The Girlfriend Project Read online

  He pretends to be annoyed, but says grudgingly, "Okay, but cut the crusts off."

  I let out a laugh and he looks at me sheepishly. Ronnie grins and goes in the house.

  It's time to face the music.

  I'm a dead man. I have no chance at all.

  The best thing to do is let him knock me out with one punch, then pretend I'm dead, like you're supposed to do when you meet a bear in the woods.

  "What happened last night?" he suddenly asks. "Marsha was, like, a train wreck. I thought she was gonna fling herself into the nearest body of water. What did you do to that girl, Reed? Did you slip some love potion number 9 into her Diet Coke when she wasn't looking? She is, like, nutters for you!"

  This distracts me. Marsha—nutters for me? Have things changed or what?

  "I hope you called her," Lonnie goes on. "Because, if you didn't, she's probably filled up your whole machine by now." He shakes his head. "Man, Reed, overnight you've become the player of the year."

  I don't know what to say. It's more shocking to me than anyone.

  He peers at me. "So what happened?"

  I take a deep breath. "Jonathan broke up with Ronnie."

  His fists clench, and it makes me take a step back. I can't help it.

  "She asked me to take her home," I continue, a little more shakily. "That's why I had to leave."

  'Always hated that hairy guy's guts," Lonnie growls. "I'm glad things are over. Was she okay?"

  "Yeah, but. . . something else happened."

  He waits.

  I cough. 'Actually I don't know how to tell you. I'm freaked out about it. Just remember this: You're bigger than me, we've been best friends for over ten years, and I'll miss my AP exams if you put me in the hospital. I was hoping to place out of the foreign language requirement."

  "What are you talking about?" he roars. 'Are you on acid?"

  "I kissed your sister," I say with resignation. "I have a thing for her. I've always had a thing for her. We're going together."

  He blinks. "You kissed Ronnie?"

  "Yeah. Look, just hit me, okay? I can't stand the waiting. Let's get it over with."

  He laughs. "I am vastly insulted, my friend. We may live in Jersey, but not everybody in the Garden State is a hitman. Next you'll be asking me to say 'youse guys' and 'fugged about it'!"

  "So, you're . . . okay with this?"

  "Well. . ." Lonnie gives me a funny look. "Ronnie can be . . . I mean . . . She's . . ."

  "What?" I ask sharply.

  "She breaks up with guys, Reed. A lot."

  "I know," I say defensively. That's true. "But I'm the right guy." That's true too.

  Lonnie knits his brows together. "Yeah, well, I guess Ronnie can kiss anybody she wants. Sometimes I gotta wonder about her taste. . . ."

  Ronnie comes bounding out of the house with a towering sandwich teetering on a paper plate. She pulls us both into a big hug.

  "We're one happy tribe here. What more could a girl want out of life than two great guys by her side?"

  She gives each of us a soft kiss—Lonnie on the cheek, me on the mouth.

  Fuggedaboutit!

  Exit 9

  Lonnie's right about Marsha. There are four telephone messages, five e-mails, and six text-messages.

  The girl's having a meltdown!

  All I did was take her to one dance—I didn't think we were going together or anything—and she's losing it. Still, I decide the right thing to do is talk to her in person. I call and ask her if I can come over. She's thrilled beyond belief to hear from me. As I drive over, I think of tip lists for this situation:

  • How to Break Up with a Girl Who You Weren't Going Out with in the First Place

  • How to Break Up with a Girl Who's Addicted to Your Kisses

  • How to Break Up with a Girl Who Laughed in Your Face and Smashed Your Heart to Smithereens Four Years Ago, but You Still Pined for Her, Took Her to a Dance, and Kissed Her till Your Lips Went Numb

  But I don't feel like I need any tip lists.

  This isn't a happy situation for me or Marsha. But I feel, well, if not confidence, then, at the very least, a lack of freaking-out-ness.

