The Secret Blog of Raisin Rodriguez

RAZORBILL

Chapter One

6:06 PM, EST

Dear Pia and Claudia,

Welcome to TwoScoopsofRaisin.com. Aka my blog. I know there are many blogs out there to choose from. Your choice to read mine is much appreciated.

Why keep a blog? you ask.

Excellent question, I answer.

There are many reasons to keep a biog. Here are just a few I've come up with:

1. You just moved to Philadelphia-far, far away from your two best friends in the world, and you need a way to keep in touch.

2. You'd prefer using the phone, but your new stepsister is constantly hogging it. (Though it's a mystery who she's talking to. She doesn't seem to have a lot of friends.)

3. You'd prefer using the phone, but you were born without a tongue.

Or

4. You like the word blog because it sounds funny.

All of these are good reasons. No one reason is better than another. It just so happens that in my case, reasons one and two apply. Someone else might find reason four to be the most fitting. Another person might recognize him or herself in reason three. If you are that person, I suggest seeking the help of a healthcare professional.

I hope you enjoy my blog. Feel free to check for new updates as often as you like. Please do not feel free, under any circumstances, on pain of death, to give the address of this blog to anyone. This blog is very personal and confidential and deals with mature subject matter.

Additionally, unauthorized reading could potentially result in harmful side effects such as eye twitching, sudden memory loss, dry mouth, and butt acne.

Thank you for flying Raisin.

Monday, September 13

4:07 PM, EST

Hello Kitties,

Today I made out with my earth science book. Well, not the book so much as the boy on the cover of the book. We met this morning during seventh-grade orientation at Franklin Academy. Turns out there are more social opportunities at my new school than I had imagined.... It's just a matter of knowing where to look.

Which in this case was right in front of my face.

After orientation, I was sitting at my kitchen table, putting covers on all my textbooks like we're supposed to. But when it came time to cover him up, I didn't have the heart to do it. He looked so irresistible, with his hair all floppy and his teeth all gleaming white. And his eyes! They were practically shouting out to the world, "Kiss me, I'm stuck on this book cover." So I laid one on him. I couldn't help myself, really. It was bigger than the both of us. I must say, though, for a piece of cardboard he's quite the kisser....

Sometimes there's just no explaining what goes on between a man and a woman.

Go ahead. Call me crazy. But don't forget, I've been through a lot lately.

Let's review:

1. I was minding my own business, happily living in Berkeley, when my mom and dad decided to get a divorce.

2. My mother invented Ice Dogs (the frozen treats for dogs).

3. Horace bought the company from her.

4. They fell in love and decided to get married.

5. My mother moved to Philly to be with him and brought me (and Lola) along with her.

6. You guys, who I love and depend on (especially lot preventing me from doing weird things like kissing boys on book covers), had to stay in Berkeley.

7. And here I am, all by my lonesome.

So I can't really be held responsible for my actions in my present state of mind. (If anyone should be held responsible, it's probably my mother, no?) Especially now that I've discovered a new bad side effect to moving: STARTING OVER IN A NEW SCHOOLLFHGFHfoocooao93]. 'IURFrURLKFJLK dhkhv ;h '/9u vvguv;v xihclipopup9UhgHIOXUJIIFU;Oi./J/qo

SORRY! That was Lola. She loves to pound on my keyboard and say, "I'm doing my work." It makes her feel important. As if speaking those four words will get everyone wondering what brilliant scientific discoveries she's making and forgeting that she's still in Pull-Ups. And I begged my mother to leave her behind when weTTTTTT Gvkjlha;fh;ffi p f f;kKHO IHOIIHOIHOIHOIHOIHOPDIw pjdl kjkjlkjoioijo;ijjhkjhgffdfd d1119999999Jeez Louise! With all the fancy computers around here, I don't know why she has to choose my laptop. I think she just likes being on my bed. Maybe it's the purple velvet comforter. Or the fact that there aren't any safety guards ...

I suppose I should put in a DVD for her or something. Why must I take care of a toddler on the eve of my first official day of classes? Isn't that the responsibility of my mom and stepdad? I know they have a business to run, but I've got a big day tomorrow.

I should be lounging in a bubble bath. Sipping some chamomile tea. Connecting with my higher power. Or at least watching E! Entertainment Television in order to prepare myself with some intelligent conversation starters.

Ugh, I better go, she won't stop licking my arm.

5:17 PM, EST

I put Lola in front of Finding Nemo. But I've only got a couple of minutes before I need to get back to her. Every time that gimpy fish gets chased by the sharks, she gets scared and cries her head off.

So where was I? Oh, right, my new school ...

I'm not sure I'm going to like this Franklin Academy. Not sure at all ...

