The Girlfriend Project Page 2

  Ronnie shakes her head, as if she's trying to explain something very simple to a total ignoramus. Which is precisely what's going on here. "I didn't realize how much help you need, Reed, I thought it would be enough that you look different. But, you know, you don't feel different. Not yet anyway. This is going to take lots of hard work."

  Ah, the magic words. "I'm not afraid of hard work."

  "That's the spirit." A sly expression crosses her face. "Forget Rhonda Wharton. You've got bigger fish to fry."

  I try to make the image of Rhonda's long legs and short dress leave my mind before what Ronnie just said sinks in.

  "You mean . . . ," I croak.

  Ronnie nods. "Marsha Peterman's locker. Last bell."

  I actually slump in my chair. "No," I whisper. "She shot me down last time."

  "That was four years ago," Ronnie says. "And you've been pining for her ever since. Hasn't the time come? Come on, Reed, it's not Chinese torture."

  "It is too."

  She looks annoyed. "Why do boys make such a humongous deal out of asking girls out? I thought you were supposed to be tough guys."

  "We're not tough guys," I mumble.

  "Hey, speak for yourself, son," Lonnie says, but I know he's just kidding. Lonnie may have a smooth, pretend-tough exterior, but like most of us guys, his ego's softer than Marshmallow Fluff.

  "It's like you're crybabies or something," Ronnie goes on.

  Ronnie, on the other hand, is definitely blunt, but that's a good thing. She's the kind of person who tells you when you have lettuce stuck in your teeth.

  "We're not crybabies," I say quietly.

  Ronnie must sense she's hit a raw nerve because she says, "I'm sorry I said that, Reed. I know you're trying. I didn't mean it."

  I want to keep talking about it, but Lonnie's Chick Clique has officially begun. They giggle up to our table to catch up with him.

  I get up before anyone has a chance to notice the new and improved me. I've had enough of the new and improved me.

  "Where are you going, Reed?" Ronnie asks me.

  "The library."

  "But, Reed, your destiny awaits you."

  "My destiny is with my AP Spanish textbook, Ronnie. Adios, amigos"

  . . .

  The pity party goes on all day.

  I try to concentrate on classes, but I can't. What Ronnie said to me won't go away.

  People continue to comment on the new and improved me, and girls who have never given me the time of day seem suddenly friendly. I'm too rattled to pay attention.

  Why have I always been so uncomfortable around girls?

  Because I'm shy? Or because of Ronnie and Lonnie?

  When your best friends have always lived next door to you, why should you get into the habit of making new friends, talking to people you don't know, or asking out girls?

  I've never gone anywhere without one of them by my side, whether it's a party, the mall, the movies, or the school cafeteria. The thought of doing something by myself is terrifying to me. I guess my life up to now has been one long episode of Fear Factor.

  Fear of being laughed at.

  Fear of looking stupid.

  Fear of failure.

  Fear of being rejected.

  Fear of bad breath.

  Fear of saying the wrong thing.

  Fear of being the wrong thing.

  You should know, though, that while I'm definitely a dork, I'm not a nerd. There's a difference.

  A nerd has a funny haircut, wears pants that are too short, has ballpoint pens in his shirt pocket, and gets picked on by other kids.

  My hair and clothes are fine (thanks to Ronnie), I don't have ballpoint pens in my shirt pocket, and I've never been picked on by other kids (thanks to Lonnie).

  I guess the three of us all started out at the same place way back in kindergarten, but somewhere around fifth grade, Ronnie and Lonnie diverged onto the popular path and I diverged onto the dork path. They have other friends besides me—the popular kids—but I'm the one they trust. That's what they always tell me, anyway. I'm lucky to have them. And I'm lucky that they're popular enough that they don't have to worry about losing points for being seen with a dork like me.

  Maybe being good at school is easier than being good at girls. After all, there are teachers and textbooks and tests—a whole bureaucracy—to help you get there.

  Or maybe it's more like I never had a chance.

  Or maybe it's just that I never tried.