  When I get to her house, the first thing Marsha does is lunge at me. Only this time, I stop her before she has a chance to kiss me, and realize this is the first time I've ever done such a thing in my entire life. Frankly, it blows my mind. Not only is a girl jumping me, but I'm stopping a girl from jumping me, because I've got another girl jumping me.

  Reed Walton? Come in, Reed Walton!

  Who is this dude impersonating you anyway?

  Marsha bites her lip and looks like she's about to cry. I feel awful about it.

  "I'm sorry, Marsha," I say softly. "I . . . I have to talk to you."

  We sit on the sofa in her living room. Before I can start, though, she says, "I know I wasn't nice to you before, Reed, but I really like you now. Can't you . . . give me a second chance? Please?"

  I'm thunderstruck. When I don't answer, she says, "I want, I want . . . to be your girlfriend. Isn't that what you want? A girlfriend?" She looks down, then back up. "I . . . I thought you liked me."

  "You tortured me," I say.

  I don't mean this to come out like an accusation. I just can't believe what I'm hearing. But it sends Marsha into some kind of tailspin.

  "I'm sorry!" she exclaims. "Can't we start over? Won't you ever forget it? Can't I have another chance? Do I have to beg? It was four years ago!"

  "It's just . . . I can't help it," I say. "It's . . . tattooed on my brain. You were repulsed by me . . . now you like me. I don't get it."

  She looks down at her lap. " Well, I'm not gonna lie to you, Reed. You've changed. I mean, you've got to know that. I know it makes me sound superficial and everything to say that." She shifts uncomfortably. "But, then, you haven't changed at all, Reed. You were always a nice guy. You were nice to me at Samantha's party—you didn't have to be. You were nice to me at the Fall Dance, even though I treated you like a kind of possession or something." She gives me a small smile. 'And if I had any sense at all, I wouldn't have done that to you four years ago. I would've gone out with you." She gazes at me. "Then I might have you now, and we wouldn't be having this discussion. We'd be kissing instead, which, of course, is a whole other thing." She grins. "You're such a great kisser, Reed. You're the best kisser of all the boys I've kissed." She gives me a shy look. "I love kissing you."

  Now I'm really thunderstruck. And hot. My whole body feels like it's roasting over a barbecue grill.

  "I wish we could start over too," I say quietly. "I had a crush on you for four years."

  She seems very pleased with that.

  "But. . . I like someone else now. We just started going together."

  Her lower lip trembles.

  And it occurs to me no matter what side of the line you're standing on—the one doing the rejecting or the one being rejected—it's not a nice place to be.

  I'm not happy about doing this to Marsha. But if I was honest with myself, I'd admit a part of me wanted it to happen. A part of me thirsted for revenge on her. A part of me wanted this exact thing to occur.

  But a bigger part of me doesn't want it to happen. A bigger part of me wishes I didn't have to do it at all.

  Even when you're not cruel and sadistic—like Marsha was to me four years ago—even when you do it nicely, gently, even when you say all the right things, you feel awful about rejecting someone just the same.

  "Who is she?" Marsha asks shakily.

  "Ronnie."

  She sniffles. "She's so lucky, Reed."

  . . .

  My breakup experience with Marsha blows every single fuse in my brain, causing a massive power outage in every cerebral circuit.

  Marsha started bawling her eyes out when I got up to go. I sat back down immediately. I couldn't leave her crying like that. I couldn't be so heartless—even if I wanted to be, even if she deserved it.

  So I held her, let her sob into my sho
ulder, stroked her hair. She tried to kiss me twice, but I drew the line there. Marsha's persistent—I'll give her that.

  When I left at last, Marsha thanked me for staying with her a little longer. She said we could be friends. I bent down and kissed her on the cheek. I don't know why. It just seemed like a nice thing to do. She told me I was a "really decent guy." She seemed sincere about it too.

  My wires are overloaded. I can't believe I made Marsha Peterman cry.

  Over me!

  Mastering organic chemistry at Princeton will be easier than this stuff.

