Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch

by Judy Goldschmidt

I’m supposed to go to CJ’s at two because his dad’s rehearsal dinner is at five. There’s no way I can go. It’s too disgusting. Countess won’t even let me take him for a walk.

  What am I going to do? It’s only 8:o8 in the morning in Berkeley, and you guys are obviously still sleeping. Who’s going to tell me how to fix this?

  If only Samantha weren’t giving me the silent treatment, I could ask her. She’s always getting A-pluses to the power of ten on her chemistry tests. I’m sure she’d know how to get rid of the smell.

  You know what? I’m going to go ask her. This is an emergency. And we’re family, after all. If family can’t band together in an emergency, then what’s the point?

  12:07 PM, EST

  Sam told me to go away. So much for my theory on family.

  12:08 PM

  WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? SOMEBODY ANSWER ME! IT’S ALREADY 9:o8 IN THE MORNING OVER THERE! FOR THE LOVE OF THE HIGHER POWER, WAKE UP!

  TODAY’S MY LAST AND FINAL CHANCE TO GET TOGETHER WITH CJ AND HELP HIM WRITE HIS SPEECH BEFORE HIS DADS GET MARRIED AND I BECOME THE OLDEST LIVING PERSON NEVER TO HAVE BEEN KISSED.

  Comments:

  Logged in at 12:36 PM, EST

  PiaBallerina: Look, Rae, it’s not as bad as it seems. If you really, really smell as bad as you say, make up a good, BELIEVABLE excuse for why you can’t make it and then write the speech on your own and e-mail it to him. He’ll still have an excuse to talk to you on Monday when he gets back to school. Maybe he’ll be so grateful he’ll end up kissing you right at school!

  Comments:

  Logged in at 1:39 PM, EST

  kweenclaudia: plus there’s always the nunnery.

  1:45 PM, EST

  Nice work. I’ve gathered all of your suggestions and from them I’ve created a list of things to do:

  Tell CJ I have to babysit my sister, last minute. Mention parents’ no-guests-while-babysitting policy.

  Write CJ’s speech.

  Wash hair. Lather. Rinse. Repeat until sandwich odor disappears.

  Call nunnery. Make reservation just as a backup.

  6:55 PM, EST

  I crossed everything off my to-do list. Well, almost everything. I still have to call a nunnery. I just haven’t found one with cable yet. But I did write CJ’s speech. He really liked it. I know because he wrote back an e-mail saying

  To Raisin,

  I like the speech.

  From

  CJ

  I’m glad that he liked the speech, but something wasn’t right with the note he sent. So I changed it. The new version was much better. It was just, as they say in the magazine world, “a more satisfying read”:

  To Raisin,

  I like you.

  From

  CJ

  Much better, I thought. But there still was room for improvement.

  So I changed it one more time:

  To Raisin,

  I love you.

  From

  CJ

  Now, that’s one well-written note. It was so good, so touching, so tender, I read it all in one sitting. And then when I finished, I read it over again.

  And over and over and over until it was time to go to dinner with Sam and Lola.

  Sam didn’t say a word to me at dinner. Not even when I sneezed on her food. You’d think she could manage a small “Cover your mouth please,” but nothing.

  Sunday, December 12

  10:31 AM, EST

  To the Kittiest Kitties in all of Kittyland,

  The most amazing thing just happened! CJ just called and asked me to please come to the wedding. CJ’s invited me to his dads’ wedding. Me, Raisin! Not Dylan, underwear model! He said he’s nervous about giving the speech and he needs me to hold a copy of it and mouth the words along with him. But I think there’s a teeny-tiny little part of him that just wants me there. Kind of as his date.

  And you know what dates do . . . .

  Dates kiss each other! Smoocharoo! Swap saliva! Make out!

  I’m so excited I don’t know what to do with myself. Well, other than rush off to Giselle’s, purchase the most beautiful dress there, run back home to give myself a super-deluxe beauty treatment, and pinch myself to make sure it’s all really real!

  I’m off to Giselle’s. My mother told Sam to go with me and supervise.