  By the time the last bell rings, I'm exhausted. I take my time getting to my locker, worried about running into Rhonda Wharton again. I realize I won't be able to avoid her forever. I can't believe it's the first day of school and I've already made an enemy of the person whose locker is right next to mine.

  But when I reach my locker, she's nowhere in sight. The hallway's crowded with people slamming lockers. I quickly pull out my stuff and decide to book out of there. But Ronnie and Lonnie pounce on me before I can escape. See, their last name starts with W too, which means they're in the same locker neighborhood as me.

  "Your destiny calls, Reed," Ronnie says, pulling me down the hall.

  "Let me go," I say through clenched teeth.

  "No, Reed," she growls back. "There's only one way to do this. Sink or swim."

  "So you want me to drown?" I ask. "You want to kill me?"

  She gives me a serious look. "I want you to ask out the love of your life. I give you . . . Marsha Peterman."

  And with that, she shoves me forward, right into the maw of the beast.

  . . .

  I've had a crush on Marsha Peterman since freshman year. Not that I've done anything about it in four years.

  No, you don't need to tell me it's pathetic.

  No, you don't need to tell me Ym pathetic.

  Yeah, thanks, I'm fully aware of the situation.

  I look behind me, frowning when I spot Ronnie and Lonnie behind a bend in the lockers. Spies, they are. I don't know if that's good or bad. On the one hand, they'll witness my final, full-fledged humiliation of the day. On the other hand, they'll be able to provide CPR when I have my heart attack.

  Marsha Peterman, a complete vision in robin's egg blue that's stretched tight in all the right places, has finished loading her backpack when I stumble into her presence. She peers at me questioningly with big eyes the exact shade of her outfit.

  "Reed?" she asks in amazement.

  I honestly don't know how to respond to these public exclamations of astonishment. Should I be grateful that people are noticing I'm new and improved? Or should I be mortified that I dared show myself in public before today?

  "Hey, Marsha," I manage, trying not to ogle.

  She gives me the whole wow-you're-like-a-different-person thing. Then she smiles wider. And waits. Expectantly.

  I gulp. Okay. This is it. That smile. That waiting. Just like Rhonda Wharton. Except now I know what I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to ask her out. Could that really be it? Marsha Peterman wants me to ask her out? Why would she want to go out with me? She's a goddess. She was a goddess when I made the ridiculous mistake of asking her out four years ago. She shot me down quicker than a sniper. And yet, to this day, I still zone out about her and me.

  It dawns on me that I'm not ready for this. I need a prepared statement. Something I can read off. I can't ad-lib this. Why didn't we take care of that? What kind of stupid Girlfriend Project is this? Hurling me out here without the proper tools? It's like asking me to open a coconut with my bare hands.

  "Coconut," I blurt out.

  She looks spooked. Really, really spooked. Who can blame her? What kind of idiot says things like that?

  "Do you like coconut?" I ask quickly, trying to recover.

  She smiles!

  "Yeah, I do, a lot," she says.

  This might have worked if I let it alone. But no.

  "That's great. I guess it could hurt a lot if you got bonked on the head with a coconut, but that's great. Great. Great."


  She starts to dart her eyes around, like she's looking for the nearest exit.

  I start to sweat. Now I have body odor to worry about too.

  Think, I order myself. You've seen Lonnie do this a million times. How does he do it? What does he say? He makes it look so easy! I beg my brain cells to give me the right words, but all I'm getting is Shakespeare.

  "Romeo and Juliet" I say.

  How much worse than coconut is this going to get?

  Marsha arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. Then she smiles again. Could it be I've said the right thing?

  "Yes," she breathes.

  What's happening? What does this mean?

  "Yeah, we're reading that in AP English this year," I drone. 'After Hamlet, then Othello, then Much Ado About Nothing . . ."

  The smile slides off.

  Buzzer! Wrong answer, Reed!

  Her posture is changing. Her shoulders are turning away from me.

  Say it. Say it. Say it.

  One sentence.

  Will you go out with me?