  What it comes down to, I think, is this:

  Exhibit A: Reed Walton, formerly a lower-order dork-serf, currently a clever parasite invading the body-host of a hot stud (!) and kissing bandit-savant (!), comforting a girl who once crushed him, because, apparently, he's just crushed her?

  Exhibit B: Marsha Peterman, formerly a goddess, currently a goddess (pretty much always a goddess), a girl who could have anybody—except the one guy she can't—please see above—whom she could've enslaved for eternity four years ago.

  I would've been Marsha's slave-for-life if she'd said yes to me four years ago. But now I was turning her down—and there was nothing fun about it. And yet, I was comforting a girl who'd messed me up so badly I'd never asked out anyone else!

  You don't need to tell me how weird my life has become.

  Ronnie told me she would've gone out with me earlier if I'd asked her. But Marsha admitted the reason she liked me now was because I'd changed.

  Maybe it does depend on the girl. Maybe Ronnie's right about that.

  Marsha obviously cared about the way I looked. Well, what's so surprising about that? Don't I care about that too when it comes to girls? Don't most people care about it?

  But what about other girls? If I'd asked out other girls, not just Marsha, would they have cared as much?

  Would they have said yes?

  After all this time, was the real issue, in fact, not that I was a Dorkus Extremus, but that I hadn't asked out enough girls?

  I'd only asked out Marsha.

  I'd asked out one girl.

  Still, I ran into rotten luck! I mean, why did the first girl I ever ask out in my life have to be Marsha? Why did I make such a bad choice? Why did I lean toward someone who would traumatize me—only to resurface four years later as my biggest fan? And is it the universe's idea of a practical joke to have Marsha practically beg me to be her boyfriend now?

  Most importantly, why did I give up so easily?

  Marsha turning me down freshman year set the tone for the rest of high school.

  I pretended grades were more important than girls. I pretended my student life was more important than my love life.

  I had an identity problem.

  I had an image problem.

  And I gave up.

  Why was I so lame? Why didn't I just try again?

  Because I convinced myself I was a loser. Well, maybe I was, and maybe I would've been shot down by other girls again, again, again, and again.

  But maybe not.

  I'll never know.

  A feeling of deep depression washes over me.

  All the wasted time, all the wasted opportunities, all the Saturday nights I could've been out!

  All the kissing I could've done!

  I could've had a better four years than I did.

  It was my own fault. I was scared of my own shadow.

  I decide if I've learned anything from all this, it's this:

  Letting Fear Rule Your Life Is Stupid.

  . . .

  1. Has anyone ever laughed at you after you asked them out? If yes, did you not ask out anybody else because you were so hurt? How long did your hurt last?

  2. Have you ever rejected anyone? How did that feel?

  3. How important are looks to you?

  4. Have you ever liked someone and not told them? For how long?

  5. Are you afraid of the opposite sex?

  I write the questions myself when I get home. This site may have started as a publicity gag, but now, I need to conduct serious research.

  Maybe I can help other people avoid making the same mistakes I did.

  New Jersey: It Could

  Be a Lot Worse

  Exit 10

  "Being a guy is hard work," Lonnie says.

  "Tell me about it," I mumble.

  "Well, at least we don't have to wear pantyhose."

  "Or mascara," I say.

  "We don't get periods."

  "Or PMS," I add.

  We're in my room discussing the questions I put on the site. Lonnie's and my both having a sister definitely gives us a bigger window into girlhood than most guys have. Not that it's done much for me. Or, surprisingly, him.

  "You'd think I'd be better at this," Lonnie says.

  "I don't get it, Lonnie," I say. 'All I hear from you lately is how bad you are at this."

  He pauses for a second, then replies, "It's all just an act. Reed. Don't you know that?"

  Well, yeah, I knew that. "But why are you admitting it now? After all this time? Why all of a sudden?"

  "I don't know," he murmurs, then turns to me. "Maybe because of you. The Girlfriend Project. Comparing myself."

  "Comparing yourself? To me?"

  "Yup."

  "Me?"