For starters, the decor is very gloomy-all poop brown and farty green. (I know farts have no color, but if they did, this would be it.) And the furniture looks very old-fashioned and stuffy. Like someone will yell at you if you try to sit on it. And the lockers are indoors. Indoors, I tell you! What a scare! Plus no one tried to make me feel welcome in any way. I was expecting someone of the adult persuasion to say something like, "Hello, Raisin, we heard your tragic story, and let us just say, it's an honor to have you here." Or at least, "Here's a cookie...."

But nothing.

Made me appreciate the lush setting at Berkeley Middle School. The outdoor lockers built amid the rolling green hills. The comfort of the warm blue carpets. And even the Orientation Day Magic Circle, where we joined hands to meditate on our hopes for the coming year. Sure, that was pretty corny. And sure, after it was over, I couldn't look either of you guys in the eye for days. But I will say one thing. At least we got to have tea and granola bars afterward. At Franklin Academy, it's all business. They just sent us straight to the auditorium to pick up schedules and locker numbers and then off to the book room to pick up books.

Actually, come to think of it, the book room wasn't so bad. That's where someone actually talked to me. A guy. He just came charging at me from behind, grabbed me by the shoulders, and flipped me around.

"Hey, cuteness," he said, looking me up and down with his piercing blue eyes. "I'm Sparkles. Who are you?"

I wondered if he was that friendly with every stranger he came in contact with.

"Raisin."

"Greaaaaat name. Mind if I call you New Girl?"

"Sure," I said. He was so hot, he could have called me Fred for all I cared.

Then he picked up a strand of my hair. "Your high-lights look faaabulous. Are they from the sun or the bottle?" That's when it sank in. The clothes (his T-shirt had a fur collar), the haircut (a bowl, cut exactly the same as mine), the way he moved (with a lot of attitude, almost like he was dancing). Sparkles wasn't interested in me for my bootyliciousness, he was interested in me for my beauty tips ... if you get my drift.

"Neither," I told him. "They don't say it on the box, but Crest White Strips work on hair too."

"New Girl, no way. I must stop at Target on the way home and get myself a box." He gave Target a French pronunciation-"Tar-jay."

I was disappointed that Sparkles and I wouldn't be walking off into the sunset together, but talking to him wasn't a complete waste of my time. For one thing, he's an eighth-grader. So maybe he can kind of show me the ropes. Plus he told me that apple vinegar is great for beating the frizzies. And as we all know, I'm always looking for a good frizzies beater.

Ugh! There goes Lola. I better go before she hyper-ventilates.

5:31 PM, EST

Instead of watching Nemo again, Lola asked me to put on the local news. She's a big fan of the weatherman here. Sometimes he wears a giant yellow rain hat and slicker. She thinks it's the funniest thing she's ever seen.

Ooh ... I just heard my stepsister, Samantha, walk through the door. She's taking Lola and me out to dinner because Mom's working late.

Again.

It's nice to have a mother who's so concerned over the snacking needs of her canine customers, but what about her daughters? I wonder if it ever occurs to her that we could also use a home-cooked treat every once in a while? Or that if she was planning on seeing us so little anyway, she might have considered leaving us in Berkley with my dad.

Or at least me. I know they say young children need to be with their mothers. But when you think about it, I'm not the one who's young. It's Lola. She's only four. I'm already twelve going on thirteen.

8:02 PM, EST

Just got back from dinner with Samantha ... hoagies. You know what a hoagie is? A Philadelphian submarine sandwich. You know why it's called a hoagie?

Me neither.

And neither does Ms. Smarty-Pants Samantha.

After we sat down for dinner, I asked her about it.

"Samantha," I said. "Why do they call it a hoagie here when everyone else calls it a submarine sandwich?"

"I don't know, Raisin," she answered as she put one tiny perfectly rounded potato chip in her mouth.

"Could hoagie mean 'submarine sandwich' in a different language or something like that?"

"I don't really know ..." she answered, still working on that same tiny chip.

For a sophomore taking only Advanced Placement courses, she didn't seem to know much. Either that, or she didn't find the topic of sandwiches intelligent enough to discuss.

That's fine. Two can play at that game. On the walk home, I didn't talk to her at all. I did still look at her, however. Sometimes, I just can't resist. She's the kind of girl who's really pretty even thought she ties her beautiful blond hair all the way back in a ponytail and covers her face with thick ugly grandpa glasses.

She didn't return the favor, though. She was too busy checking her cell-phone messages. It's hard to imagine who's calling her; I never see her with friends. Maybe she belongs to a circle of brainiacs who just leave super-smart messages on each other's cell phones, like "I've isolated the gene for chicken pox in cattle, call me!" or "Sorry I couldn't pick up before, I was moments away from solving world peace."

PS-I've been thinking about the word embarrassing. Do you think it comes from the root words bare and ass?"

PPS-You know how they tell you to break open a vitamin A and spread it on your imperfections? I highly disrecommend it-I tried it last night, and now I smell like cod.

