Will the Real Raisin Rodriguez Please Stand Up? (3 page)

What's this? Do I hear the pitter-patter of little feet? The tiny gasps of breath trying to make its way through mucus bubbles? The counting off of steps climbed? Wait! Good news! She's made it up to number eleventeen! Help is finally on its way!

I never thought I'd say these words, but thank heavens for Lola Rodriguez! Who knew that the chubby little buddha has had healing hands? That or enough grease on her palms to dissolve a layer of eyelash glue with a mere pat-down. Either way, the important thing is that I can see again.

Meanwhile, as far as the rest of my family goes, I might as well be sniper kill.

Sometimes I wonder if I give my little Loly enough credit. I used to think all she was good for was a nice strong squeeze every once in a while and a pinch or two of those little rolls on her wrists and knees. But there's so much more to her than meets the eye. She's very bright. And loyal. And she has excellent taste. Not just in clothes (I'm not just saying this because most of her clothes were handed down to her by a certain fashion icon with the initials RR either), but also in animals. As I recently discovered, she also loves monkeys! It started with Curious George. Then she demanded to go to the zoo to visit the monkey house. And now she's carrying around this picture Samantha downloaded for her. It's a monkey swinging from a tree. A squirrel monkey—just like my favorite monkey, Gordo, the first monkey in space.

One day when Lola's old enough, I'm going to tell her about Gordo. But for now I don't want to upset her. If she started to love Gordo as much as I do, she'd be really upset to find out that he died during splash-down.

Oh, Gordo, you are terribly, terribly, missed.

Now I have to go to school sparkle free and without eyelashes, when all I really feel like doing is thinking about that monkey and how he gave his life for science and the exploration of space, our final frontier.

Poor Gordo. Astronaut. Hero. Monkey.

At least I'll see Sparkles soon. He always cheers me up.

 
10:15 AM, EST

That didn't go quite the way I expected.

I found Sparkles standing by his locker, sparkling as always in his knee-length kimono (with a tie, of course, in accordance with the Franklin Academy dress code) and combat boots.

“Hey, Sparkles,” I said, hesitating. “Can you tell me your secret to sparkling?”

He took a very long, very deep breath “New Girl, I don't usually disclose that kind of information. That's why my home phone number is unlisted and my cell phone has blocked ID. But since you're in such a serious pickle, I'll make an exception for you,” he said. I have no idea how he knew about my situation, but I've learned not to question Sparkles's methods. I did, however, question why he'd bothered to tell me he would share his secrets but was now moonwalking away.

At first I thought the moonwalk was just another case of Sparkles sparkling. Kind of like a pre-show to the big Sparkles Extravaganza. But once he turned the corner and disappeared out of sight, it was clear he had no intention of coming back.

I called out his name—“Sparkles! Wait! Aren't you forgetting something?”

“Sorry,” he said as he sheepishly moonwalked back toward me “This is just a bit difficult for me.” He gave me a look of extreme boo-boo eyes. One that said, Please don't make me do this.

And I can't say I didn't understand. He had the secret to something very special and precious and he wanted to keep it all to himself. Which is why I gave back a look that said, I'm not noticing the look you're giving me. Now tell me everything. A better person might have taken his hint. But I'm not that person. Something to work on once I start sparkling.

We exchanged one more round of looks and then Sparkles gave in.

“Here goes,” he said, his lip quivering. “My secret to sparkling is this.” He took a pause that was almost too torturous to bear. I was drooling in anticipation of the secret that could be my salvation. “Basically, I just act like myself.”

“That's it?” I asked, not sure if he was being straight with me. “You just act like yourself?”

“That's all it is,” he said, nodding.

“Would that work for me?” I asked.

“Excellent question. Here, let's take a look,” he said, spinning me around slowly and knitting his brows as if he were thinking really hard.

“More or less. But in your case, I'd add a little bit of this,” he said, sticking his arms out to his sides and waving his fingers. “And some tra la la,” he said, vocalizing the tra la la part like an American Idol. “And finally, some of this,” he said as he mimed cracking a whip in a way that made it look so believable, I flinched in fear. And in the split second that my eyes were off him, he vanished, leaving me no closer to understanding the art of sparkling.

