(What if the truth is that he doesn’t want anything to do with me because I repeated my outfit twice in one week?)
12:27 PM, EST
I guess I could ask Jeremy if he really asked CJ to redo the strip.
12:28 PM, EST
But then I’ll have to speak with him in private. And I don’t know if there’s a room big enough for me and his head.
12:30 PM, EST
Not to mention his voice.
12:31 PM, EST
Or his . . . I won’t even mention the obvious.
12:33 PM, EST
But I’ll give you a hint: It begins with freckl, and it ends with es.
12:35 PM, EST
Why does Jeremy have to be such a big-headed, loud-voiced, freckle-faced freckle face? Instead of a nice friend who answers my questions and promises me that CJ’s telling the truth (using his inside voice so as not to call attention to my late-stage desperation disorder) and doesn’t act like he’s cooler than me because he drinks Red Bull. Huh?
12:41 PM, EST
Okay, I’ve decided CJ was definitely using the strip as an excuse.
How do I know? They say a woman just knows. And I—having experienced the joys of menstruation—am a woman. So I know.
12:53 PM, EST
Three things I’m tired of:
1. Peeing
This one is two-pronged:
I’ve already done it 38,o76 times in life. I’m ready for something new.
There are too many steps.
Nine, depending on how many layers you’re wearing. By the time I’ve finished with all the steps, it’s almost time to go again. I probably don’t give her enough credit for it, but Lola really had the right idea when she wore those diaper things. It’s one of the things I admire most about her.
2. My reputation (I’m sorry, but if you don’t know why I feel this way by now, then you obviously haven’t been paying attention.)
3. This outfit
Fiona just said something about it to me at lunch. It was one thing when Sparkles mentioned it. He was coming from a place of love. But it’s different with Fiona. She comes from a place of disdain.
“I see you’re wearing the outfit from Saturday,” she said, passing me on the way to her table. “I know I said I liked it, but it’s okay to take it off.”
I mean, I don’t know who she thinks she is. I thought the two of us could finally live democratically now that we’d established our respective territories on the social map. Me as the quirky clown who hangs out with the alt kids and she as the reigning queen of the popular girls whose approval is sought out by all.
I guess one person’s democracy is another person’s dictatorship.
Oh, well. I have much bigger problems than Fiona Small. Like the fact that CJ “Make-Out King” Mullen wants nothing to do with me.
It’s really a shame. And such unfortunate timing too. With Dylan out and all.
Comments:
Logged in at 7:09 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: Rae-rae—I think you should trust CJ. If he says Jeremy asked him to redo the strip, then why not believe him? I bet he’ll reschedule once he’s finished.
Logged in at 7:11 PM, EST
kweenclaudia: in the meantime, let’s not forget, reputations don’t remove themselves.
Friday, December 3
7:03 AM, EST
What’s the story, Morning Meow Meows?
I’m so lucky to have such intelligent friends as the two of you.
Pia, I couldn’t agree with you more. Trust is a beautiful thing. Unfortunately, trust requires trust. I need a plan that’s a little more reliable.
Now, Claud, my dear, you’ll be happy to know I’m moving ahead with Operation Reputation Removal.
I’ve given it lots of thought and I’ve come up with the perfect plan. I’m going to give myself a hickey.
Be right back.
7:06 AM, EST
FAQs about the self-given hickey:
Q: Is it really possible to give yourself a hickey?
A: Good question! Yes, it is possible to give yourself a hickey.
Q: How do you give yourself a hickey?
A: Another really good question. There are different schools of thought on this one. Some people recommend holding a vacuum cleaner hose up to your skin for a few seconds. Frankly, this sounds painful and hot. Also, unless you regularly run a vacuum, the noise might arouse suspicion in parents. If you’re fortunate enough not to be living with your parents, this might not apply to you. In this case, however, you’re probably too old to be giving yourself a hickey.
