The Girlfriend Project Read online

  The bouncy redhead makes a face. "Nice act," she mutters, and walks away.

  But Marsha's not acting. She's sloshed. She's hanging onto my neck, pressing herself against me, staring steadily into my eyes.

  Normally, this would be a very thrilling moment for me. But I'm afraid she's going to puke.

  "Are you okay?" I ask. "Do you need a bathroom?"

  "Can we sit down?" she slurs.

  I help her to a nearby sofa. Someone's just gotten up and left a deep indentation behind. I sink into the cushions and Marsha plops into my lap and wraps herself around me.

  Whoa.

  This is the closest I've ever been to a girl. Even Ronnie has never sat in my lap. It's great. But what do I do now? Is Marsha going to fall asleep on top of me? On the other hand, who cares? There's no one here I especially want to see. This is perfect, really I can sit here and wait for Lonnie. And in the meantime, I'll have a hot girl sleeping on me. I remind myself that a month ago, I would've gladly committed murder to have Marsha Peterman sprawled drunkenly across my lap like this.

  So I sit there, holding Marsha and hoping she doesn't vomit. Other girls walk by Some smile, others scowl at Marsha's lifeless body. I nod to a few people I know from school. Several people comment I must've found my girl.

  Marsha suddenly comes to life and I brace myself for an indignant reaction. I imagine her slapping me across the face, accusing me of pawing her while she was helpless, reminding me I brought up a painful trout memory for her.

  Instead, she leans forward and puckers her lips.

  She wants to kiss me.

  For seventeen years, no girl has ever gotten close to my face. Now two girls in the same month have wanted to kiss me.

  But do I really want my very first kiss to be with a drunk girl with beer breath?

  On the other hand, this is my chance to redeem myself. To do what I couldn't do with Rhonda Wharton.

  I know who I want my first kiss to be. But that's as likely to happen tonight as traveling to Mars.

  I have to kiss a girl sometime. Why not Marsha? Why shouldn't she be my first?

  I don't really know what I'm doing, but I guess some kind of instinct takes over. I close my eyes, lean forward, and kiss Marsha. She tightens her arms around my neck and the next thing I know, we're energetically sucking face. I get so into it I forget we're at a party with people around. The kiss goes on and on, and Marsha makes adorable moaning noises that I hope mean she likes what I'm doing. I don't want to stop, and I guess Marsha doesn't either, because we don't pull apart until it's clear we both need oxygen.

  Kissing is awesome!

  It's too bad it took me this long to find that out. I feel like there should be trumpets and fireworks and marching bands. I can't believe I've finally kissed a girl.

  Marsha gazes at me with wonder in her eyes. Could it be I did something right for a change? What's she thinking? Will she even remember this tomorrow?

  "Oh, Reed," she sighs. "That was . . ."

  Nice? Not nice?

  Good? Bad?

  Great? Terrible?

  But she doesn't finish. Instead, she leans in for more.

  Well, at least she knows who I am. We kiss a second time, and this time, it lasts even longer.

  When we finally come up for air, I notice I have an audience.

  Lonnie's standing in the doorway with Deena on his arm.

  He gives me a thumbs-up sign.

  Rhonda Wharton's across the room with her eyes narrowed at me.

  The bouncy redhead, surrounded by other bouncy-looking girls, nods at me knowingly.

  And Ronnie, with Jonathan behind her, is watching me from the other side of the room with an expression that makes me gulp.

  Confusion?

  Envy?

  No. It's got to be my imagination.

  It's got to be.

  Still, I wish I could take it all back. And start over.

  New Jersey: You've Seen It

  Now Go Home

  Exit 7

  1. Would you kiss someone with beer breath?

  2. What would you do if a guy asked you out like this: 'Movie or dinner with me Saturday night'?

  3. Should guys pay?

  4. If a guy doesn't kiss you on your first date, what does that mean?

  5. Should girls ask out guys?

  "So, it was pretty outta sight, huh?"