  It's not suave, romantic, or even logical, I mean, go out with me where and when? But, at least, it's a starting place. It's a better starting place than coconut.

  "Marsha, um, will you . . . go . . . trout with me?"

  She hesitates. "Trout?"

  Did I say trout?

  She gets a hurt look on her face. Like I've said something mean and nasty. Like I've just made fun of her.

  "That isn't funny," she snaps.

  She walks away.

  I feel like someone's punched me in the gut.

  . . .

  "Trout? You said 'trout'?" Lonnie shakes his head.

  I know he's holding back major cracking up. In Lonnie's world, this is the stuff of late-night talk shows.

  We're in my Range Rover heading to IHOP after school. Lonnie claps my shoulder.

  "Forget about it, dude. Besides, there's nothing a big stack of chocolate chip pancakes can't fix." He smacks his lips noisily.

  But I barely hear him. "But why did it upset Marsha so much? What's so offensive about trout in the first place?"

  Ronnie, in the backseat, leans forward. "It could be anything, Reed. Maybe Marsha's grandfather was a trout fisherman and he fell overboard during a storm at sea. Maybe Marsha's aunt died choking on a trout bone."

  "Maybe when Marsha was in third grade," Lonnie chimes in soberly, "someone called her Trout Wench. Or Trout Lips."

  "But this is crazy!" I yell for the second time that day, pointing out the obvious, I think. "How am I supposed to know all this?" I force myself to concentrate on Route 18, but it's nearly impossible. 'And what about the Romeo and Juliet thing? Why was Marsha so into it at first—and what did I say to get her out of it?"

  Ronnie plays with the hair at the back of my neck, giving me a colossal case of goose bumps. It momentarily takes my mind off Marsha Peterman, but not long enough, unfortunately.

  "Maybe . . . Marsha thought you were going to act out the balcony scene," Ronnie says dreamily. "Maybe she thought you were going to tell her she was the sun."

  Lonnie winks at me. "Quote some of those sonnets, dude, and you've got it made."

  I'm speechless.

  What on earth are they talking about?

  Quote sonnets? Act out balcony scenes?

  I need drama lessons to get a date?

  "That can't be right," I mutter. "It's crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy."

  I feel like one of those people who talks to themselves.

  I see myself in twenty years, wandering the streets of Jersey City in a ratty old coat filled with used Kleenex and reciting lines from Shakespeare . . .

  But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

  It is the east and Juliet is the sun!

  Ronnie leans forward. "This Girlfriend Project isn't going well, is it?"

  This sets me off completely. "Well, it's not really a Girlfriend Project at all, is it?" I ask, the sarcasm sounding sharp even to me. 'As far as I can tell, all this brilliant project consists of is you guys throwing me to the lions to be soundly torn into bloody shreds."

  I know I'm being hard on them, but I can't help it. I'm mad. I'm really mad. I can't remember the last time I had such a rotten day.

  Lonnie stares ahead silently and Ronnie gets all quiet. I feel awful about what I've just said. They didn't deserve that at all.

  But Ronnie says, "No, you're right, Reed. You need more. Like I said. You're starting at the beginning. You need the basics."

  Yet this feels downright insulting.

  I pull into IHOP's parking lot. What Ronnie's saying is true. But, still, why am I putting myself through this? I mean, I've done fine up to now. I've had success in school. I've had friends. I haven't had a girlfriend. So what? Look what happens when I try to change. Why bother? Why not go back to my old safe self? I can't get my braces back, but I can wear my Coke-bottle glasses again. Or I can stay the way I am now, but forget this trying-to-get-a-girlfriend business.

  Is it really worth it?

  We exit the car and Ronnie takes my hand. "We'll work on this, Reed, I promise."

  I'm not sure how I feel about it, but I do feel terrible about yelling at her. "I'm sorry I bit your head off, Ronnie," I say sheepishly.

  She smiles. "It's okay. I know this isn't easy for you. But the funny thing is . . . both Rhonda and Marsha liked you, Reed. They would've said yes to you if you hadn't. . ."

