Raisin Rodriguez & the Big-Time Smooch by Judy Goldschmidt

words, I was briefly lulled into a false sense of promise. My mom never let me eat sushi before. She said it causes parasites in young stomachs. For a moment there it felt like we were turning a corner together. Like she was finally seeing me for the savvy, sophisticated, iPod-owning, soon-to-be-non-priss I’ve become.
    But by the time we were seated and had ordered, I realized how off-base I was. I’m not sure what tipped me off. It was either that she switched my salmon roll to a vegetable tempura roll at the last minute (she didn’t even consider my stomach old enough for raw vegetables) or that she said, “Raisin, Horace and I would like to talk to you about where babies come from.”
    Either way, it turned out to be a good thing that she switched my order. Because after she dropped her little bombshell, my jaw fell and my vegetable tempura roll came rolling right out of my mouth. And knowing Horace, he would not have liked seeing salmon, or worse, a nice piece of meat, go to waste like that.
    (Actually, come to think of it, nothing did go to waste. Lola picked up the remains of my tempura roll and devoured it. If there’s one thing you can safely say about the little meatball, she’s sure easy to please. Gosh, she looked so happy sitting there eating my saliva-coated food. If only there had been some purple ketchup for her to put on it. She’d have thought she’d died and gone to heaven.)
    And so, as Lola sat happily chewing my cud, the three humans seated at the table attempted to continue the conversation.
    â€œBut I already know where babies come from. You explained it to me when you and Dad got pregnant with Lola. Also the year before that, when Aunt Liesa got pregnant with Margaret. And the year before that, when Cousin Eloise got pregnant during her junior year of high school. That year you explained it to me about once a month.”
    â€œLooks like your mother’s been very careful not to let you get your information from the wrong source,” Horace said, patting the back of my mother’s hand.
    â€œWell, to tell you the truth, the person I learned everything from was Josh B. in kindergarten. We were in the playground. At first I didn’t believe him, but then he showed me a picture from one of his father’s magazines,” I said, trying for the third time to use my chopsticks correctly.
    The moment I said that, Horace got a hair ball the size of Countess in his throat and my mom’s sweater became coated in imaginary hair. I guess it made them a little uncomfortable.
    â€œWell, good,” Mom said, once there was no more sweater left to pick at. “And when it comes to boys, how much would you say you’ve done beyond kissing?”
    I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. NOT ONLY DID SHE ASK ME THIS EXTREMELY PERSONAL QUESTION IN FRONT OF THE TWO WORST PEOPLE—HORACE, THE MOST VOMITY STEPFATHER ALIVE, AND LOLA, MY PULL-UP-WEARING SISTER WHO IS ALREADY MORE EXPERIENCED WITH BOYS THAN I AM. WHAT GETS ME IS THAT EVEN SHE, MOTHER STRICTINA, THINKS I’M A PRISS.
    AND ON TOP OF THAT, LET’S NOT FORGET THAT IF I HADN’T BEEN FORCED TO ATTEND THIS CELEBRATION IN HUMILIATION, MY INEXPERIENCYITIS MIGHT HAVE ALREADY BEEN CURED.
    PARENTS: THEY GET YOU COMING IN AND THEY GET YOU GOING OUT.
    LETTERS: THEY COME IN CAPITAL AND THEY COME IN LOWERCASE. (I NEED A THIRD KIND. SOMETHING TO FULLY EXPRESS MY ANGER, EMBARRASSMENT, HUMILIATION, AND CRAVING FOR A YELLOWTAIL ROLL.)
    â€œHow much have I done besides kissing?” I repeated, finally getting the chopsticks right. “Not much.”
    â€œNot much, you say?! What do you mean by not much?!” my mother yelled, loud enough to startle Lola into tears and me into dropping the chopsticks I’d worked so hard at mastering. Did she have no respect? “Raisin Ramona Rodriguez, you explain yourself, young lady.” Jeez . . . What was she so upset about anyway? Aren‘t mothers supposed to