  I wish Ronnie would drop it, but all she's wanted to talk about is my first kiss with Marsha Peterman, which ended up being more like eighteen first kisses. Marsha kept wanting more and more of it—the girl was insatiable!—so I kept giving it to her. It was awesome. I even forgot about the audience—including Ronnie. And in the end, Lonnie had to wait for me.

  But I don't want to talk about it with Ronnie now. We're in her room the day after Samantha Spinner's party. Connie, Ronnie's white girl cat, is in her lap. Johnnie, the black guy cat, is in mine. We're cross-legged on the carpet, leaning against the wall, with both felines purring away.

  "The beer breath was kind of tough," I say.

  "Breath mints, Reed."

  "What was I supposed to do—shove one in her mouth?"

  "Why not? Anyway, the next time you kiss her, I'm sure she'll be minty fresh."

  "The next time?"

  "Yeah. Aren't you gonna ask her out?"

  "I'm not sure," I say.

  She sighs. "Oh, you're not one of those people, are you, Reed?"

  "What people?"

  "The kind of people your parents see in therapy. The kind of people who like somebody—until that person likes them back."

  "No, it's not that."

  "Then what is it?"

  I take a deep breath. "I think I like someone else."

  "Who?"

  When I don't reply, she asks, "What—is it a secret?" Connie jumps out of her lap, and Ronnie crawls toward me. "Tell me, or face the consequences, Reed."

  I grin at her.

  "Okay, you asked for it." She starts tickling me.

  I tickle her back and soon we're laughing and rolling around the carpet together.

  We've wrestled since we were kids, so this isn't especially out-of-the-ordinary behavior. I wish I could show her things are different now, though. I start to kiss her neck amorously, but it's no good. This is brave of me, and under different circumstances, it might have clearly signaled my feelings. But because it comes on the heels of our wrestling, it feels playful rather than romantic. Ronnie giggles and bats me away.

  If I could just kiss her for real, kiss her like I did Marsha Peterman, there'd be no doubt in her mind. But she pushes me off, gets to her feet, and says, "Jonathan'll be here any minute."

  Why does this keep happening to me?

  . . .

  I pick up Lonnie later that afternoon at his job at McDonald's and we go to the Freehold Raceway Mall. Ronnie has the day off and she's out with her pet gorilla, uh, Jonathan.

  Even in grease and crud, Lonnie manages to look cool. I wait as he changes from his uniform into his clothes in the bathroom. He seems agitated as we head outside and get in my car.

  "Rumors are flying," he says grimly.

  "You and Deena?" I ask, pulling out of the parking lot.

  "No, that's a given."

  "You guys back together?"

  "Yeah."

  "So what rumors?"

  He looks at me with a small smile. I take my eyes off the road and gaze back at him. "Me?"

  "Yup."

  "Me and Marsha?" I guess this isn't surprising, considering we made out nonstop on the sofa the whole night.

  "Nope."

  Now I'm confused.

  "Not who, Reed, what."

  "What?" I repeat stupidly.

  He leans back. 'Apparently, Marsha Peterman is one satisfied babe."

  "What?" I say again.

  Hold on. She was the one who'd had a few drinks, not me. What's she been telling everybody? Does she think something happened that didn't? What does she think I did to her? All I did
was kiss her!

  Lonnie's grinning from ear to ear. He's stretching this out for as long as he can. I wish he'd come out with it, but I know one thing. It's gotta be okay. If it was serious or bad, he'd never string me along like this—he'd never torture me. So, I let him have his fun.

  "Whenever you're ready, buddy, I'm all ears."

  He keeps grinning.

  'Anytime during this century"

  Now he's laughing. He suddenly punches me in the shoulder, hard, but not for real.

  "Ooof" I yelp, not ready for it.

  "You, sir, are a 'phenomenal kisser.'"

  The double-yellow lines on the road blur in front of me. Huh?

  He turns to face me. "You're a 'phenomenal kisser,' dude! Marsha's been telling the whole world how much she loved getting to know your talented mouth. She says you are—and I'm quoting the girl directly—'phenomenal.'"

  "What are you talking about?" I demand.

