Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch by Judy Goldschmidt Page B

could talk street as much as he wanted. It still wouldn’t change those freckles on his face.
    â€œYeah, but I’m only feelin’ it for Raisin,” Meatloaf said. If only he could have magically morphed into CJ at that moment.
    â€œWhat are you drinking?” I asked Jeremy, trying to call attention away from Meatloaf’s crush on me.
    â€œRed 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.
    â€œCan I have a sip?” I asked.
    â€œSure,” 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?”
    â€œNo . . .”
    â€œBetter 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.
    â€œWhy are you sitting at the kids’ table?” He cackled.
    â€œBecause that’s what was written on my place card.”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œWell, 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,
    â€œNew Girl—don’t do it.”
    Sparkles looked so handsome in his three-piece white tuxedo.
    â€œWhere’ve you been all this time?” I asked him.
    â€œNever mind that. You listen to me, girlfriend. No matter how bad things seem right now, drowning yourself in chocolate isn’t the answer.”
    â€œFine,” I said, dumping the big toe in a nearby garbage can. “But really, where were you?”
    â€œWell, 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.
    Â 
Let’s review:
    I was seated at table C-8, otherwise known as the changing table.
    I was not seated at table A-11, otherwise known as CJ and Dylan’s love table.
    I did not kiss CJ.
    CJ was busy kissing an underwear model.
    The boy who wanted to kiss me was busy being nine.
    My Hollywood career went down the tubes. Insiders aren’t sure whether this is a result of my own neglect following the heartbreak or the Galenka green dress snafu.
    I ate a pound of chocolate in one sitting.
    I did not kiss CJ.
    There was no disco, no ice-skating rink, no bumper cars, and, of course, no world-famous rock band whose identity was to be kept secret.
    And most importantly:
    I DID NOT KISS CJ.
    And I probably never will.
    Â 
Comments:
    Logged in at 1:28 PM, EST
    PiaBallerina: I know how awful you must feel. But you and CJ still have the speech to work on. Once you turn on the ol’ Raisin charm, he