Which left me with the same old boring tools I started with: extra niceness and a keen understanding of the fine art of makeup application.

I can hardly blame him, though. He's very very very unique. That's three verys. If he gave his secrets away, then he might only be two.

I just saw Lynn and Fippy during homeroom, I asked them if I looked any different.

“Like how?” Lynn asked.

“Am I sparkling?”

“Not really,” Fippy said through sealed lips. She always keeps them shut when she talks. I think it's a trick to make people think she's too busy with glamorous and important things to waste energy on moving her mouth when she speaks. “Though there is some glistening happening over your top lip and brow.”

I guess I was hoping that all that weird stuff Sparkles said at the end of our little session together was actually some kind of magic spell he put on me.

“How 'bout now?” I asked, waving my hands, tra la la-ing and cracking the whip the way he showed me.

“Now you look like you're having a seizure,” Lynn said.

Then Fippy started rifling through her backpack. “Here's a spoon. Let me hold down your tongue so that you don't swallow it,” she said.

“Never mind that. Can I borrow your makeup bag?” I said to Fippy. I'd have asked Lynn, but all her makeup is black and I was going for sparkle-y, not spooky.

I went to the bathroom and did an expert makeup job if I do say so myself. One that's sure to make a lasting impression on CJ.

 
12:33 PM, EST

Looks like my two old standbys (niceness and makeup) might be just enough to get the job done. I don't know what I was so worried about. CJ sat across from me during lunch today and couldn't stop telling me how nice I am and how pretty I looked.

Ok, he didn't actually say it in words. But I could tell he was thinking it by the way he was staring at me.

 
12:50 PM, EST

I ran into Lynn outside the computer room on the way to fifth period. According to her, CJ wasn't staring because I looked pretty. He was staring because I looked like I fell into a bucket of Bozo the Clown.

“I guess I overdid it,” I said to her as we walked up the stairs from the cafeteria to our lockers. I was completely mortified. People had been looking at my face all day long. They must have thought I went completely mental.

“Have you looked in the mirror?” she asked.

Of course I had. And between us, I thought I looked kind of . . . good. In fact, all during lunch I felt a little sad for the rest of the girls who didn't think to put on extra makeup today.

“But doesn't everyone look better with makeup on? Don't my richer, thicker, fuller-looking lashes make my eyes pop? Doesn't my bronzed glow make me look more radiant? And the red lipstick? A lot of people don't know this, but it's the fashion stylists' secret to making teeth look whiter. Are you sure it's not just your dislike for the beauty industry talking?”

“Raisin, I've never been more sure of anything,” Lynn said, looking even more serious than the day she threatened to lead a strike against the faculty for insisting that all students wear footwear to school. “You should probably go wash your face off before anyone else sees you.”

“Isn't there any possibility that CJ didn't notice?”

Lynn shook her head. “He'd have to be missing his eyes,” she said. “And since he's already missing his ability to speak, the likelihood of that seems pretty slim.”

“Maybe he was blinded by my extra niceness?” I offered.

Lynn just shook her head again.

“Do you think he's going to stop liking me?” I asked as I started to mount the stairs.

“Absolutely not,” she said with confidence.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I'm sure he noticed something was different. He probably thought you did something new with your hair. Guys can be pretty clueless. It's one of their best qualities.”

At least that was comforting.

When I got to the bathroom, I took one last look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I must admit, I still kind of liked what I saw. It was a bit rough taking that first soapy swipe at my work of art. Maybe I have a disease like the one really skinny girls have where no matter how much weight they lose, they see someone fat when they look in the mirror. Only my symptoms are that no matter how many pounds of makeup I've piled on, whenever I look in the mirror I see someone who's wearing just the perfect amount.

. . . And a little bit of eyelash glue left over from the morning.

 
4:55 PM, EST

I think I solved all my Christmas-related problems.