Q: Okay, then which method do you recommend?
A: Wow! These questions keep getting better and better. I recommend the old-fashioned method: using the mouth and sucking in. The upside is that this method is relatively painless. The downside is that most people can’t reach their own necks with their mouths.
Q: If you can’t give yourself a hickey on your neck, then where?
A: That all depends on how flexible you are. Anyplace you can reach.
Q: Have you ever given yourself a hickey?
A: Funny you should ask. As a matter of fact, I just gave myself a hickey today. On my upper arm. Sure, it’s a little untraditional, but a hickey’s a hickey, right? Maybe the boy who gave it to me has bad aim. Doesn’t make me any more of a priss, now, does it?
Q: Is there anything else I should know about giving myself a hickey?
A: Well, you might feel a little stupid doing it, but keep in mind, it’s for a good cause. Also, you definitely don’t want CJ to think you have another boyfriend, so make sure people know the hickey came from a party game.
12:27 PM, EST
Okay. This is going to be a little harder than I thought.
During homeroom I was going over my math homework, when I saw Jeremy standing by the blackboard. Perfect! I thought as I got up from my desk and made my way over to him. Who better than Jeremy Craine, chronic loudyitis sufferer, to spread my “news” like wildfire? He’ll really be doing himself a service as well. From what I understand, loudyitis sufferers love that kind of responsibility. It makes them feel useful.
But leave it to Jeremy to be the exception to every rule. As I got closer to him, I noticed a little red mark on his lip. Like some jelly left over from breakfast.
“You have something on your lip,” I told him.
“No big deal,” he said.
Just then, Lynn joined us. “Hey,” she said to Jeremy. “Your lip is bleeding. You should go clean it up.”
“Oh. I already tol—” I tried to reassure her, but Jeremy interrupted me.
“I guess I should go check on it,” he said, touching his lip. “I’ll be right back.”
And he was out the door, just like that. I wonder why he listened to Lynn and not to me. Maybe because she’s his boss at the ’zine.
With Jeremy gone, I decided to show my hickey to Lynn. I took off the pink leopard-print cardigan I was wearing to reveal the green camisole underneath.
“It’s hot in here,” I told Lynn.
“Really? I’m kinda cold,” she responded.
“You want to borrow my sweater?” I extended my arm to hand her the sweater, hoping she’d notice the hickey.
“It’s really nice,” she said, throwing my whole plan off course. She was looking at the wrong thing.
“Thanks. It’s soft too,” I said running it along my arm, hoping to draw attention to the you-know-what. “And I love the way it’s leopard print but different kinds of pinks and magentas instead of browns and oranges. And the crystal buttons.”
“Yeah, but it’s not really my style. Maybe if it were regular leopard print. And a rougher material with regular buttons. Or all black. But thanks anyway,” she said.
She certainly has an interesting mind, that Lynn. The challenge was to figure out how to catch the attention of that mind’s eye. But with subtlety.
“Look at my hickey,” I finally said.
“I was wondering
what that was.” She paused to stare at it. “It’s not a hickey, though. A hickey is when someone kinda bites your neck and su—”
“This is a hickey. I got it from—”
“You gave yourself a hickey?” I heard a voice asking from behind me. It was Fippy. “That’s kind of funny.”
“I didn’t give it to myself. Who would do a crazy thing like that? Someone gave it to me. We were playing a game.”
“No way,” said Fippy. “Why would anyone give you a hickey on your arm?”
“That’s how they do it in Lower Merion Middle School. You go into a closet and make out. And then you give each other hickeys as proof. I think some people cheat and just go for the hickey, but not me. I was like, ‘Woo-hoo! Make-out city!’”
Fippy and Lynn exchanged glances. But they were nothing like the glances they exchanged after Lynn asked me what the guy’s name was.
“I don’t know. We didn’t get married. We were playing a game.”