  10:45 AM, EST

  Sam just told me she’s not going to Giselle’s until it opens at twelve. I’m not taking any chances. Why risk the possibility of someone getting there first and buying out all the good stuff? If she thinks she’s going to ruin the wedding for me the way she ruined the speech-writing date for me yesterday, she’s got another thing coming.

  1:00 PM, EST

  I found the perfect dress. A powder blue satin strapless gown with a crinoline underneath and a matching “fun fur” stole that closes with a satin bow. I feel like a princess in it.

  I can’t believe how lucky I am. It was the last one too. The perfect shopping experience, all in all. Except for the saleslady. She asked me if I was in the wedding party three times. Once when I tried on the dress, once when I told her to wrap it up. And once when I told her to throw in a tiara as well.

  I better get ready. Sam was late meeting me at the store, so I’m running behind.

  3:15 PM, EST

  I can’t believe my mother. Up to her old tricks again, trying to ruin my life. When she saw me all dressed up for the wedding, she told me to get changed. She said it was “inappropriate.” And get this, that “people would mistake me for a member of the wedding party.” I mean, really, have she and the saleslady at Giselle’s been trading phone calls?

  So, I cried and cried until I almost threw up, and finally she gave in. Not because I was going mental or anything, but because there really wasn’t anything else for me to wear. Samantha’s velvet suit was at the cleaner’s, and the dresses we wore to Mom’s wedding were for summer. Next to those, the dressiest thing either of us owns is a skirt and blouse.

  Even better than getting to wear the dress—Sam and I made up! I was totally right about her. She did think I was the one who told on her.

  What happened was that while I was getting dressed for the wedding, Lola was playing on my bathroom floor. She likes to pour shampoo and conditioner and baby powder and whatever else she can get her hands on into a bowl and pretend she’s a chef on a cooking show.

  Today she was teaching her viewers how to make strawberry pancakes. “You pour in the strawberries and the syrup and then you put it in the oven,” she started, “and when they’re ready, you bring them upstairs to Samantha and her boyfriend!”

  When I heard that, I almost poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand I was using behind my mother’s back!

  “Samantha and who?” I asked.

  “Samantha Macaroni,” she said, drifting back into her lonely world of gibberish and crazy talk. But I know what I heard.

  I went straight down to the kitchen and asked my mom how she and Horace knew about Sam.

  “Parents know,” she said. She wants me to believe that she has ESP or something so I’ll be afraid to do anything bad. But I’m not fooled. PMS, maybe, but not ESP.

  “I think Sam thinks it was me,” I told her.

  “Sam would never think a thing like that,” she argued.

  “Well, she does, and you better tell her she’s wrong,” I said, bursting into tears.

  My mother got a very worried look on her face and called Sam down to explain everything to her right then and there. If there’s one thing my mom really wants, it’s for me and Lola to get along with Sam.

  “I’m so sorry, Rae,” Sam said after Mom explained what was going on. “I just couldn’t imagine who else it could be. I should have asked you.”

  Then we hugged. I’m so happy that we made up. Sam’s not even like a stepsister anymore. She’s more like a sister.

  I can’t believe Lola jeopardized our relationship like that. I have a mind to tell my mom and HA about Eisenhower just so Lola can see what it’s
like.

  I went back upstairs to finish dressing. When I was all ready, I asked Lola how I looked. She broke away from her studio audience long enough to say, “Pretty,” and went back to her pancakes. It’s those tiny flashes of understanding that still give me hope for the little monkey.

  Actually, I’m taking her comment as a really good sign. If Lola, as demented as she is, can tell that I look nice, then CJ, as boyifically challenged as he is, might also be able to tell that I look nice.

  Wish me luck. Between Sam and me making up and the beautiousity of this dress, I’m thinking I could be on a good luck streak. I hope so!

  Well . . . off to get my kiss.

  Comments:

  Logged in at 4:07 PM, EST

  PiaBallerina: Good luck, Raisin. It’s going to be amazing. Don’t forget, no gum (maybe a Tic-Tac, though), keep your eyes closed, because it can be weird if you both open your eyes at the same time (trust me), and just have fun!

  Logged in at 4:10 PM, EST

  kweenclaudia: pia’s right. just have a good time. you can’t really mess up. unless you bite his tongue or something.

  11:07 PM, EST

  Um, hi, Nunnery?