  He shakes his head. "I've been at this since third grade, Reed, you know that, and I've never gotten a rap like this." He shakes a fist at me. "Do you know how lucky you are? Kissing's the golden goosel" He punches me again, but not as hard. "You're a natural at this. You're a champ! It's, like, a hidden talent or something, waiting to come out, all these years. You know?"

  I'm speechless. I'm actually good at something that has to do with girls?

  Who knew?

  Kissing Marsha was definitely awesome for me, but it never, ever occurred to me that it might be awesome for her too.

  We reach the mall. Lonnie looks depressed as we exit the car. "You think you could give your old pal a few pointers on the Reed Technique?"

  I burst out laughing. This is too much! Me? Instruct him?

  "This is weird," I say. And it is.

  Now Lonnie looks thoughtful. "Think about it, Reed. You did it by yourself. No tip list. No script. No textbook. No class.

  You did it. And, apparently, you've found your niche, my man. You could have a whole new career ahead of you. Reed Walton—Kissing Genius."

  I laugh again. He's right—I did do it myself. And . . . somehow I managed to get it right. More than right!

  "So what now?" I ask as we enter the mall.

  "Practice makes perfect," Lonnie says, giving me a wink. "Start with Marsha, then conquer the world." He gets serious. 'Are you seeing her again?"

  "I don't know."

  He looks confused. "I thought you liked her."

  "Yeah, but . . . " I consider telling him, but change my mind. This is dangerous. We've never talked about it, and the truth is, I don't know how Lonnie would react to me telling him I have a huge thing for his sister.

  Would he be okay with it?

  Was it something he already suspected?

  Would he beat me up?

  "Who're you going to ask to the Fall Dance?" he asks, then whistles low. "You have your pick now!"

  The Fall Dance is the first senior dance of the new semester. It's a big deal.

  "I don't know."

  "Marsha would go with you."

  "Because of my kissing skills?"

  He looks at me strangely. "What's going on, Reed?"

  We pass the pet store. Before I can reply, I hear my name called. We both turn to see Rhonda Wharton waving at us.

  Lonnie nods at me. "Later, dude."

  "What—you're leaving?"

  He looks at me like I'm a simpleton. "That's right, genius boy You got company."

  "But how will you get home?"

  Now he looks positively nauseated. "You're killing me, buddy. Focus on the girl, will ya? I'll take a bus." He walks away, shaking his head at my maddening dorkliness.

  Rhonda motions me over. I shuffle over to her, my mind reeling. We watch a bunch of brown puppies tumble over each other in the store window.

  'Aren't they adorable?" she asks, scooting closer to me.

  "Yeah," I mutter.

  "Gives you the warm fuzzies, doesn't it?" she goes on, turning to face me.

  "Yeah."

  'Almost makes you want to kiss somebody, doesn't it?" she continues, tipping her face upward.

  "Yeah."

  "Maybe even the person next to you . . ."

  "Yeah?"

  I turn my head and Rhonda leans forward and kisses me.

  Just. Like. That.

  My mouth knows what to do, but my brain's discombobulated.

  My mouth is sending these signals: "Isn't this cool?"

  My brain is responding with these signals: "What is the meaning of this? Need data! Cannot process!"

  I can't believe this is happening. I'm kissing another girl. The next day! And it's Rhonda Wharton—a girl I've been drooling over since I was twelve—a girl I botched a previous kiss with. I'm getting a second chance. She practically attacked me!

  Is this the way things are going to be from now on? Are girls going to grab me off the street and kiss me? Lonnie was right about kissing being the golden goose. Girls adore it. Is my luck changing—finally?

  The kiss seems to last forever. Rhonda and I are all wrapped up in each otlier's arms—though I have no idea how we got that way—and it's awesome. Just like the kisses with Marsha. When it's finally over, Rhonda smiles and says, "Wow—Marsha was right!"

  This makes me feel lousy. Maybe this isn't what I want, after all. Step right up to Marlborough's Official Kissing Booth? Kisses with Reed for a buck? I know a guy shouldn't complain about girls pulling him aside to test-drive his kissing expertise, but the more I think about it, the more I decide I don't want to be just a big walking mouth.