  "Reed, enough already. You're good. And you did it without an act. You didn't change. Well, maybe, a little. But you never pretended."

  I don't know what to say to this. "I don't know who I am at all," I stammer. "I just found out people might think I'm stuck up. I'm trying to figure it out too."

  "Join the club, dude."

  "I feel like I wasted the last four years," I go on.

  He shrugs. "Maybe you did, Reed, but you're catching up quick."

  "Maybe . . . It's sort of like that contest," I venture.

  "What contest?"

  "You know, the state motto contest. New Jersey: We Have an Image Problem and, Thanks, We Know That."

  Lonnie grins. "NewJersey: Jersey Guys May Be Messed Up but They're Hot."

  'And They're Great Kissers Even Though They Don't Know What They're Doing Half the Time," I reply.

  'And They're Hot."

  'And They're Sensitive Guys."

  'And They're Hot."

  'And They Love Big Hair."

  'And They're Hot."

  We both crack up. Lonnie checks his watch. "Hey, we better get going."

  We're going on a double date. Lonnie and Deena, Ronnie and me.

  I'm still not sure how to act around Lonnie with Ronnie. It's stranger than I thought it would be, and sometimes I wonder . . . But then I remind myself that Ronnie and I are perfect for each other.

  We go to this cool restaurant in Red Bank called the Melting Pot, where you order food and dip it into a collective fondue pot on your table. Ronnie keeps feeding me chunks of Italian bread dipped in cheese sauce, and I keep staring at Lonnie to make sure he's not freaked about it.

  "You two are so cute it makes me want to hurl," Deena says cheerfully. She turns to Lonnie. 'Are we that cute?"

  "You're the cutest of them all," he replies—wisely.

  She giggles. Then she looks at us again.

  "So, you guys were best friends your whole lives, and now you're together. That is so cool. Can boys and girls stay friends or will they always get together in the end?"

  "Survey question," Ronnie and I say together.

  Deena laughs. "Yeah, what's happened with your site, Reed, is unbelievable. Everybody knows you. Everybody loves you."

  I've actually been thinking about this. "They don't really know me," I say. "They like me because I'm famous. You shouldn't like someone just because they're famous. That's why people like celebrities. It's messed up."

  "Yeah," Deena says listlessly.

  "It's like when Floyd Flavin got arrested," I go on, undeterred. "I mean, the guy got arrested! Isn't that supposed to be a bad thing? Instead, it made him the most popular guy in
school." I shove a hunk of cheese-soaked bread into my mouth and tell myself to shut up. My pious Boy Scout virtues are showing. It's okay for me to say these things when I'm with Ronnie and Lonnie. They understand me. But Deena isn't exactly safe territory.

  "I don't know," Deena mutters.

  I look at her and think, Man, this girl is an airhead. Then I scold myself for my meanness. But it's true. Deena Winters is so beautiful she belongs on the cover of a magazine. But she's a few enchiladas short of a combination platter, if you know what I mean. And yet, Lonnie's not an airhead at all. What does he see in her except the obvious? I guess that's enough for him.

  I tell myself to stop thinking unkind thoughts about other people. Who am I to make judgments like that? Maybe Deena Winters saved somebody's life once. Maybe she rescues animals. Maybe she volunteers at a children's hospital every Sunday. Maybe she doesn't step on worms when they come out after it rains. I want to apologize to her for my rudeness, but at least I didn't insult her out loud.

  Instead, I gaze appreciatively at Ronnie. She's beautiful and sweet and smart. I lean forward and kiss her softly, unable to help myself, and she smiles at me. Then I automatically look at Lonnie for his approval.

  He's studying me with an expression I recognize.

  It shocks me.

  He's jealous.

  . . .

  All my life I wished I could be more like Lonnie.

  But now, I realize, it's hard for Lonnie to be Lonnie. It's much harder for him than I ever knew.

  When our double date's over and we're back in my room, Lonnie asks me, "Is this what you meant all along, Reed?"

  I'm sitting in a chair by the window and Ronnie's down the hall in the bathroom.