The Kissing Diary (4 page)

Rosie took her fork and wrecked the letter she'd formed. What was she thinking, anyway? “I've been upset the whole week because someone won't talk to me.”

Her mother was a good listener when she wasn't feeling stressed. “Who?” she said, giving Rosie her undivided attention.

“Remember that guy Robbie I told you about? The one I'm taller than?”

Her mother nodded.

Rosie told her the story about scaring Robbie in the bushes.

“He screamed?” said Jimmy, smirking. He coughed, saying “Loser” under his breath.

“Look who's talking! You screamed at the last scary movie we saw, and couldn't go to sleep without the lights on for days!” It was sad how she couldn't stop herself from defending Robbie.

“That was years ago,” said Jimmy, digging into the second helping on his plate.

Rosie continued. “We scared him to death, and he fell over backward, and all I said was, ‘We're sorry we frightened you,' and he got furious at me and hasn't talked to me since.”

“I see,” said her mother, pursing her lips.

“You see what?”

“She sees that he's a baby for screaming, and she sees that he's a clumsy geek for falling over.” Jimmy stood up and uttered a high-pitched sound, falling over backward onto the kitchen floor.

“Ignore him,” said Mrs. Goldglitt, trying hard not to smile. “Jimmy, get off the floor. It hasn't been washed in a year.”

Rosie waited while her mother took a container out of the freezer. “Does anyone want some?” she said, scooping some mocha chip ice cream into a bowl. “I haven't learned much,” she said, “but here's what I know. Never ask a man if you've scared him, Rosie. Particularly if he's a caveman type, or under the age of twenty-one. He'll think you're calling him a wimp.”

“That's it?” said Rosie, exasperated. “I was afraid he'd hurt himself, falling over like that, and he thinks I'm calling him a wimp?”

“It's that male mentality,” said Mrs. Goldglitt, reading the back of the container. “One hundred fifty calories for half a cup? That's one spoonful, isn't it?” She shoved the ice cream back into the freezer and took out the chocolate syrup.

“Why does it matter if he's under twenty-one?” said Rosie.

“He's young,” said her mother, squirting syrup on her dish of ice cream so that it made a terrible sound.

Jimmy started hooting and slapping his thigh.

“See what I mean?” said their mother, laughing. “They're young and immature, and their self-esteem is shaky. Boys that age are so full of pride that you can't insult their manhood. And he might take after his father,” she added, “who I happen to know is a Neanderthal.”

“How do you know?” said Rosie curiously. “You met his father?”

“Years ago,” said her mother. She changed the subject abruptly. “Make me work out after I eat this ice cream.”

“Can I have some?” said Jimmy. “It might help my low self-esteem.”

“It will help you even more if you get it yourself,” said his mother. “Anyway, you were in kindergarten, and it was the first day of school, and I'm parked there and watching to make sure that you get inside safely, and he clips my fender when he's backing up!”

“What did you do?” said Rosie.

Her mother snorted. “I got out of the car to look, and he yells, ‘What do you think you were doin'?' Can you imagine?
He
cracks into my car, and says, ‘What do you think you were doin'?' The nerve!”

Rosie watched her mother get annoyed all over again. Then her mother took a spoonful of ice cream and got sugar-rush happier.

“This is delicious,” she said. “So I tell him, ‘I'm waiting to make sure that my little girl gets into school, do you have a problem with that?' He says, ‘I have a problem with you parking so close to my van that I can't get out!' And he gets into his van and drives off! Can you imagine? He leaves me there with a dented fender, and I go ask the crossing guard, ‘Who
is
that jerk?' And she says, ‘That's little Robbie Romano's father, Al.'”

Rosie rested her head on the kitchen table.

Her mother said in a soft voice, “Remember that boys of twelve are unable to process their feelings yet. They're
way
behind girls, Rosie.”

“Maybe he remembered that you insulted his father,” Rosie mumbled from the table edge.

“I doubt it. Calling you names might mean that he likes you. He was embarrassed and confused, so he just lashed out.”

“Or he hates you,” said Jimmy, scooping ice cream into a dish.