  This is Raisin Rodriguez—future nun. Save a bed for me. I’ll be there as soon as I save up some money. Don’t get me wrong. Prayer is fun and all, but I need my cable.

  Okay, send my love to God. See ya soon!

  NEED I SAY MORE? IT’S SO PREDICTABLE, LOLA COULD HAVE FIGURED IT OUT. AND SHE’S GOT THE INTELLIGENCE OF A FOUR-YEAR-OLD.

  So, I arrived at the wedding hall, and I asked an usher where to go. He sent me to the photo studio, where Jeremy and his two dads and their families were taking pictures. Another usher stood in front of the studio’s doorway.

  “You with the wedding party?” he asked.

  When I told him I wasn’t, he sent me to the chapel.

  It was beautiful. The aisle was lined with poinsettias, white roses, and gold candles dipped in white glitter. Very Christmasy. I felt like I was in a fairy tale.

  Until I sat down and the old lady sitting next to me said, “You know, the rest of the wedding party is getting ready for the procession. They’re gathering in the chaplain’s office.” That did it. Why was everyone on my back about the way I looked? Okay, maybe the tiara was taking it a step too far. But the way that woman was made up, I could have just as easily said to her, “You know, the rest of the clowns are gathering under the circus tent.”

  But I didn’t. I just took off the tiara and dropped it into my purse, figuring that at least now I’d have it for when CJ and I got married.

  Just as I was snapping the purse shut, the music started. The doors to the chapel flew open and an adorable little girl carrying a flower basket walked in, followed by a little boy holding a pillow with a ring on it. CJ came in right after them, looking more handsome than ever all dressed up in his tuxedo and extra-long lashes. He looked like he’d had them permed for the occasion.

  When he took his place onstage at the front of the room, he kind of looked like he was the one getting married. It was hard for me to resist getting up off my seat, throwing the tiara back on my head, and walking down the aisle myself. Sure, CJ might have been surprised at first-it’s not as if we ever discussed getting married-but what could be a more romantic setting for a first kiss than your own wedding?

  Suddenly the music changed to the “Wedding March” and everyone turned their heads to the back of the room. One of CJ’s dads came down the aisle, walking arm in arm with his father. Then CJ’s other dad came right behind, walking arm in arm with his own dad.

  CJ’s face turned pink and his eyes got glassy. He looked like he might cry. It was hard to tell if he was moved by the beauty of the moment or nervous about the speech he was about to make. Either way, it was one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen. It also made his speech that much more touching. His voice cracked as soon as he began the first line (“I have known my fathers almost all my life.”)

  He pretty much had the audience at “all.” By the time he was done, half the wedding guests were weeping. And I didn’t even need to prompt him once.

  When the ceremony ended, the wedding party left the chapel first. Then it was the guests’ turn to leave. I tried to get out of my row as quickly as possible so that I could catch up with him and tell him what a great job he did. It seemed like the perfect setting for him to give me my kiss.

  But the old lady sitting next to me had something different in mind. “Young man,” she said, poking me in my side, “would you mind walking me to my table?”

  The truth was, I minded very much. First she insinuated that I was too dressed up for the wedding and then she insinuated that I looked like a boy. If you’re going to ask someone for a favor, you should try to keep the insults to a minimum.

  Still, what was I going to do? Make a woman of a hundred and seventy-five walk alone among the hordes of people? Not only did she move slowly, she also looked like she was made of twigs. She might have been trampled, rock-concert style. I couldn’t bear to have that on my conscience.

  By the time we reached the dining hall six months later, we had completely missed the cocktail hour. Which meant only one thing—no pigs in blankets for either one of us. It’s funny. You never stop and think about all the things old age forces you to miss out on until you meet a two-hundred-year-old woman at your crush’s fathers’ commitment ceremony.

  As soon as we reached the table where the place cards were set up, my lady friend started waving her hand at an older man. He looked to be about her age.

  “I’ve seen that gentleman somewhere,” she said. But I didn’t trust her in the seeing department. So I walked over to the man and quietly asked him whether he knew the lady.

  “I was wondering when she’d turn up,” he answered as he approached the woman. “Thanks for watching her!” Then he gave her a big smackaroo on the lips.