  "Screwed it up?" I supply in as casual a way as I can.

  She giggles.

  Well, it's true. Only I could bring coconut and trout into a question that should've been simple.

  We enter the pancake house, the hostess shows us to our favorite U-shaped booth in the back, and we all slide in one by one. Ronnie and Lonnie pick up their menus, but I drum my fingers on the table.

  "There's still something, though," I say. "Even if Rhonda and Marsha did like me." Saying that out loud sounds positively bizarre. I mean, they're two of the hottest girls in class and . . . I'm Professor Dork D. Dork.

  "Why now?" I continue, turning this thought over aloud. "I asked Marsha Peterman out when we were freshmen and . . . she squashed me like a stinkbug."

  Ronnie looks up from her menu. "I think that's kind of obvious, Reed. Don't you think you're a . . . better specimen now?"

  That's all the provocation I need. "There are two things wrong with that, Ronnie. First, I'm the same as I always was. Second, if that's true, this is about. . . looks."

  'And your point is?" Lonnie asks.

  "I'm the same as I always was," I sputter. "I haven't changed."

  "But you look different," Ronnie says.

  "But I'm not different," I say.

  I have no idea what I'm trying to argue, and it's hard enough making sense of it at an IHOP. All I know is, Ronnie and Lonnie have always gotten me, and I wish they would now.

  "It's okay to change, Reed," Ronnie says softly.

  "But I haven't changed. I'm still—"

  "Don't say it," Ronnie says.

  "A dork."

  She sighs. "You're not a dork." She leans toward me. "You're a hottie."

  This comment makes my entire body burn from scalp to big toes. Why am I so like that about this?

  "Better get used to it, beautiful," Ronnie says, reading my mind.

  I make a snorting noise. "But, Ronnie, inside . . ."

  Ronnie gazes right at me. "Inside, you were always beautiful, Reed."

  I look away in embarrassment, but Ronnie's comment makes me instantly think of Valentine's Day. Every year, the junior and senior classes sell carnations-for-delivery in school, and every year, Ronnie buys one for me. Next to the prom and Homecoming, receiving a carnation on Valentine's Day is the biggest event of the year. Not getting one immediately brands you a loser—even if you're a guy. But mine always says, "For my beautiful best friend."

  It's funny. Thinking about it now makes me feel very weird, but I didn't feel that way when the carnations were delivered. I was gr
ateful. I mean, who else was going to send me one?

  Maybe my "outside" has changed to match my "inside"—at least according to Ronnie—but I don't know if I'm ready to share either with the world. Or maybe I'm not sure Ronnie's right—either way.

  I feel suddenly exhausted. Ronnie, however, isn't finished. Her blue eyes are fiery—it's a look I recognize—it means she's only getting started. "Besides, Reed, what about you? Don't looks matter to you?”

  "Well. . . yeah," I admit.

  Lonnie dives in headfirst. "Dude, what's wrong with being a physical object of lust? It's never bothered me."

  I clear my throat noisily. "I don't know. It seems . . . dishonest."

  Ronnie stares at me. "Well, then, I guess contact lenses are dishonest. And push-up bras. And high heels. I guess we need to get rid of these things. Is that what you want, Reed?"

  I come to the conclusion that I have no idea what I'm talking about. "No," I mumble. "But what if I get disfigured like . . . the Elephant Man?"

  "You're being melodramatic."

  "Maybe I'm not ready for this," I say, finally getting to the point.

  Lonnie takes over. "Look, buddy, next year you're going to be on your own. You have to do this. For your sake. This is good for you. It's healthy."

  "Yeah," Ronnie agrees. "Like yogurt."

  They're right. . . and it scares me to death. But I mutter, "I don't eat yogurt. It has female hormones like estrogen in it. And it's all fine and good for the two of you. You guys have never been alone."

  Lonnie wasn't going with anyone now, but practically every girl in school wanted him. He was It. He and Deena Winters had broken up last year, but she'd take him back in a heartbeat.