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

now.
    Comments:
    Logged in at 7:35 PM, EST
    PiaBallerina: Or maybe he’s really busy. Between school, the strip, and his dads’ commitment ceremony, he’s got a lot going on.
    PS—BTW, I don’t think you’re going to hear from Claudia tonight. She and Clint are getting henna tattoos together. It takes a really long time to dry, so I don’t think they’ll be back until late.
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7:46 PM, EST
    Claud—if you’re reading this, close your eyes.
    Pi—You sound really sad. Don’t be. You can get your own henna tattoos. That’s if you even want them. I think they make people look like they have some sort of flesh-eating disease.
    And if it’s the boy part that’s making you sad, think of it this way—at least you’re not dating one that looks like he has some sort of flesh-eating disease.
    Claud, you may open your eyes.
    Back to me.
    Roman is having a party on Friday. This bodes well for me. I’ll use it to stage my comeback, my emergence from the prissy CJ-repelling Raisin of yesterweek to the unprissy irresistible-to-CJ Raisin of nexterweek. Sophisticated, worldly, iPod-owning, and knowledgeable in the ways of boys, making out, and scraping teeth.
    Not only will I play all the kissing games, I’ll win them too.
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Comments:
    Logged in at 7:58 PM, EST
    PiaBallerina: Raisy Mae—Just so you know, there aren’t any winners in kissing games. They’re just played for fun. And thanks for trying to cheer me up about Claud.

Tuesday, December 7
    7:03 AM, EST
    Here, Kitty Kitty(s),
    Pi—As far as kissing games go, I admire you for your good sportsmanship, I do, but I can’t operate that way. When Raisin Rodriguez plays, she plays the only way she knows how.
    She plays to win.
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7:07 PM, EST
    After school, Lynn and Fippy were going to South Street in Center City to shop for clothes and makeup. South Street is kind of like every shopping street in Berkeley, only more expensive. And the submarine shop, as I’ve learned, calls their sandwiches “hoagies.”
    Lynn needed new makeup, and Fippy wanted to check out the shoe stores. Since black isn’t part of my palette for lipstick or eye shadow and I prefer my shoes to have heels rather than orthopedic soles, I was mostly there for the company.
    As Lynn tried on her seventh shade of lipstick (apparently Midnight sends a stronger political statement to The Man than Black Licorice does), I asked her if she was going to wear her new purchase to Roman’s party.
    â€œWhy do you want to know?” she asked.
    â€œI was just wondering if guys minded getting black lipstick all over their mouths.” I picked up a sample of Total Eclipse lipstick from the display and examined it.
    â€œWhich guys?” she asked, exchanging a suspicious-looking glance with Fippy.
    â€œThe guys. Our guys. The ones who’ll be playing those kissing games at Roman’s party,” I said, smoothing the lipstick across my mouth. “I just realized something,” I continued, waiting for Lynn to finish looking at herself in the mirror so I could check myself out. “If I end up having to kiss Jeremy, that would be totally weird. He’s kind of like a brother to me.” As Lynn turned her head back for another one of her exchanged glances with Fippy, I snuck a peek at myself. Black lipstick was definitely not for me. I looked like I’d been eating dirt.
    â€œUm . . . there aren’t going to be any of those games at Roman’s party. They’re a little bourgeois,” Fippy said, rubbing some black lipstick on her cheeks as if it were blush. I couldn’t believe she was using that word. Why didn’t she and Lynn just move to France if they wanted to speak French so much?
    â€œThat looks awesome, Fippy!” Lynn said, practically dipping Fippy and planting a sloppy wet one on her.
    If I hadn’t been so in need of the inside track on Roman’s party,