  That crazy old lady in clown makeup has a better love life than I do.

  I was about to go search for my place card when I finally saw CJ, standing by the dais. I ran over, but by the time I got there, he was talking to some guy our age—tall, blond curly hair, blue eyes—with a great laugh. He looked like he could be a friend of the family. I didn’t want to be rude and interrupt, so I took my seat next to the seat where CJ had hung his jacket. I figured he and I would have plenty of time to discuss the speech, not to mention . . . to do the other thing.

  While I waited, the waitress asked me if I wanted chicken or salmon. The last thing I wanted was to have fish breath for my first kiss with CJ so I ordered chicken and a Shirley Temple.

  When the waitress moved on to the next person, the blond left CJ’s side. “Wanna dance?” I heard him say. I didn’t respond because I didn’t think he was talking to me. He was way too cute to be asking me to dance. I mean, at least based on my looks alone. If he had gotten a chance to know me and my irresistible charm, that might have been a different story.

  “Hey,” he said, this time right to my face. “Wanna dance?”

  “Actually, there’s someone I’m waiting to talk to,” I told him, still wondering why he was interested.

  “Okay, well, when you’re done, come find me. I’m sitting over there,” he said, pointing to a table of screaming children. A table that looked suspiciously similar to my table at Roger’s bar mitzvah. “My name is Toby,” he added, laughing that great laugh.

  ’Bye, Toby . . . I thought, sighing. Maybe in another lifetime . . .

  By this time, I was really feeling hungry. I hadn’t eaten all day because as anyone who’s ever watched E! television knows, you can’t eat right before an important event or your clothes won’t fit. There was a bright green piece of melon sitting in front of me, and even though I prefer melon to be in the orange or pink family, I dug in.

  Suddenly a woman in her fifties came rushing toward me. “Young lady, that’s not for you to eat.”

  I looked around. She was right. No one else had started eating ye
t. “Sorry,” I said. “I was just really hungry.”

  “Well, that’s no excuse to start helping yourself to other people’s food.”

  I did not like what she was implying.

  “Maybe it was rude of me to start eating before everyone else, but I am no thief.”

  “All I’m suggesting is that you find your proper table and remove yourself from my seat,” said the lady.

  “But this is my—” I looked over at CJ, who was still surrounded by people wanting to talk to him, and motioned to him to come over to me.

  “Raisin. I’m so sorry,” CJ said, giving off a whiff of his cinnamony goodness, his beautiful long eyelashes fluttering with every word.

  “What for?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. But you look kind of upset, so I figured I’d apologize.”

  “Well, that lady is trying to tell me that I’m sitting in her seat,” I whispered in his ear.

  “Oh, you mean my aunt Colleen? Um . . . well . . . technically she’s right. I mean, technically that is her seat.”

  “And untechnically?” I asked.

  “Well . . . untechnically . . . untechnically . . . it’s also her seat.”

  “Okay. I guess I goofed. Which one’s my seat?”

  “That one,” he said, pointing toward the empty seat at the kids’ table.

  And that’s when I knew. I wasn’t at the wedding as CJ’s “kind-of” date. Not even in a teeny-tiny way. I was at the wedding as CJ’s speechwriter.

  All this time, all this hoping. All the beauty treatments and clothing and practicing for the big kiss were all for nothing. Because . . .

  There isn’t going to be a kiss. Because CJ doesn’t like me the way I like him. And he never will.

  Suddenly I wanted to rip off my stupid bridesmaid dress and put on a potato sack.

  Or at least a tasteful pantsuit.

  The only thing more tragic than having to get up from Aunt Colleen’s seat and walk over to my table was having to look CJ in the eye when he brought over my chicken plate. (Aunt Colleen ordered the salmon.) Not that I was in the mood to eat anyway. All I wanted to do was run home and lock myself in my bedroom until I was too old to remember there ever was a beau- tiful adorable incredible amazing boy named CJ and how I once loved him so much I actually convinced myself he loved me back. But I couldn’t begin that process just yet. I was stranded until it was time for Sam to pick me up. So instead I just drew frownie faces in my mashed potatoes, hoping that no one would try to talk to me or even look at me.