Will the Real Raisin Rodriguez Please Stand Up? (4 page)

For the first time I realized that even though I think his violin playing is the most adorable thing in the world, he had good reason to be secretive about it.

Because the silence was still going on, even while I was having this realization.

No one seemed to know what to do with themselves.

Except for me. I knew exactly what to do. I knew that turning invisible was the absolute perfect thing to do in this situation—unfortunately, I didn't have any powder handy.

Just when I thought that the silence was in danger of exceeding the recommended lifetime allowance, a familiar voice sounded through the crowd.

“Aw, that's okay, New Girl's boyfriend. The violin isn't completely uncool, “ said Sparkles as he skipped up to the crowd wearing a leopard print coat with a red Santa hat. “It's very period. Very then.” He struck a pose.

Everyone took a moment to digest Sparkles's wisdom. A round of nodding followed and then a chorus of “Totally, dude's,” followed by some “My neighbor knows someone who plays the violin's,” several “I saw one in a store once's,” and even a “Wasn't there a band called the Shrinking Violins?” In no time, CJ had gone from social suicide victim to resident rock star, with solos in “Santa Claus Is Dead” AND “Black Christmas Totally Rocks,” all thanks to me and Sparkles.

Which was great for him because now he'd be more included and great for me because now he'll know what a great girlfriend I am. Which, if all goes according to plan, should make his heart grow fonder in my absence, thereby preventing the possibility of out of sight, out of mind. But it still made me feel left out, and I had to do something to fix the situation.

“You guys, I'm so bummed about missing Black Christmas,” I said. “I almost feel guilty about it. Like I'll be having too much fun that night instead of being here like I should be.”

“Guilt is a man-made emotion,” said a new voice. A voice that sounded suspiciously loud and freckley. It was Jeremy, walking hand in hand with Lynn and speaking as if lately, in addition to swallowing her saliva, he'd also been swallowing her personality.

“What are you going to be doing on Christmas Eve?” Lynn asked.

“Every year my dad borrows his friend's speedboat and we ride along the San Francisco Bay”—which didn't sound special enough, so I quickly added, “This year my friends Pia and Claudia are coming along.” (Hope you guys can make it!)

“Sounds sublime,” said Jeremy, channeling Lynn again.

“Transcendent,” said Lynn. “Cinematic, almost,” she added.

Everyone else nodded and looked at me the way you would look at a celebrity or an angel. (Except for Roman, who was shaking his head and mumbling something about me changing my ticket.) Then the moment passed and they went back to looking at me the way you'd look at a five-foot-four brunette with a little bit of eyelash glue that refused to come off no matter how hard she scrubbed.

I started to feel a little better about missing Black Christmas.

On the walk to CJ's violin lesson, he was so excited he could hardly stop talking. “If I'm going to be playing at Black Christmas, then I should probably get my violin restrung beforehand,” he said. And, “I wonder how the acoustics will be?” And, “Whoa.” (He had tripped on a crack in the sidewalk.)

Isn't that sweet? CJ's so excited about Christmas and clearly so grateful to me over hooking him up with a gig (I get to say that word now because I'm with the band), there's no way he's going to lose interest in me while I'm away. I mean, I know he didn't exactly say he was grateful, but I could tell he was just by looking at him. And I'm really happy for him. He's a great person, and he deserves to have more people know it.

And now that our Christmas Eve is going to be the most fun Christmas Eve in the history of Christmas Eves, I don't even have to feel bad about missing Black Christmas. Because we're going to be having our own great Christmas Eve in Berkeley. On the water. Under the stars.

We can call it Blue Christmas.

I'm so glad I thought of it!

 
Logged in at 6:42 PM, EST kweenclaudia: WAAAAAAAAIT! don't tell her. it's a surprise!

 
Logged in at 6:43 PM, EST PiaBallerina: Okay, but we have to tell her something.

 
Logged in at 6:44 PM, EST kweenclaudia: rae, we have a surprise for you. we can't tell you what it is because it's a surprise, but trust us, you're going to LOVE it.

 
6:45 PM, EST

You bet I am. I LOVE surprises. I'm so excited, I can't wait. This works out perfectly. You'll give me my surprise, and then we'll have our Blue Christmas.

Ooh. Okay. I get it. We might not be able to see one another on Christmas Eve because of the S-U-R-P-R-IS-E. That's cool. You probably have to go somewhere that night to get it. Or maybe you have to stay home and wait for it to be delivered. Or it requires assembly and you need help from your dads. As long as we get to spend every other waking moment together, that's all that's important.

And also that I'm still getting my surprise. Because that's pretty important too.

Kitty Clauses,

Sorry I've been out of touch. I've been spending all my time with CJ, Christmas shopping, and finishing up the “It's the Most Horrible Time of the Year” issue of CoolerThanYou.

Today I went to school, where it occurred to me that since I never really mastered sparkling, I should probably make up for it by getting CJ the best Christmas present ever. So after school I shopped and shopped and shopped and shopped. Then I returned, returned, returned, and returned. And then I shopped and shopped and shopped and shopped until I finally found something I think he'll love.

I even managed to fit in a viewing of a pair of knee-high lace-up boots from Giselle's. Now I know what to hint about to my parents.

And now I'm pooped and going to bed.

Good night.

Love,

Raisin

 
PS—Wait till you hear what I got him!

Kitty Kats,

I think one of the nicest parts about being in a couple is seeing how much more satisfying it is to give than to receive.

