Will the Real Raisin Rodriguez Please Stand Up? Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Monday, December 13

  Tuesday, December 14

  Friday, December 17

  Saturday, December 18

  Thursday, December 23

  Friday, December 20

  Saturday, December 25

  Sunday, December 26

  Monday, December 27

  Wednesday, December 29

  Thursday, December 30

  Friday, December 31

  Saturday, January 1

  About the Author

  Also by Judy Goldschmidt

  The Secret Blog of Raisin Rodriguez

  Raisin Rodriguez and the Big-Time Smooch

  Will the Real Raisin Rodriguez Please Stand Up?

  RAZORBILL

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group

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  Copyright 2007 © Alloy Entertainment and Judy Goldschmidt

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  To Mr. Sherber Brennan Jr. Here’s hoping that by the time you read this, you’ll have a first name.

  Monday, December 13

  6:30 PM, EST

  Hello Kitties,

  This morning I woke up an innocent child. Someone who led a simple existence, consisting mainly of going to school, seeing friends, eating meals, and sure, making an occasional appearance on the talk show circuit. (You know—the one in my room.)

  But tonight? Tonight I go to sleep an experienced woman of the world.

  Wait a second! Did I just say woman? I can hardly believe myself. Woman used to be a dirty word to me. One that made me think of someone outfitted in head-to-toe Dress Barn. With one hand on her hip and the other wagging a very waggy finger. Who thinks poopie jokes aren’t funny or amusing.

  But here I am, dressed in my up-to-the-minute empire-waist dress and ballet flats, with both hands on my keyboard, enjoying a good chuckle over that ol’ zinger about the ghost poopie (Where’d it go?), yet a woman nonetheless.

  I guess I had it all wrong.

  It’s funny, there are so many things I didn’t understand before this afternoon that suddenly make more sense.

  Raisin Rodriguez Discusses Things She Didn’t Understand Before This Afternoon That Now Make More Sense

  A Q&A with RR

  RR: Why do girls want to spend so much time hanging out with their boyfriends when we all know that when it comes to the important things, like picking out the right pair of shoes for an outfit or describing what your hair looks like in the back, boys are pretty useless?

  Raisin Rodriguez: You know, until quite recently (just this afternoon, to be exact) I’d wondered the same thing. But then I spent a good forty-five minutes making out with my brand-new boyfriend, CJ Mullen, and I discovered the answer. As it so happens, making out with your boyfriend is extremely fun. Quite possibly more fun than anything else. But as it also so happens—and this is the kicker—you must be in very close proximity to a boyfriend in order to make out with him. So, that’s where the time issue comes into play. You have to physically spend time with them in order to make out with them.

  RR: Why do some girls always manage to bring the conversation back to their boyfriends no matter what you happen to be discussing—even if it’s your old Barbie doll collection or your preferred brand of tampon?

  Raisin Rodriguez: I know that girl! Raisin playfully holds her nose in the P.U. gesture. A moment passes as she loses herself in thought. Gosh, I hope I’m not her. She shakes her head vigorously as if to erase the thought.

  Here’s the thing: once you’ve made out with your boyfriend, everything else in life seems like just a little less fun. So, this girl who’s always talking about her boyfriend is really just doing this to keep the fun alive. I guess the problem is that the very thing that keeps the fun alive for her kills it for the rest of us.

  RR: Wow, you really seem to have all the answers. There’s one more thing I’ve been wondering. . . . I hesitate for a moment.

  Raisin Rodriguez: Ask away . . . anything . . . She looks for a sign of approval from the girl she brought along with her, who may or may not be her publicist. Though she is only four. The girl gives her a nod to signal the go-ahead.

  RR: It’s not exactly related. . . .

  Raisin Rodriguez: Well, try me . . .

  RR: OK . . . since you said that you understand things better than you used to, I thought maybe you’d understand this. There’s this Beck song that always runs through my head and it really bugs me. I just can’t understand why he’s so darn sure he’s going to lose the baby.

  (Raisin Rodriguez’s eyes light up and are nearly ejected from their sockets. She waves her hands furiously.)

  Raisin Rodriguez: Oh. My. God. I had the exact same problem with that song! I mean, exact. If he knows he’s going to lose the baby, then maybe he should just put it in one of those Snugli things. But then, the moment CJ and I parted ways, I caught myself singing the line, “I’m a loser, baby, why don’t you kill me?” As if I had known the correct lyrics all along. I’m telling you—this whole experience has helped me to understand the world so much better than I used to.