“Like I hate you,” said Rosie.

“Please. No hating in my kitchen,” said their mother. “Jimmy, try not to live up to the immaturity I'm talking about.”

Rosie said, “He ignored me last week. He ignored me today. I hate to say it, but I think Jimmy is right.”

“Mark my words,” said her mother. “It might mean just the opposite.”

Rosie couldn't help it. She lifted up her head from the table and rolled her eyes at her mother, who hadn't seen Robbie's face when he'd called her Rosie Goldtwit. How could she forget the look he'd given her today, when she just couldn't help herself and blurted out, “Are you still mad at me?” It was straight from one of those shows where the contestant has to drink a concoction of worms, slugs, and cow's intestines. Rosie had made him sick to his stomach.

Later, watching television, Jimmy surprised her by saying, “Mom could be right, you know. He might like you.”

“Really?” said Rosie, pressing him to go further, but her brother clammed up.

Rosie asked him, “Do you think Lauren should ask Tommy Stone to the dance? She wants to know.”

“Hey, if he likes her, it will turn out fine. If he doesn't, it's not a good idea.”

“Great,” said Rosie. “She'll be happy to hear.”

Jimmy laughed. “Hey, what do you want from me? Didn't Mom tell you that girls are way more evolved than boys?”

Mrs. Goldglitt entered the living room wearing sweats and sneakers. She hopped onto the elliptical trainer that their father had bought her before the divorce. Pressing some buttons, she asked Rosie to turn up the television.

Rosie climbed off the couch and adjusted the sound. “How come I always have to do everything? Why can't you ask Jimmy?”

“Jeez,” said her mother. “That must be my Neanderthal-woman side. The woman cooks and she cleans and she tends to the children. And the man goes out to hunt and provide for the family, you know? I'll try to improve.”

“Women move faster,” said Jimmy, slouching happily on the couch.

They watched television to the monotonous sound of their mother walking on metal pedals.

At the commercial, Rosie said, “Hey, Mom, so what put you in a better mood anyway?”

Mrs. Goldglitt walked faster to the tune of the commercial. “He called,” she said simply.

Right before bed, Rosie wrote in her diary:

Monday night

Dear Diary,

My mother was a basket case all weekend because her boyfriend didn't call. I guess I take after her, because I was a wreck all week, wondering how to get Robbie to talk to me. I can't believe she had this fight with Robbie Romano's father. That's just great. We'll go out, and he'll realize that he likes me a lot, and I'll meet his father, and he'll say, Your mother is nuts, and Robbie will say, Like mother, like daughter, and he'll never see me again.

This is all wishful thinking, of course, because as of today, he still hasn't spoken a word to me. Like Summer says, it's hard to get back what you never really had in the first place. I definitely want to decrushify. He's a lost cause.

I give up, I really do. I'll try not to mention his name anymore.

Yours truly,

Rosie
Gold-Quit

5

It's All Greek to Rosie, Including Boys

Mr. Woo made it hard for Rosie to decrushify. English was Rosie's favorite subject because the teacher, Mr. Woo, managed to keep it interesting, having them act out passages from books they were reading and giving them assignments that didn't bore them to death. Getting an A in English was easy for Rosie. Getting a B– in math was much harder.

The halls were crowded on the way to class. Rosie's jean jacket accidentally brushed against Robbie, who jammed his back so hard against the locker that the imprint of the lock might have embossed his skin. Avoiding Rosie had been taken one step further. Rosie was a germ, and she half expected him to get out a packet of antiseptic wipes to kill any lingering Goldglitt bacteria. Being a germ was totally exhausting, and Rosie came to the conclusion that it sucked.

Rosie settled in her seat, with Summer behind her, next to Robbie, and Lauren to her right. Although she couldn't see Robbie, just his presence made her jittery. Was he staring at the back of her head with contempt? She would have to ask Summer. Did he make fun of her when she raised her hand? Ordinarily she would turn and talk to Summer so that she could catch a glimpse of him. Poor Summer would have to be ignored, or lean forward and talk in Rosie's ear if she had something to say. Rosie would not budge in her seat. She would not turn around.

