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:
Logged in at 7:05 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: Rae-rae. 1. Kissing is really easy. Just do what comes naturally.
2. CJ doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who pays attention to nicknames. He seems like he’s just into doing his own thing, right?
Logged in at 7:15 PM, EST
kweenclaudia: still, if i were you, i would try and get rid of that nickname. a reputation as a priss could harm you for life.
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 8:32 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: Don’t worry about CJ. Just blame your parents and try to make plans for the day after tomorrow. I really don’t think it’ll make a difference.
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.
Wednesday, December 1
7:06 AM, EST
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.
Comments:
Logged in at 9:07 PM, EST
kweenclaudia: you can’t just put it out there and then take it back again. besides, this one sounds good.
Logged in at 9:10 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: Claudia’s right, Rae. We’re dying to know.
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!
“Mom, I’m not lying. I never kissed a boy. The closest I’ve come to kissing a boy who’s not a relative is when Countess licks my mouth after dinner.”
“Then why did you say you had? You don’t have to pretend for me. I’m proud that you’re not rushing into things. It means you have self-worth. It means you know that you’re not ready. You do know you’re not ready, right? Because you aren’t. You’re just a child. But now that you have your period, you are physically ready to have a baby. You know that, right? I must have explained that part to you when I got pregnant with Lola. At least I hope it was me who explained that to you, and not that nasty little boy who showed you the dirty magazines when you were in kindergarten. What was his name again? Joshy? Every one is in such a rush these days to—”
“Mom!”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Why are you getting so upset?”
“I’m not up-se-he-he . . .” That’s when the tears started streaming down her face. “It’s just that you’re not a baby anymo-oh-oh.”
She was all over the place. Not making a bit of sense. She takes me out to a fancy restaurant to make sure I know I’m still a child, then she burst into tears because I’m not a baby. She goes out of her way to make sure I know that getting my period means that now I could get pregnant; meanwhile, she’s suffering from the world’s worse case of PMS-itis and doesn’t even realize it.
Get it together, woman!
“Yes, but I haven’t been a baby for twelve years; why are you crying now?”
“I guess I might as well tell you what’s going on. Samantha’s been seeing a college boy and spending time alone with him in her room. Horace and I both think she’s too young for that kind of behavior, and we’ve asked her not to let it happen again. But we also know that you look up to her and that sometimes when a young girl looks up to a teenager, the young girl will mimic the older one’s behavior. So I wanted to have this talk with you before it was too late. It’s not too late, right, honey? Please tell me it’s not too late.”
I assured her for the millionth time that it wasn’t too late. She seemed really relieved and grateful. I just hope she holds on to that feeling for a while. So that one day, hopefully soon, when she does find me alone in my room with CJ, she’ll remember how grateful she felt toward me for not doing it sooner and go easy on me.
BECAUSE IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE CJ REALIZES HIS LOVE FOR ME, AND I REFUSE TO STAY INEXPERIENCED FOREVER!
PS—Reputation remains intact.
PPS—I wonder how they found out about Sam?
Comments:
Logged in at 9:54 PM, EST
kweenclaudia: oh my god, rae! that must have been so horrible. why couldn’t your mom just give you a book about it like other parents?
Logged in at 9:59 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: My parents sent me to a class. It was called My Body, My Bodhi and we took turns passing the talking stick and when it got to us, we had to discuss how we felt about our “special places.” And there were boys there!!!
Thursday, December 2
7:04 AM, EST
What’s new, Pussycats?
Poor Sam. We just crossed paths in the bathroom and boy, is she upseterino. She won’t even look me in the eye. My mom and stepdad went completely ape poop on her. She’s not allowed to be alone in her room with Sid and they’re making her take “a more active role” as a member of the family by making her drive me to after-school events. I guess they figure that the busier she is, the less time she’ll have with Sid. That or the more time she has to spend with me, the more she’ll realize how awful children are and the more careful she’ll be about not making one with Sid. Though if that’s the case, they really should have put her in charge of Lola.
I hope she’s not angry at me about having to drive me around.
Speaking of Sam, I’ve decided to wear her green velvet dress again. There’s no way CJ will be able to resist me in it. I doubt he’ll recognize it from Saturday. After all, his eyes were kind of buried in She Who Shall Remain Nameless’s Face.
Gotta go.
Love,
The future ex-Miss Priss. Soon to be known as the future Ms. Raisin Rodriguez-Mullen.
12:23 PM, EST
Foiled again.
When I got to school today, CJ was waiting for me at my locker.
“I don’t think I can get together with you tonight,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked, rushing to get my coat off so he
could see my outfit.
“Jeremy didn’t like my strip. He wants me to do it over,” CJ told me.
“Does it have to be tonight?”
“He wants it as soon as possible so he can leave time for last-minute changes.”
CJ looked so sad. I really wanted to give Jeremy a piece of my mind. And on that piece of my mind, I would have written the following: Why are you ruining my life?
“I wish Lynn’s orthodontist would hurry up and finish putting on her braces so she would come back to the zine,” I said. “She never would have made you redo your strip.”
“Maybe she would have.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, struggling with the end of my zipper.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Because . . . I don’t.” It was hard to think of a reason with my coat attacking me.
“But why not?”
“Because . . . because . . .” I needed CJ to see my outfit. But there was no getting my coat to open. So I stepped out of it the way you step out of a skirt or a hula hoop. Which I thought was genius.
Until finally my foot got caught in the material and I tripped over it. “Because . . . I don’t,“ I yelled to CJ from the ground.
“Okay, Raisin,” CJ whispered, almost like he was shushing me, but not really, because he’s too sweet. He offered me his hand and I grabbed it, which was kind of nice.
Except that as soon as I was on my feet, he spit out a quick goodbye and was off. I wonder if he noticed I was acting weird?
Before I could even gather my thoughts, Sparkles appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Listen, NG, we’ve all been there. Sometimes I find it helps to write down my outfits on a calendar. That way I avoid wearing the same outfit twice within too short a time.”
At that point I wasn’t sure if admitting that I‘d repeated the outfit on purpose made me more or less pathetic. So I just thanked Sparkles for his advice.
12:25 PM, EST
What if CJ was using the strip as an excuse? What if the truth is that he doesn’t want anything to do with me because he heard that I’m a priss?
Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch Page 7