“You went into a closet with a complete stranger and you didn’t find out his name?” Fippy asked. I could tell she was outraged by the way she actually moved her lips when she spoke.
“Wait! I do remember his name. It was . . .” At that moment, what I should have done was take the time to think up a name. Instead, I opened my mouth again and just spoke. “It was . . . Hick-ley.” Okay. I admit it. Not the most brilliant save of all time. I guess I was thrown by all the disbelief.
Comments:
Logged in at 7:06 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: Could Lynn be moody? Maybe something’s bothering her and she’s too shy to talk about it. Or maybe she’s acting weird because she’s spending all her time with Clint and she feels guilty about it.
Oh. I’m sorry. I must be getting her confused with Claudia.
7:37 PM, EST
Rina baby—What are you saying? Are you mad at Claudia? Where is she, anyway?
Comments:
Logged in at 7:53 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: I think she and Clint went to the movies or something. I just wish she’d spend some time with me too.
8:04 PM, EST
Is that true? Is she really not spending time with you? This is awful. Oh, wait! I know. Maybe you and Claudia need to write to one of those teen magazines, where they tell you to pick a night of the week that’s reserved just for alone time together. Or maybe you need to call in to one of those teen radio shows where they tell you to find a special activity that the two of you could do together. Or maybe you should read one of those books that tells you to join a sports team together.
I don’t know. . . . I wish I had a solution.
Comments:
Logged in at 8:06 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: It’ll be okay, Rais. Now I feel like I’m just being selfish. I guess I just miss her. And also, I wish I had a boyfriend.
8:33 PM, EST
You’re not being selfish, Pi. I know how you feel. I want a boyfriend too.
Maybe it’s the way the media tells us all we’re not normal red-blooded American girls without one, or maybe it’s the way I talk about it morning, noon, and night, but I’m guessing you knew that.
Monday, December 6
7:03 PM, EST
Dear Kitty(s? Claud, I hope you’re reading this too. It’s going to take at least the power of two to figure this one out.)
Today I took a stab at phase two of Project Reputation Removal.
I was sitting in the stairwell, eating lunch with Lynn and Fippy. The guys were in the lunchroom sitting at Jeremy’s old table playing table hockey.
“That was pretty funny how I faked that hickey yesterday, don’t you think? I’m just trying to get rid of that pesky reputation I’ve developed. I’m really not a priss at all. Whether or not people believe me, I only ran out of the skybox because I didn’t want to continue watching what I thought was a make-out session between the man of my dreams and the underwear model of my nightmares. And I don’t care what Roger Morris says—not wanting to kiss an overgrown nine-year-old thug doesn’t prove a thing. But I guess faking a hickey isn’t the way to go either. So why don’t we just have a straightforward, honest discussion about how much experience we’ve had? I’ll go first. I’ve made out with ten guys. How about you two?”
“Three,” Fippy said.
“Four,” Lynn said.
Suddenly ten seemed ridiculously large. “Only four? But you already told me that you’ve made the first move lots of times!”
“I guess I exaggerated a little. I was trying to encourage you.”
“Well, I guess things just move a little faster on the West Coast. Are you including guys from seven minutes in heaven and spin the bottle?”
“No,” said Lynn. “That’s totally different.”
“Oh. Okay. You should have told me. In that case . . .” I started counting on my fingers. “I’ve only kissed—wait a second—five.” I waited to see their reaction. They seemed to buy it. So I threw out the next question.
“And who was the best kisser?”
“Roman,” said Fippy. “We went out for three weeks at the beginning of the year.”
Lynn just sat quietly without answering. She looked a little like she was holding in a laugh.
“Lynn?” I asked.
“Um . . . no one you know. Just this guy from my neighborhood,” she said as the giggles seeped through. That guy must have been quite the jokester. “How about you?”
“Oh, just this dude,” I said casually. “His name is Krishna Ginsberg,” I said. This time, I came prepared.