Take me and CJ, for example. I get so much enjoyment out of talking to him on the phone and hearing how excited he is about his Black Christmas gig (for inquiries regarding use of the word gig, please refer to the blog entry of Wednesday, December 15), it never even crosses my mind to worry that he'll have so much fun without me he'll barely notice that I'm gone, so that by the time he comes back, he'll wonder what the point in having a girlfriend was in the first place. The joy in hearing him say over and over how much he LOVES rehearsing with Fippy and how much he can't wait to learn his solo is about as much happiness as one person can stand.

 
11:16 AM, EST

In an unrelated story,

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHO CAME INTO MY ROOM IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AND PERFORMED A SEX CHANGE OPERATION ON MY FACE WHILE I WAS ASLEEP?

 
11:18 AM, EST

Pardon me for that sudden outburst. Perhaps if you could see me, you'd understand. Allow me to explain.

This morning while I was brushing my teeth, I noticed something new about myself. Something different. Something unexpected and uninvited.

It seems that I've grown a mustache overnight.

I understand this is normal for the male of the species. But for the female of the species, it's not only abnormal, it's also unhealthy and can lead to nausea, vomiting, and fainting spells if the patient looks directly into her reflection without the aid of a blindfold or some kind of shield.

 
11:206 AM, EST

I know I'm supposed to be all excited about my period and my hairy legs and armpits and whiteheads and blackheads and oinky piggy noises that come out of my nose when I'm kissing a boy because it's all beautiful and it means I'm becoming a woman, but now that the tides have turned, do I have to be all excited and moved about becoming A MAN???????!!!!!!!!!!

I better go find Samantha and see whether she knows how to handle this.

Knowing her, she probably doesn't. It's almost impossible to imagine that beautiful face marred by even a single stray hair, let alone enough of them to fashion a fur stole large enough for a Barbie doll.

 
11:23 AM, EST

Samantha's still in bed. How can she sleep at a time like this? Doesn't she know that tonight's date with CJ is the first life-or-death date in what will hopefully be an eternity of life-or-death dates? Jeez! I'm lucky I got him such a great gift or I'd be completely freaking out.

I hope today's not going to be like last Sunday, when Sam slept until three in the afternoon. Then she went downstairs, took a sip from her yogurt smoothie, and went back upstairs to take a nap. My mother says it's normal for teenagers to need a lot of sleep. Personally, I don't get it. What's so great about sleeping? Other than the fact that no one expects anything from you. Actually, maybe that's it right there: nobody expects anything from you. Nobody expects you to write any papers on the forgotten battles of the War of 1812: Nobody expects you to wipe your little sister's nose even though there's no two-ply tissues left. Nobody expects you to face the world even though you've turned into a wolf-boy overnight. Maybe that's the solution. Maybe I should just sleep through the rest of puberty. When am I going to learn to stop doubting Samantha's genius?

But with Samantha asleep, I'm not sure who's left to turn to. My mom is at an all-day conference, so she's out. Lynn probably thinks there's nothing wrong with a little facial hair, so she's out too. And Fippy's hairless. Which leaves Lola and Horace, a.k.a. Horse Ass. Between the two of them, Lola's clearly the smarter one, but then again, H.A. has facial hair, so he might actually know something on the subject.

I'm playing it safe and going with Lola.

 
11:44 AM, EST

Lola was no help at all. I showed her my mustache, and all she did was run her fingers along it and say, “Sooooooooooooooooooft.”

Guess I have to wait until Samantha wakes up for her afternoon feeding. Which is great because it gives me a good three hours to worry about the big double date tonight .

 
12:37 PM, EST

Surprise! Samantha got up ahead of schedule today. I hope it wasn't my kicking and screaming that woke her.

“I've heard that the best way to get rid of unwanted hair is to wax it off,” she said.

“That sounds painful.”

“It can't be too bad,” she said. “They wouldn't be able to sell wax if it really hurt. Let's go get some.”

Next thing I know, I'm back at home with Sam, ripping a strip of wax off my top lip.

You know how it feels to rip a Band-Aid off your arm or leg? Well, multiply the pain by a million and add in the feeling of an open wound doused with alcohol and then waved over fire and you may have some small sense of how badly it hurt when Samantha pulled the wax off.

It hurt so badly, I'm not letting her do the other half. I'll just have to make sure that he only sees the waxed half of my face at all times.

 
10:54 PM, EST

Easier said than done.

My mother dropped me off at the movie theater at 6:3o for a seven o'clock show of Alex/Alexandra—about a girl who dresses up like a boy to get into her high school production of Twelve Angry Men.

When I got there, CJ was in the lobby waiting on line. The only one of us already there. I thought, Yay! We'll have time to smoochinate. Which is great because not only does it involve smooching, it also involves CJ being too close to my face to see that I'm still half man.

So smoochinate we did. Though it was a bit of a juggling act. I had to keep switching which side to favor. Too much time on the waxed side and my skin would start to burn, too much time on the hairy side and I'd start worrying about CJ noticing. Plus I had to put down the shopping bag full of gifts I was carrying and put it between my legs, and it was hard to keep from accidentally kicking it and crushing the presents.

At one point when I almost stepped on the corner of the bag and ripped it, it occurred to me that something was very wrong. There I was, lugging around a gigantic shopping bag filled with presents I had taken great care in choosing, and here CJ was doing no lugging whatsoever. Not of shopping bags or, more importantly, presents. I was worried and hurt, to say the least. Would I have to share the credit and say my gifts were from both of us? And what did that mean for me? That I'd have to buy my own present and tell myself it was from CJ?

“Is everything okay?” CJ asked, interrupting my train of thought.

“Yeah—why?”