Read Online Jersey Tomatoes are the Best by Maria Padian - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Maria Padian
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friends. Three more requests were answered overnight. Oh, and look! You have a message.”
“Message?” Henry asks, blankly.
“People who have friended you, or whom you have friended, can leave messages,” I explain.
“Cool,” Henry says. “Who messaged me?” I don’t bother to explain that while “friend” is a verb, “message” is not, so I just read it:
“Hola, Henriette! My name is Yolanda Cruz, and I’m
going to be your roommate! I’m 15, cubanita, from
Miami. Write to me!
Your roommate, Yoly
P.S. Quinceaneras Rule!”
“
What
rules?” Henry says.
“We need to email her
immediately
and set her straight about this Henriette thing,” I say. “Didn’t she read your profile? I wrote very clearly, ‘Nickname: Henry.’ I will murder anyone who calls you anything else.”
“Hold it. You wrote a profile of me?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Eva!” Henry shrieks.
“What?” I reply, innocently. “This is how you make friends! ‘I love you, you love me …’ ” I sing the theme song of
Barney & Friends
. We loved Barney when we were little. She grabs me around the shoulders.
“Show me,” she says, faux-menacingly.
I point to the profile box on the screen and read aloud:
“Henriette Lloyd. Age: 16. Home: Ridgefield, New Jersey. Nickname: Henry. Status: Single. I love chocolate, great-looking guys who don’t know they’re great-looking, music, my backyard ball machine and tennis … but not necessarily in that order. I hate liverwurst, stuck-up guys who don’t know they’re stuck-up, my backyard ball machine and losing … not necessarily in that order. Jersey Tomatoes Are the Best!”
Henry looks completely confused.
“I’ve never eaten liverwurst in my life,” she says.
“Trust me, you would hate it.”
“Eva!” she shrieks again. This is becoming a pattern.
“What?” I counter. “It’s cute. It’s funny. And it’s not controversial; everyone agrees about liverwurst, and there is not a single stuck-up guy on the planet who
knows
he is stuck-up.”
She puts her head in her hands.
“Let’s check out the other happy campers,” I say brightly.
The Chadwick group appears on the screen as an array of thumbnail photos. Most are pretty traditional head shots. A few are these teeny action pictures you can barely make out of someone swinging a tennis racket. Everyone, in every picture, however, looks tan.
“Promise me you will use sunblock,” I say, scrolling throughthe photos. “These kids are going to look like alligators before they’re thirty.”
“Click on him,” Henry says, ignoring my upbeat observation. She points to a cute blond. She’s getting into the spirit of Facebook.
I click and his photo enlarges. He is seriously hot, and he has great teeth. I’m a little OCD about teeth. I mean, they are the gateway to the French kiss, a phenomenon I’ve yet to experience but whose success I imagine is wholly dependent on fresh breath and sound oral care. Blond dude has awesome ones: very straight, highly polished white perfection gleaming from a broad smile in an unfortunately overly tan face. Hair is good, though. Kind of long, with these light streaks.
“ ‘Jonathan Dundas,’ ” I read aloud from his profile. “ ‘Home: Salinas, California. Age: 17. Nickname: Jon.’ Hmm. That’s original. Okay, here’s what he has to say about himself: ‘I love the high you get after groovin’ on backhands for an hour in 80-degree heat, then jumpin’ into an icy pool. I love workin’ out, anything that gets my heart rate up, especially if I can do it outside. I like chillin’ with friends, playin’ guitar, especially around a fire, at night. Life is Good then.’ ” Henry snorts, and we look at each other.
“Eeeeew!” we both squeal simultaneously, then dissolve into laughter. This is our signature reaction to guys who are totally full of themselves.
“He has completely negated the allure of his excellent teeth,” I say.
“No way are
“Message?” Henry asks, blankly.
“People who have friended you, or whom you have friended, can leave messages,” I explain.
“Cool,” Henry says. “Who messaged me?” I don’t bother to explain that while “friend” is a verb, “message” is not, so I just read it:
“Hola, Henriette! My name is Yolanda Cruz, and I’m
going to be your roommate! I’m 15, cubanita, from
Miami. Write to me!
Your roommate, Yoly
P.S. Quinceaneras Rule!”
“
What
rules?” Henry says.
“We need to email her
immediately
and set her straight about this Henriette thing,” I say. “Didn’t she read your profile? I wrote very clearly, ‘Nickname: Henry.’ I will murder anyone who calls you anything else.”
“Hold it. You wrote a profile of me?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Eva!” Henry shrieks.
“What?” I reply, innocently. “This is how you make friends! ‘I love you, you love me …’ ” I sing the theme song of
Barney & Friends
. We loved Barney when we were little. She grabs me around the shoulders.
“Show me,” she says, faux-menacingly.
I point to the profile box on the screen and read aloud:
“Henriette Lloyd. Age: 16. Home: Ridgefield, New Jersey. Nickname: Henry. Status: Single. I love chocolate, great-looking guys who don’t know they’re great-looking, music, my backyard ball machine and tennis … but not necessarily in that order. I hate liverwurst, stuck-up guys who don’t know they’re stuck-up, my backyard ball machine and losing … not necessarily in that order. Jersey Tomatoes Are the Best!”
Henry looks completely confused.
“I’ve never eaten liverwurst in my life,” she says.
“Trust me, you would hate it.”
“Eva!” she shrieks again. This is becoming a pattern.
“What?” I counter. “It’s cute. It’s funny. And it’s not controversial; everyone agrees about liverwurst, and there is not a single stuck-up guy on the planet who
knows
he is stuck-up.”
She puts her head in her hands.
“Let’s check out the other happy campers,” I say brightly.
The Chadwick group appears on the screen as an array of thumbnail photos. Most are pretty traditional head shots. A few are these teeny action pictures you can barely make out of someone swinging a tennis racket. Everyone, in every picture, however, looks tan.
“Promise me you will use sunblock,” I say, scrolling throughthe photos. “These kids are going to look like alligators before they’re thirty.”
“Click on him,” Henry says, ignoring my upbeat observation. She points to a cute blond. She’s getting into the spirit of Facebook.
I click and his photo enlarges. He is seriously hot, and he has great teeth. I’m a little OCD about teeth. I mean, they are the gateway to the French kiss, a phenomenon I’ve yet to experience but whose success I imagine is wholly dependent on fresh breath and sound oral care. Blond dude has awesome ones: very straight, highly polished white perfection gleaming from a broad smile in an unfortunately overly tan face. Hair is good, though. Kind of long, with these light streaks.
“ ‘Jonathan Dundas,’ ” I read aloud from his profile. “ ‘Home: Salinas, California. Age: 17. Nickname: Jon.’ Hmm. That’s original. Okay, here’s what he has to say about himself: ‘I love the high you get after groovin’ on backhands for an hour in 80-degree heat, then jumpin’ into an icy pool. I love workin’ out, anything that gets my heart rate up, especially if I can do it outside. I like chillin’ with friends, playin’ guitar, especially around a fire, at night. Life is Good then.’ ” Henry snorts, and we look at each other.
“Eeeeew!” we both squeal simultaneously, then dissolve into laughter. This is our signature reaction to guys who are totally full of themselves.
“He has completely negated the allure of his excellent teeth,” I say.
“No way are
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