  RR: Oh, wow. I’m a loser, baby. That makes so much more sense. I feel so much better now.

  Raisin Rodriguez: That’s how I felt. Now if only I could figure out what Coldplay means when they sing, “For you I peed myself dry,” I’d be in really good shape. I mean, how do you pee yourself dry?

  Well . . . Rome wasn’t built in a day, I guess.

  Still, no matter how much wisdom I gain, no matter how womanly I become, no matter how many cryptic song lyrics I decipher, my mother is a mystery to me. Why does she continue to treat me like the child I was this morning? She was on my case the second
I stepped foot in the door today. Maybe she hasn’t realized that the morning has already passed. And like I said, it really was a great day up until then.

  When I last left you, CJ and I were supposed to have pizza with Lynn and Jeremy after school. But Jeremy had one of his CoolerThanYou situations and had to stay late to deal with it. I’m not sure he’s cut out to be guest editor. He’s had more emergencies in the last month than Lynn had as editor in the rest of the year combined.

  Who’s ever heard of an editorial emergency anyway? Did someone misplace a modifier? Dangle a participle? He needs to be reminded that CoolerThanYou is a seventh-grade zine. Not a trauma unit.

  I should be more forgiving. He probably can’t help it. It must be all the freckles. They’ve got to be clouding his judgment.

  In any case, CJ and I were on our own, so instead of pizza, he just walked me home. Which was good because I got to be alone with him and his cinnamon-scented goodness. Not to mention his long eyelashy handsomeness. His scary-smart scary-smartness. And his violin-playing-cartoon-drawing-non-talkative-weird-but-in-a-cute-way wayness. Which meant we could make out a lot more than if JereLynn had been sitting across the table from us. I’m not even sure how to go about it while people are eating. I mean, what’s the etiquette?

  . . . Especially when there’s cheese involved.

  Forty-five glorious minutes later I walked into the house and right away my mom was like, “Raisin Ramona Rodriguez, how many more times do I need to remind you to call your father about your Berkeley trip?”

  “One more?” I answered as I climbed up the stairs to my room.

  “RRRRRRRRRRRRAY-ZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN,” she said, stomping up behind me. “I don’t appreciate your jokes, young lady. Now please don’t make me have to ask you again.”

  Jokes? Who said anything about jokes? And right then and there, I had what my father would call “a moment of clarity.” I realized exactly what the problem is between me and my mother. It’s so obvious, I can’t believe it took me this long to realize it. The problem is her. Or more specifically, her sense of humor. She doesn’t have one. If she did, she never would have thought I was joking. She would have known that to be a joke, there would need to be something about a rabbi and a priest. Or people screwing in a lightbulb.

  All I said was “One more.” Which was not at all a joke, but exactly what I meant. I can safely say, in all sincerity, that the next time she reminded me to make that call, I’d probably have gotten right on it. It’s just that particular moment wasn’t an especially good time for me. At that particular moment, calling my father completely interfered with my immediate plans to stare off into space and relive my afternoon with CJ over and over until it was finally time for us to talk on the phone.

  Comments:

  Logged in at 6:55 PM, EST

  kweenclaudia: if i didn’t know better, i might think you weren’t excited to see us.

  Logged in at 6:57 PM, EST

  PiaBallerina: Raisin? Is it true? Have you lost interest in coming to see us?

  7:06 PM, EST

  You guys . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that at all. It’s not that I’m not looking forward to seeing you guys. In fact, as you, my most devoted readers of TwoScoopsofRaisin.com know, I’ve been thinking about little else since I moved here. You know I love you guys more than anything.

  It’s just that I’ve been waiting so long to hook up with CJ and now that I finally have, I’m not so psyched about having to leave him so soon. What if he stops liking me while I’m gone? I know they say “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” but they also say “out of sight, out of mind.” It’s all very confusing. Whoever “they” are (I suspect it’s Paris Hilton and her family, but I still don’t have all the facts) really ought to make up “their” minds because it looks like I’m leaving in ten days and I’d like to know what to expect when I return.

  In the meantime, I think I’ll call Lynn and see whether she knows which is really the truth.

  7:46 PM, EST

  Lynn says that exactly three out of five boys’ hearts grow fonder as a result of absence but that in two out of five instances “out of sight, out of mind” applies.

  “How does 'out of sight, out of mind’ work? Does their memory of you fade gradually, or does it automatically get deleted the moment you disappear from view?” I asked her.