Comments:

Logged in at 7:10 PM, EST kweenclaudia: can we go back to you kissing the textbook? sounds really romantic, what's next, playing 7 minutes in heaven with a calculator? going out on a date with a loose-leaf? ps-you're ok with us adding our comments, right? it's really half the fun, dontcha think? Logged in at 7:12 PM, EST PiaBallerina: Don't worry, Raisin, Claudia doesn't mean to be nasty about you and the textbook. She just can't help herself sometimes. I hope you don't mind that we're adding our comments ... miss you!

Tuesday, September 14

7:38 AM, EST

Good morning, Kitties,

After careful consideration, I have decided to permit you two to continue adding your comments to my Web log. But please do keep in mind that this is my sacred and special place.

Off to my first real day of school. It should be much better than yesterday. At least that's what my mother told me.

Wish me luck!

PS-Miss you guys too!

PPS-Though some more than others ...

PPSS-I'm wearing my gold metallic thong for good luck. I hope you guys are wearing yours!

4:15 PM, EST

Life is full of little lessons. For example, today I learned that sometimes when mothers say things like, "Today will be better than yesterday," they don't necessarily know what they're talking about.

But you know what? I'd rather not discuss it.

4:27 PM, EST

One more lesson: Just because you call a pair of underwear your "good luck" underwear doesn't mean it actually will bring you luck, no matter how shiny it is.

But again, I'm really not in the mood to go into it.

4:43 PM, EST

I said I'd prefer not to talk about it, so quit trying to make me.

5:01 PM, EST

Maybe I overreacted. After all, you guys are only trying to help. So if you insist, I'll tell you what happened.

I'M A WASHUP AT AGE 12 and 351/365ths, that's what happened!!!

PS-That reminds me, only 14 shopping days left until my birthday.

5:18 PM, EST

Forgive me lot that little outburst. I'm just so used to being loved and admired that this whole-how shall I put it-"being a loser" thing is all very new to me. I'll start slow:

It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times. It was the age of yuckiness. It was the age of blech. It was the first day of school.

Everyone in my homeroom class seemed thrilled to see each other. There was lots of hugging and kissing and shrieking with joy. They all exchanged expensive gifts from faraway places like Bali and Ibiza and the Epcot Center.

In the front center of the room stood four girls. They seemed to be the popular girls. Something about the way they looked so pretty and happy and well dressed. And the way the rest of the kids were content just watching them be pretty and happy and well dressed.

The prettiest and happiest and most well dressed of all is named Fiona. I think she's the main girl. She brought each of her friends their very own red leather bowling-bag purse, monogrammed in pink. You guys would have loved them. And it seemed like everything she said made her friends break out into fits of laughter. Either they were kissing up to her because of the bags or she's got a bright future as a stand-up comedienne.

But me? I stood alone in the corner, wishing I were one of them and trying to figure out what face to make. Then, just as I had landed on the perfect one (plain, but with the corners of my mouth slightly upturned to indicate that I was glad to be standing alone in the corner), I heard someone calling out my name. Really loudly.

At first I was excited. Someone wanted to talk to me! Turns out, my excitement was for nothing. It was only Jeremy Craine, that guy I told you about from my mother's wedding. His dad is Horse Ass's, I mean Horace's, business partner. He's the one who asked me to slow dance with him, and then in the middle of our dance, he did this trick where he turned his upper eyelids inside out. He thought it looked really funny. But really, it looked like he needed to be rushed to the hospital.

"Hey, Rae," he said. I could tell he was really proud of the rhyme. "Look what I got for you."

It was a can of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts. What could be more humiliating? Here everyone else was exchanging exotic gilts and red leather bags, and this joker gives me a can of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts? I know people like to pretend those nuts are from Hawaii and pass them on as souvenirs, but they're really from Pathmark and everyone knows it. Plus I'm allergic to them.

"Thanks, Jeremy, these are really great," said. Then I shoved them in my bag so no one would see.

"Aren't you going to open them?" he asked, shouting at the top of his lungs. So he bought me a can of nuts-did the entire seventh grade need to know about it?

I opened the can as quickly as I could and poured some into his palm. Then I covered the can with the plastic lid and put it back in my bag.

"Don't you want some?" he asked, his voice even louder this time.

I didn't want to hurt the guy's feelings, but he gave me no choice.

"Not to be rude, but I'm allergic. Do you want them back?"

"That's okay; give them to your mom or something," he answered, looking kind of hurt. Which doesn't make any sense. People don't choose their allergies.

"I will. Thanks, Jeremy," I said, feeling kind of bad. Then the bell rang, which was a lucky thing. "See you later...."

I suppose I could have taken a bite out of one of the nuts, but what if I had gotten sick? Wouldn't he have felt worse? Plus the longer I stood talking to him, the louder he would have gotten until there was no one left who hadn't noticed us together.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Secret Blog of Raisin Rodriguez by Judy Goldschmidt Copyright © 2005 by Alloy Entertainment and Judy Goldschmidt. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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