After school was over, I waited on the front staircase for CJ and tried to think of more ways to be extra nice since sparkling and now looking beautiful and gorgeous were both out.

“Hey, Raise,” said Fippy through pursed lips. “Can you play electric bass? I just wrote this great tune ‛Santa Claus Is Dead' and I'm trying to get some musical accompaniment together for Black Christmas.”

“I don't,” I told her. “But what's Black Christmas?”

“No one's told you yet?” she asked. I could tell she was really surprised because she actually parted her lips when she spoke. “Black Christmas is our answer to Christmas caroling. We go to each other's houses on Christmas Eve and sing carols that celebrate defying The Man.”

“Right on,” I said. I've finally caught on to the fact that anytime someone speaks out against The Man, it's good to say, “Right on.” “It sounds really fun, but the thing is, I'm not going to be here on Christmas Eve. I'm going back home to Berkeley,” I said.

That's when Roman came out and joined us. His face was completely wrapped up in a muffler and covered by a hoodie, but I could still tell who he was by the way the spikes on his dog collar poked through the material.

“Hey, Rome,” Fippy said, kissing him on the scarf. I guess they're back together again. It's really hard to keep track with those two. “Raisin's not going to be here for Black Christmas.”

“Dude, you can't miss Black Christmas,” said the voice coming out of Roman's mummy head. “Black Christmas totally rocks. I just wrote this song called ‛Black Christmas Totally Rocks.' Dude, it totally rocks.”

“I'm totally bummed,” I said.

“Well, you should totally change your plans,” Roman continued. It's nice that he cared, but it's also a little weird. We've barely ever even spoken to each other. Maybe he was confusing me for someone else. That scarf he was wearing did seem to be tied extra tight.

“I wish I could change my plans, but I can't. I already bought my ticket,” I told him.

“Can't you call the airline?” he asked, making me wonder again whether he had me confused with someone he actually knew. The truth is at that moment I actually did wish I could stay. (BUT ONLY AT THAT EXACT MOMENT. THEN THE FEELING WENT AWAY. PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT BE HURT.)

“Honey,” Fippy chimed in. She was back to talking with her mouth closed. “Don't make Raisin feel bad. She's obviously had these plans for a while.” Then she turned to me. “Don't listen to Roman. Black Christmas is like a religious holiday to him and he considers missing it sacrilege.”

He nodded. “It's bad juju.”

Just then, CJ made his way up to our little group. “Hey, Seej,” I said, leaning in to kiss him. Then I had a brilliant idea. I could volunteer CJ to play backup for Fippy on Black Christmas. It would be so nice for him to feel included. Which would definitely count as extra nice on my part. Maybe even extra extra nice. Because a big part of me feels left out of the fun, but if CJ gets to go to Black Christmas, I'll feel even doubly left out. Which makes it doubly nice that I'm putting his happiness ahead of mine.

“CJ plays an instrument!” I said.

But I regretted it a moment later when we were bombarded by questions.

“CJ plays an instrument? Why didn't he ever mention playing an instrument? What instrument does he play? Why didn't you ever mention playing an instrument? Dude, what instrument do you play? You should sit in with Rodenticide—I bet you're really jamming, man. What instrument do you play? What instrument do you play? What instrument do you play? Dude, what instrument do you play? WHAT INSTRUMENT DO YOU PLAY?”

“Violin?”

He said it like a question, in a voice so tiny Fippy had to ask him to repeat himself.

“Violin,” he said again, in a voice only slightly louder. You could tell everyone heard it, though, because of the looooooong silence that followed.

Which was followed by an even loooooooooooooonger silence.

Behind his curly lashes, I could see panic in CJ's eyes. I felt terrible for outing him, but I had totally forgotten how ashamed he felt about playing the violin. And that that was the reason he kept his in a shopping bag. Which he happened to be carrying right then and there because he was on his way to his violin lesson. And that I was too caught up in being “extra nice” to notice. Which kind of defeats the purpose of being extra nice in the first place.