  “More like they promise they’ll call you every minute and then accidentally forget to unlock lips with Fippy the entire time you’re gone,” she said, sounding a little bitter. I had no idea which boy she was referring to, but that doesn’t surprise me at all. Chances are, the poor guy is no longer with us.

  “Well, which category do you think CJ falls into?”

  “CJ’s an odd one. He’s unpredictable, so I’m tempted to group him with the two out of fives, but then again, even his unpredictability is unpredictable, so he could belong with the three out of fives. Basically, he’s a wild card.”

  I was beginning to panic. That sentence made absolutely no sense to me. All it did was further prove that math isn’t actually helpful in real life.

  “Is there anything I can do to make his heart grow fonder?” I asked.

  “Well, the more fun you have together before you leave, the more likely he is to miss you while you’re gone. And you should be extra nice. Jeremy and I are going out on Saturday night. If you invite CJ along, that’ll count as extra nice.”

  “But does it count as fun?”

  “If I were any other kid, I would say definitely. I mean, we’re going to a movie and then out for pizza—the Saturday night activity of choice for our age group. But there’s a chance the evening could prove to be a bit predictable for our crowd.”

  Predictable? Maybe for a woman of the world like Lynn, but not for me. I’ve never even been on a date before. And for CJ? Who knows if that adorable little weirdo has ever even seen a movie or eaten a slice of pizza, for that matter?

  “Is that enough fun to get us through my trip to Berkeley?” I asked.

  “If nothing else, it’ll be an interesting sociological study. Something for you guys to talk about afterward.”

  “Talk!?” I asked, panicked.

  “Or sign, or send smoke signals, or cluck, or however it is that you guys converse. Talking only represents thirty percent of human communication. So no need to worry about it. Just as long as you sparkle.”

  Sparkle, she says! Now, how does a person do that? I could dip myself in a vat of glue and roll myself around on a mound of glitter, but I doubt that’s what she means. Knowing her, she’s probably talking about something that comes from inside a person. Which frankly doesn’t sound like as much fun. Next time I might be better off going to Lola for advice. When she makes a suggestion, it’s pretty safe to assume it involves glitter and glue.

  “Oh, and one more thing, Raise,” Lynn added before getting off the phone. “Since you’re leaving the next day, maybe we can all exchange presents that night too.”

  Presents! Extra niceness! Sparkling! I better get busy.

  8:15 PM, EST

  Does glistening count as sparkling? I wonder. Because that I can do. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m doing it right now. But that’s mostly because my lack of sparkle is making me so nervous, it’s causing me to sweat like a pig.

  Uggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Sweating like a pig is so unsparkle-y.

  8:18 PM, EST

  What am I going to do?

  8:21 PM, EST

  Can sparkling be taught?

  8:24 PM, EST

  Maybe there are online courses?

  8:27 PM, EST

  Or perhaps a Sparkles University?

  8:31 PM, EST

  If only I knew someone who sparkled . . . Then maybe that person could give me some helpful hints.

  8:35 PM, EST

  Wait a minute!

  I just thought of something!

  I do know someone who sparkles!

  Sparkles sparkles!

  In fact
, Sparkles is his first name.

  Oh, good. Now all I have to do is call him and ask him how he does it.

  Phewww!

  In sticky situations, I always find it helps to have a plan.

  9:02 PM, EST

  Except when the plan doesn’t work! That Sparkles is absolutely impossible to track down. I’ve called everyone I know, but no one knows how to reach him. I even called Galenka Popodakolis. Her host father was so happy that someone from school was calling her, he invited me down to his hardware store to pick out anything I wanted under fifty dollars. I was thinking one of those canvas tool bags with the leather handles would make a snappy purse.

  That Sparkles—he really is a mystery. Oh no! What if being a mystery is the key factor to sparkling? I am many things, but a mystery is not one of them. Unless people find it mysterious that I’m such a blabber-mouth.

  I guess sparkling will just have to wait until tomorrow.

  9:06 PM, EST

  What should I do? The phone is ringing and the caller ID says it’s CJ. I wanted to put off talking to him until I learned how to sparkle.

  Maybe I’ll just let the call go to voice mail. Then tomorrow, once Sparkles has passed his wisdom on to me, I can tell CJ that I was out to dinner with my family when he called and when I got home, it was too late to call him back. But it’ll sound much more exciting because I’ll say it in Sparklese.

  Oh no. Samantha’s calling my name!

  Now she’s telling me to pick up the phone. . . .

  Now I’m telling her to tell him I’m not here. . . .

  Now she’s telling me she already told him that I was. . . .