pulled it away from me. “Wait a second,” he said. “Have you ever tried it?”

  “No . . .”

  “Better not, then,” he said, taking another swig. “Stuff’s pretty harsh.”

  Why was he acting like he was so much cooler than me?

  Just then Roger came over and joined us.

  “Why are you sitting at the kids’ table?” He cackled.

  “Because that’s what was written on my place card.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry about that. You got a last-minute invitation, so there was no room left at the other table.”

  Funny how my invitation came too late to get me a seat at the good table, but Dylan, who started school just a couple of weeks ago, was able to beat the deadline.

  “Well, have fun,” Roger said as he and Jeremy, acting even stranger than usual, walked away.

  As the bar mitzvah ended, Meatloaf gave me my iPod and told me to give him a call when I was ready.

  On the way out, everyone got a copy of their picture with the statuette, which turned out to be made of solid Godiva chocolate. I was so depressyitis, I polished mine off while I waited for my mom to pick me up.

  Well, I almost polished it off. I had finished all but the left big toe and was raising it to my mouth when all of a sudden I heard,

  “New Girl—don’t do it.”

  Sparkles looked so handsome in his three-piece white tuxedo.

  “Where’ve you been all this time?” I asked him.

  “Never mind that. You listen to me, girlfriend. No matter how bad things seem right now, drowning yourself in chocolate isn’t the answer.”

  “Fine,” I said, dumping the big toe in a nearby garbage can. “But really, where were you?”

  “Well, you know what a deeply religious person I am—so naturally when Roger introduced me to his rabbi, the two of us got along like two peas in a pod. We had so much to talk about that the bar mitzvah flew by without either of us realizing it.”

  That Sparkles. Always full of surprises. If the bar mitzvah hadn’t been such a low point in my life, running into him might actually have cheered me up.