Rosie opened up her English notebook. Inside the cover she had drawn a heart with two sets of initials inside:
RR
and
RG.
Rosie took her pen and colored in the letters. Then she drew bold lines one way and the other, over and over, until she could barely distinguish the letters beneath. She drew an
X
across the network of scribbles for good measure. Her mother was wrong and Lauren was right. The negative attention didn't mean that he liked her. It meant that he didn't. From this moment forward, Robbie Romano didn't exist.

What was it Grandma Rebecca liked to say? Man made plans and God laughed. Except that in this case, Rosie made the plan to decrushify and Mr. Woo laughed by announcing a project on Greek mythology. Each group would be assigned a god or a goddess, and they would present their myth in front of the class. There was a chorus of groans. For a split second, Rosie wished she were next to Robbie, so that she could hear his perfect put-down. Didn't Mr. Woo ever have lunch with Mrs. Geller? Didn't he know that they had just recovered from a history project that had ruined their weekend and cost her mother a hundred dollars? And that Rosie's castle wasn't half as good as Summer's, made entirely of sugar cubes? And that Sarah's castle was the best in the class, with her father, the architect, helping her? Couldn't Mr. Woo give them all a break?

“Be original!” Mr. Woo said cheerfully, as though he'd just announced a pizza party for the next day. To Rosie's relief, he called out first names only, but her heart did a flip-flop as
Rosie
and
Robbie
and
Mary
and
Teresa
reverberated in the air. It was a plot against her, it had to be. Rosie cast a glance at Lauren, who raised an eyebrow as if to say, “This should be interesting.”

Being in a group with Robbie was bad enough, but Mary Katz was worse. As for Teresa Tubby, what could be said about a girl who lived in a world of her own? How could she not, with a name like that? If Rosie's body was shaped like a pear, skinny on top and rounder at the bottom, and Lauren's body was teen-model shapely, Teresa's body was straight and boxy, with no curves about it. It was her father's fault. She had grown into the name that she'd inherited, and maybe, just maybe, it was worse than Goldglitt.

Rosie wondered if having a name like Tubby made you strong at birth. It was kind of amazing how Teresa didn't care what anyone thought. Did she get up in the morning and ask herself, “How bizarre can I look today?” Designer clothes had no place in Teresa's wardrobe. On an ordinary day, she might put on a pair of fuchsia pink pants and a red plaid shirt (not retro, but straight out of her mother's time-warped closet), with a hundred buttons pinned on a man's green vest—peace signs from the sixties, weird rock bands that nobody had ever heard of, candy logos, Bart Simpson, Donald Duck. She wore her hair in bunches, with pompoms and different-colored ribbons. People stared at her as she walked down the street; children turned and pointed. A dangling key chain hooked to her jeans had so many jingling keys and coins and characters on it that dogs barked when they heard her coming. Secretly, Rosie admired her. Teresa didn't care what people thought of her. Rosie did. Way too much.

The groups formed huddles, and noisy discussion began. Mary Katz found her way to the back of the room, pulling a desk close to Robbie's. He didn't move away. Rosie focused on Teresa Tubby as if she were the most fascinating person in the world. She despised Mary, snuggling up to Robbie. She couldn't look at either of them.

Mary Katz stood up for the world to see her tight pink T-shirt with
PRINCESS
written across it in purple rhinestones. She stood behind Robbie, leaning over him so that her flaxen hair draped across the top of his head.

“Is Rapunzel a myth?” Rosie heard Robbie ask her. “Is this rehearsal?”

“Huh?” said Mary, planting her chin on him.

“You know,” he said, touching the blond hair that hung past his ears. “The story about the girl who gets put in a tower, and her boyfriend prince says, ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair'?”

Mary's laugh was bell-like. “That's a fairy tale, silly. I wanted to see what you looked like as a blond!”

He was laughing now, not calling her names. What was it Rosie's mother had called his father? Neanderthal. Like father, like son.

To Rosie's relief, Mr. Woo arrived, and Mary sat down at her desk again. He gave them their assignment: Demeter, Persephone, and Hades.