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

underneath the table, snatched the gift bag away from the boy, and handed it to me. As soon as I held it between my fingers, I could tell something was wrong. I opened it up and looked inside.
    â€œWhere’s my iPod?!” I yelled to the little boy under the table.
    â€œStop saying ‘iPod,’” Meatloaf said. “Only one person gets it, y’know. There’s a raffle, and the iPod is second prize. First prize is a digital camera.”
    I was pretty disappointed. Not as disappointed as I was about not finding CJ, but at this point I wasn’t sure if I ever would. So if nothing else, I still wanted a chance at the iPod. Plus if I won, maybe CJ would admire me for my incredibly good fortune.
    And incredibly good fortune is almost as admirable as incredibly good underwear-modeling ability.
    After looking inside my bag, I decided to look around me. I can easily say the following without fear of exaggeration:
    I was not pleased.
    This is what I saw:
    â€¢ A four-year-old boy named Abner wearing a tuxedo jacket and matching shorts and his mother, bent over next to him, asking him to tell mommy if he needed to make a BM.
    â€¢ Two six-year-old girls holding napkin rings up to their eyes as if they were eyeglasses. Then laughing hysterically as if to suggest this was humorous.
    â€¢ Meatloaf Morris giving me a look of love.
    I dipped my hand into my glass and splashed cold water on my face. Then I pinched my cheeks, got up, and did a quick skyward stretch, followed by a long cleansing breath. I had to get out of there and find CJ. But the place was so big, I didn’t know where to begin.
    â€œHey, Meatloaf, do you know where the bumper cars are?”
    â€œThey’re on the fourth floor,” he answered.
    â€œHow ’bout the disco?”
    â€œFifth floor.”
    â€œAnd the skating rink?”
    He scratched his head as he gave it some thought. “Oh, right. The skating rink is in the sub-basement.”
    â€œWhat about that rock band whose identity is to be kept a secret?”
    â€œWell, I’m not supposed to say who they are, but if I were you, I’d be sure to make it back here by the time Roger finishes his speech.”
    I thanked him, then made my way to the sub-basement. CJ seemed much more like an ice-skater than a dancer or bumper car person.
    But after forty-five minutes of scrambling around the Spectrum, I realized that Meatloaf had been messing with me. There was no sub-basement. Or fifth floor. Or fourth.
    Or bumper cars, skating rink, or disco.
    By that time, I was roaming parking level three in search of elevator bank D. If all went according to plan, I could be back in my seat in time for Roger’s bar mitzvah speech.
    What else did I have to look forward to? I had all but given up—on CJ, on the iPod, and even on my career as a Hollywood celebrity. No one had asked me for an autograph in almost two hours. And you know you’re a washup once the fans start leaving you alone.
    I finally found elevator bank D just as the elevator was arriving. Maybe I was turning into a person with good fortune. A ding went off, and the shiny doors parted. For a moment, I just stood still, taking in what I thought was my reflection. Then I realized that my reflection only had on the same outfit as I did—but not the same head. And that the head belonged to Galenka Popodakolis.
    My thoughts, in this order:
    I’m wandering the Spectrum wearing the same outfit as Galenka.
    I wonder if this makes me a loser.
    Not that Galenka’s a loser.
    More like a person with no friends.
    Mostly because she barely speaks English. But maybe also a teeny-tiny bit because she wears sweatpants with panty hose and patent leather pumps.
    And here I am wearing virtually the exact same outfit she’s wearing.
    I wonder if there are any lobster tails left. (Or whether they were part of the web of lies surrounding what would be offered at this bar mitzvah.)
    I hope