Then we talked about bumping noses, open eyes versus closed, and how it’s weird when the boy is shorter than the girl, and I was pretty sure I was holding my own.
“I have a question,” Lynn said. Which caught me by surprise. I thought I was the one asking the questions. “Is it just me, or when you guys are making out with someone, do your teeth ever grind against theirs?”
“Sure, all the time,” I said, not sure if that was the right answer or not.
“That’s definitely happened to me,” Fippy answered, filling me with relief. “It’s almost as embarrassing as when you drool,” she added.
The teeth grinding wasn’t so surprising, but the drooling—that was just too disgusting to imagine.
“Forget embarrassing; for someone wearing braces, like you, it must get dangerous,” Fippy continued.
“Totally,” said Lynn. “Bloody too.”
Then Fippy asked if boys’ tongues ever tasted like vinegar. I never thought about the tongue’s taste. But until the moment before, I’d never thought about drooling either, so I figured anything was possible.
“And I thought it was only me,” I said, letting out an enormous sigh for effect. At least I was learning the game. “Sometimes after making out for a few . . . ummm . . . a few . . . hours . . . the taste is so strong, I start craving pickles.”
Fippy started laughing. Lynn looked like she was trying hard to hold herself back too.
I was getting the feeling that yes had been the wrong answer.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
Both Fippy and Lynn looked down at the ground.
“Fippy was just kidding around about the vinegar, Rais,” Lynn said.
I think Lynn saw how embarrassed I was because she quickly added, “Rais, it’s okay if you’ve never kissed a boy. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Easy for her to say.
PS—I saw CJ during math. I was hoping he’d say, “Are you free on whenever to get together to write the speech?” or, “I’m still not finished with the strip, but as soon as I am, I’ll call you,” or, “You look beautiful today, you unprissy thing, you. Have you heard the news? Dylan’s moved. Somewhere really hot, I heard, so she can walk around in nothing but her underwear at all times. Venus, I think.” But he didn’t say a thing, and neither did I. Maybe it’s just getting too weird now.
Comments:
Logged in at 7:35 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: Or may
be he’s really busy. Between school, the strip, and his dads’ commitment ceremony, he’s got a lot going on.
PS—BTW, I don’t think you’re going to hear from Claudia tonight. She and Clint are getting henna tattoos together. It takes a really long time to dry, so I don’t think they’ll be back until late.
7:46 PM, EST
Claud—if you’re reading this, close your eyes.
Pi—You sound really sad. Don’t be. You can get your own henna tattoos. That’s if you even want them. I think they make people look like they have some sort of flesh-eating disease.
And if it’s the boy part that’s making you sad, think of it this way—at least you’re not dating one that looks like he has some sort of flesh-eating disease.
Claud, you may open your eyes.
Back to me.
Roman is having a party on Friday. This bodes well for me. I’ll use it to stage my comeback, my emergence from the prissy CJ-repelling Raisin of yesterweek to the unprissy irresistible-to-CJ Raisin of nexterweek. Sophisticated, worldly, iPod-owning, and knowledgeable in the ways of boys, making out, and scraping teeth.
Not only will I play all the kissing games, I’ll win them too.
Comments:
Logged in at 7:58 PM, EST
PiaBallerina: Raisy Mae—Just so you know, there aren’t any winners in kissing games. They’re just played for fun. And thanks for trying to cheer me up about Claud.
Tuesday, December 7
7:03 AM, EST
Here, Kitty Kitty(s),
Pi—As far as kissing games go, I admire you for your good sportsmanship, I do, but I can’t operate that way. When Raisin Rodriguez plays, she plays the only way she knows how.
She plays to win.
7:07 PM, EST
After school, Lynn and Fippy were going to South Street in Center City to shop for clothes and makeup. South Street is kind of like every shopping street in Berkeley, only more expensive. And the submarine shop, as I’ve learned, calls their sandwiches “hoagies.”
Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch Page 8
