Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch by Judy Goldschmidt Read Free Book Online Page A

fountain—just like at the movies.
    2. Movie screens. They were mounted to all the walls. Not like the dinky kind at school, but the real kind. Like the ones they have at theaters. And they had really great movies playing on them like Star Wars and The Wizard of Oz and Breakfast at Tiffany’s and The Matrix.
    3. Movie camera centerpieces made out of flowers. White roses. I don’t know if white roses are more expensive than other flowers, but I do know that they must be special. Whenever my mom sees them, she says, “Ooh . . . white roses,” in the same voice I might use to say, “Ooh . . . banana split with hot caramel sauce and marshmallow topping,” or, “Ooh . . . CJ.” When I got to table A-11, no one was there. Just a bunch of picked-over gift bags, some popcorn kernels, and Lynn’s black toothbrush. Now that her orthodontist makes her brush after every meal, she takes it with her wherever she goes.
    I examined the table for clues to where everyone had gone, but there were none. I did discover a rolled-up Banana Republic bag underneath one of the chairs. Which meant that CJ was sitting at that table.
    I had no idea where to go looking for him. I didn’t know who to ask, either. There were no kids in sight, and as you guys know, I don’t really like speaking to adults.
    So I decided to walk over to my table, hoping some kids would be there who might be clued in to CJ’s whereabouts.
    A half hour later, I arrived at table C-8. It wasn’t even on the same floor as A-11. And yes, there were kids seated there, but not the kind I could converse with. Unless I said something like, “Goo goo, ga ga, Teletubby, Mama.” Still, I was so tired from walking, I decided to sit down for a moment.
    â€œI’m Meatloaf; what’s your name?” asked the boy who’d just slid into the chair next to me. He slipped me his beefy hand, which I shook. I was so happy to be speaking to someone my own age who might know where CJ was that I almost hugged him. I didn’t, though. He was all sweaty and the middle button of his tuxedo shirt had popped.
    When I told him my name was Raisin, he licked his lips. I guess it was the mention of food.
    â€œHow do you know Roger?” I asked.
    â€œHe’s my cousin. How do you know him?”
    â€œI’m in his class,” I answered.
    â€œHe must not like you very much if he sat you at the kids’ table,” Meatloaf said, inching his head closer to mine.
    â€œThis isn’t only a kids’ table,” I reminded him, pulling my head away. “You’re here.”
    â€œYeah, but I’m only nine.” He grabbed a piece of shrimp from a glass plate and shoved it into his mouth.
    It was hard to believe that he was only nine, but he was a Morris, and they tend to run large.
    Just then I noticed something very important was missing from my place setting. “Have you seen my gift bag?” I asked him. There was one on every plate. But not mine.
    â€œOver there,” Meatloaf said, pointing under the table, where a boy about the age of seven was holding a lit match to my beautiful gold satin sack. “You want me to stop him?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWill you give me a kiss?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œThen will you French me?” he persisted.
    â€œNo,” I said, forcing myself not to reach through the gap in his shirt and give him the worst purple nerple of his short, portly life. I couldn’t believe I had come to the bar mitzvah to be kissed by beautiful CJ and had ended up with an offer from Meatloaf instead.
    â€œIf you don’t do something quickly, that kid could set this entire table on fire. And everyone seated here.” Suddenly I remembered the most important thing. “And my iPod,” I screamed, near tears.
    With that, Meatloaf gave the little boy a swift kick, and the match dropped out of his grasp. Then Meatloaf bent down