  Rhonda must sense I'm having a problem with this, because she says softly, "I thought. . . I thought you wanted me to do that. I thought you liked me. I thought you always liked me.

  I guess not. I don't usually make out with boys in malls. I wouldn't have done that. . . It's not like . . . " Her eyes get misty.

  For crying out loud!

  I've gone from King of the Dorks to Heartbreak Hotel!

  In one month!

  "I like you," I say.

  "You do?" She perks up.

  "Urn, yeah, It's just. . . well . . . the thing is . . ."

  She bites her lip. "You don't like me."

  I wish I could tell her the truth. I wish I could tell all these suddenly interested girls the truth:

  Yes, Rhonda, you're right. I always liked you. When I was a freshman, I thought you were one of the most beautiful girls in school and I would've happily sold a kidney to do what we did now. But you wouldn't even look at me. You made me feel creepier than a cockroach.

  So now that I've changed—even though I haven't—and acquired some weird sheen of hype and fame and coolness and kissability, you're suddenly into me? Where were you when I needed you? Why didn't you kiss me four years ago?

  Why didn't you kiss me last year? Why didn't you give me a chance until today?

  "It's okay," she says quietly. "I just hoped . . . I know you want a girlfriend . . . I thought I could be . . ." She doesn't finish. Instead, she walks away. No, runs away.

  I take a few steps in her direction, then change my mind. Her reaction makes me feel lower than something stuck to the bottom of someone's shoe, but I don't want to go after her. Rhonda's a dream girl, but, well, I'm too mixed-up right now to think straight.

  Lonnie will string me up by my ankles for this.

  I think about looking for him, but instead, I leave.

  . . .

  I'm not sure where I'm going. I'm gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white. I find myself at the Woodrow Wilson Basketball Courts at the George Washington Municipal Park. And the girl's there. I sit in the car and watch her.

  "I don't even know you," I say out loud in the car. "But for some reason, I always end up here." I frown. "This drop-dead gorgeous girl, Rhonda, just stopped me in the mall to kiss me!

  I think she wants to be my girlfriend! Can you believe that? Me! It's crazy! We've had lockers next to each other since we were twelve, but if not fo
r that, she wouldn't even know my name. I spent most of the last four years trying not to stare at her, but she barely looked my way the whole time. And then, a few weeks ago, she decides I'm okay, after all, and a few minutes ago, she jumps me in front of the pet store! Not that it wasn't totally incredible, but, I mean, what's going on? Are the planets aligned or something?"

  I frown for the second time. "See, the thing is, I'm crazy about this girl I grew up with. She's amazing. She's always been my best friend—she's never made me feel bad about myself—even when I was overflowing with massive dork cooties. But she's got a boyfriend—a big, hairy, baboonlike boyfriend. She doesn't know how I feel about her and I'm too chicken to tell her, anyway."

  I frown for the third time. "Before this year, I'd only asked out one girl in my entire life, Marsha, in my freshman year. I don't know why—I must have been postal." I shake my head, remembering. "I knew her class schedule by heart. I tried for five weeks to run into her, pretend I was in the hallway at the same time she was, and it finally happened between her American Government and French classes, and somehow I managed to get it out, even though there was a hole burning in my stomach . . . and she laughed in my face.

  "And now, Marsha's telling everybody how much she likes my kissing. I spent a whole night kissing her because she basically wouldn't let me stop. But none of these girls care that I existed before—except Ronnie. I was, like, a nobody for seventeen years, and all of a sudden, I'm a somebody." My eyes sting. "Why didn't anybody want to kiss me before now? I would've probably kissed the same way. Because I was a few inches shorter? Because I didn't have a car? Because I wore really thick glasses? Because I didn't have a Web site? How can things like that matter so much?"

  I pause for a long time. "Ronnie's the one I want to be with." I stare down at my lap, then at the girl. "What do you think I should do?"

  But the only reply I get is the sound of her ball pounding on the court. It seems to say: