The Girlfriend Project Read online

  "Reed—Reed—Reed—Reed."

  "You're—killing—me."

  . . .

  When I get home, I find Mom in the kitchen, making a big pot of vegetable soup.

  "Grandma's out with Leo," she sings. "Isn't that sweet? Just goes to show you there's never a wrong time for romance."

  It must be my face, because Mom asks, "What's wrong, hon? What is it?"

  "Nothing," I say automatically.

  "Oh, Reed, something's wrong," she says. "Here, sit down."

  I let her lead me to a chair at the kitchen table and she sits down next to me. I'm transported all of a sudden back to first grade, coming home from school, sitting in the kitchen with her, eating celery sticks slathered with peanut butter, telling her all about my day. I never spared a single detail—I even memorized the school lunch menu every day so I could report it back to her—and Mom always listened raptly and with absolute fascination, as if we were having the most riveting conversation in the world.

  When did those days end? How come I stopped talking to her? Why didn't I tell her about my day anymore?

  "What's the matter, sweetie?" she asks softly. "You look so sad."

  "I'm not sad," I lie, looking away.

  She waits a minute. "Well, all right," she finally says, getting up. "If you say so."

  She doesn't say this with impatience and I know she's just giving me my space. Or maybe she's like my dad, using her therapist's skills to try and pull it out of me.

  I don't say anything, but I don't get up either. I sit and watch her chop onions at the counter. Her eyes get all teary.

  She wipes them with a paper towel.

  "Funny, isn't it? You'd think I was upset, if you didn't know about onions. I guess people can seem upset even when they're not."

  I look away, then back. "Why is life so messed up?"

  She's back at the table in two seconds flat. "Life, Reed?

  What's the matter? What's messed up?"

  I hesitate. "Nothing," I finally mumble.

  She waits. "All right, Reed, you know where to find me if you need me. Okay?"

  "Okay," I say.

  I sit there a little while longer, brooding, trying to decide whether I want to talk or not, then I give up and go to my room.

  . . .

  But Mom wastes no time in summoning the troops. Because when Grandma gets back from her date with Leo, the first thing she does is call me downstairs.

  "I need your help, Reed, I'm desperate. I need a good pair of hands that know how to work with bread dough."

  I play along. I roll up my sleeves and put up my hands for her inspection. "How are these?" I ask. "Will these do?" She pretends to examine them. "You know, I think they're perfect."

  We prepare a batch of rye bread dough and knead it side by side at the counter. Grandma has always liked me to help her with her baking. I'm sure I'm the only guy in school who can make pineapple upside-down cake from scratch.

  Grandma observes my technique. "Oh, you're good, Reed, you're very good. When you were three years old, you know, you marched in here and demanded to learn how to bake. You wouldn't take no for an answer. You said, Tm going to be the world's best egg-cracker, Grandma.'"

  I let out a laugh. "I said that?"

  "Oh, yes," she replies. "You were a take-charge kind of three-year-old. Defeat wasn't in your vocabulary."

  Huh. I was more cool when I was three years old than I am now.

  Grandma seems to sense my feelings, because she goes on. "You're the same way now, you know, persistent and unbeatable. That's why you've done so well."

  Grandma's right.

  I've been pummeling myself nonstop, telling myself what a loser I am, but the truth really is . . . I Am Making Progress!

  I mean, I kissed two girls in two days!

  I'm a "phenomenal kisser"!

  Girls like me. They want to kiss me.

  I may have screwed up nonstop too—and I still don't have what I really want—but I'm getting there, slowly, painfully, in baby steps, forward, not backward.

  By the time our fresh-baked rye bread comes out of the oven, I'm feeling better.

  Things may not be all that great, but it's hard not to be happy when you're eating warm, homemade bread that you kneaded with your grandmother.

  New Jersy: You're the One

  with the Accent

  Exit 8

  1. Would you kiss someone with beer breath?

  HotStud: beer breath, coffee breath, dog turd breath, who cares?

  greenfrog: if i had beer breath 2 Ik when u both have curry

  sk8erboy: if he was my bf yes but just some guy w/ beer breath no!

  BabeHunter: guys make out w/ anybody w/ any kind of breath

  The Duke: if i was wasted

  monsterll: breath mints!

  flowering garlic: if it was reed! but i'm sure his breath would always be nice

  DirtyGirl: if it was johnny depp

  FallenAngel: stink-bomb beer breath? how bad we talking?

  wicked: if ur going 2 a party where peeps are drinking beer they're going 2 have beer breath

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

  DirtyGirl: cute trick

  monsterll: dinner at best place in town!

  greenfrog: both he he he

  chiefcool: GR8 also pathetic

  wicked: kewl

  wrsssatty: movie so u don't have 2 talk

  all star: dinner so u can talk

  flowering garlic: amazing the lengths guys go 4 a d8. girls reject them 2 much

  3. Should guys pay?

  DirtyGirl: not every d8

  greenfrog: the 1st time

  sk8erboy: all the time

  HotStud: what happened 2 feminism?

  BabeHunter: guys should pay so when they're grabbing babes after they can say hey! I paid!

  flowering garlic: y does the poor guy have 2 go broke?

  Mightyviking: seriously dating can get $$$$

  LonerWolf: can't girls help out a little?

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

  all star: welcome splitsville population u

  monsterll: d'oh!

  BabeHunter: he could be shy or scared or grossed out

  el sexy: beer breath!

  Mightyviking: ur toast

  HotStud: guys are horndawgs. if a guy doesn't make out there's something seriously wrong Ik alien fangs popping out & stuff

  5. Should girls ask out guys?

  DirtyGirl: woohoo!

  sk8erboy: guys would Ik that

  HotStud: hello feminism? hello 21st century? hello equality? hello double standard? hello guys doin all the work?

  all star: I guess its ok

  monsterll: d'oh!

  flowering garlic: i don't but I'm not goin to tell other girls they can't

  BabeHunter: babes ask me out. If they're hot i go out w/them if not don't, kapeesh?

  And in the comments section:

  DirtyGirl: did u pick marsha reed?

  all star: u & marsha lookd pretty happy at samantha's party

  flowering garlic: why didn't u pick me reed? i didn't have beer breath, i would've kissed u all nite long 2. you're a hot-tie! & i hear ur really nice.

  HotStud: hey, reed, mind if i lap up all ur leftovers? ur just lookin 4 1 girl rite? why let all the babe-licious beauties go 2 waste? ill give them good home, don't u worry.

  The posts are even better this time. I feel like I'm getting to know everybody. HotStud's obviously demented, but everybody else is cool. Especially flowering garlic. Who is she? Why does she like me so much? Do I know her?

  "HotStud's pretty funny—in an extremely disturbed way," I say.

  "Yeah," Ronnie replies absently.

  We're on my Amish rug in front of my laptop, but Ronnie's staring blankly across the room.

  "Is something wrong?" I ask her.

  She shoots me a look of pure, uncensored re
vulsion. It totally startles me.

  'Are you mad at me, Ronnie?" I ask. "What is it? What'd I do?"

  What happens next is a time bomb. I set it off and it explodes in my face.

  "Nobody's good enough for you, Reed!" Ronnie shouts, jumping to her feet. "Lonnie's been right all along—you're so pickyl" She indicates my laptop. "I've been working my butt off to help you, and these girls are falling all over themselves to get to you, and you haven't contacted any of them!"

  "Ronnie . . . ," I say, getting to my feet and reaching for her, but she whirls away from me.

  "You were madly in love with Marsha Peterman for four years—and now she's begging you to go out with her! And Rhonda Wharton would go out with you in a minute! And they're not 'dogs'"—she wiggles her fingers to indicate quotation marks—"but you couldn't care less!"

  "Ronnie . . . ," I say, reaching for her again, but this time she recoils from me as if I've hurt her.

  "You said you wanted a girlfriend!" she goes on, and her voice breaks. "Well, I'm sorry none of us are brilliant like you! I'm sorry none of us are going to Princeton!"

  "It's not that," I say desperately. "I swear, Ronnie, I don't care about that."

  She puts her hands on her hips. "Well, what is it then, Reed?"

  I swallow hard. "I . . . I like somebody else."

  "Oh, right, Reed, your perfect mystery girl."

  "She's not a mystery girl," I say quietly.

  "Name her."

  I look away.

  "You're lying, Reed."

  "No . . ."

  "You think this is funny?"

  "Ronnie, please . . ."

  She sniffles. "You just don't care."

  I throw my arms around her, but she breaks away with such ferocity it makes me take a step backward.

  "You're doing this on purpose."

  "No!"

  She narrows her eyes at me. "For—the—last—time. Who is it?"

  "It's . . . It's . . ."

  Have you ever struggled to reach for something that's just out of range of your fingers? That's how I feel at that moment. I'm stretching myself as hard as possible to get to it, and I think I may almost have it in my grip, when Ronnie snarls, "I always thought it was because you were shy, Reed, but I was wrong." She pauses, then hisses, "You think you're better than everyone else."

  "No," I whisper.

  "I'm sick of you, Reed."

  And she stomps out.

  . . .

  Is this what people have been thinking all this time? That I'm stuck up? Snobby? Better than them?

  Talk about an image problem.

  How can my best friend—a person I've known since I was five, a person I thought knew me better than anyone else—think that about me?

  I feel like throwing up.

  For the past hour, I've been sitting on the floor cradling my pounding head in my hands. I finally open my laptop.

  Screaming Eagle: please don't be mad at me

  Screaming Eagle: i'm sorry i'm such a dope

  Screaming Eagle

  Screaming Eagle: i know you're only trying to help me

  Screaming Eagle: please talk to me

  Screaming Eagle: i'm on my knees as i write this

  Screaming Eagle: now I'm prostrate on the floor

  Screaming Eagle: if i get any lower i'll be eating floor wax

  Screaming Eagle: i beg you for forgiveness

  Screaming Eagle: i throw myself at your mercy

  Screaming Eagle: i don't think i'm better than you

  Screaming Eagle: hello?

  Screaming Eagle: anybody home?

  Screaming Eagle: i thought my best friend lived here?

  Screaming Eagle: ronnie?

  Screaming Eagle: please don't give up on me

  It's not working. She's ignoring me.

  I take a deep breath. Then I type the thing I know will work.

  Screaming Eagle: ill ask marsha to the fall dance tomorrow

  Faerie Charmer: i'll believe it when i see it reed but i'll be the first to cheer

  I stare at her words for a long time. I can't believe I've gotten Ronnie to talk to me by promising her I'd ask another girl to the dance.

  I wish I had a clue how to make this work. I finally confess everything in an e-mail:

  ronnie,

  it's you. you're the mystery girl, you're the one i want

  to take to the dance, you're the one i want to be with,

  you're the one i want to kiss, please tell Jonathan

  (aka Magilla Gorilla) to play in parkway traffic and

  give me a chance instead.

  not better than you or anyone else,

  reed

  But I don't send it.

  I do, however, save it in my DRAFTS folder.

  . . .

  Asking Marsha Peterman to the Fall Dance takes care of itself

  Marsha takes matters into her own hands by cornering me as I come out of AP Chemistry.

  "I'm sorry about the beer breath thing on the Web site, Marsha," I say, figuring that's why she's come to see me. "I'll take it off."

  "Oh, that's okay, I thought it was funny," she says.

  What's this? Marsha Peterman being a good sport?

  I start to move away, figuring I'll do the asking-to-the-dance thing at the end of the day, but Marsha asks, "Reed, um, are you going to the, um, Fall Dance?"

  I stare at her. "Oh, well, actually, I'm glad you asked. . . ."

  "You are?" she says, her face lighting up. "How come? Because you want to . . . ask me?"

  I open my mouth, then close it. She's completely knocked the wind out of my sails.

  "Um, yeah," I say, figuring I'll make it formal for the record anyway. "Would you like to go with me?"

  "Sure, Reed, I'd love to go with you," she answers, smiling. "I can't wait."

  I remember asking her out when we were freshmen. It's been four years, but it feels like it happened an hour ago. I'll never forget her disgusted face, her cruel laugh, her indignant "NO!" As if I'd asked her to lick fresh boogers off the bottoms of my sneakers instead.

  It wasn't just that Marsha rejected me. It was the ruthlessness of her rejection—the viciousness in her face and laugh and UN0!"—the sadism of it. It was the cleat pleasure she took in crushing me—the obvious nerve she felt that a dork like me had dared to show, asking out a goddess like her.

  Well, Marsha's face is completely different now—she's thrilled to be going to the Fall Dance with me—she practically asked me.

  I can't believe I spent an entire night making out with her. A girl who sliced me to shreds. A girl I still wanted four years later. I wonder how Marsha would feel if I shot her down, if I laughed in her face, if I squashed her under my heel.

  I realize I'm different, and not just on the outside. I'm not shuffling my feet, I'm not stuttering, my heart's not pounding in my ears, I'm not blabbering about coconut and trout like I did a month ago at her locker.

  I'm different than I was four years ago.

  I'm different than I was a month ago.

  . . .

  "I can't believe it," Lonnie says. "Wow."

  We're in the school cafeteria and I've just told him about Marsha and the Fall Dance.

  "That girl is hot for you."

  I frown at that, and he catches it.

  "Don't you like her?"

  "Yeah," I say. "It's just. . . what she did to me four years ago."

  "That was brutal," Lonnie says, nodding.

  I'm grateful Lonnie understands this. I mean, I know four years is a pretty long time, and you're probably thinking I should be over it by now. But like most guys, Lonnie gets the concept of a guy carrying a scar-for-life, inflicted by a girl he loved.

  I realize in that moment I'm lucky to have best friends of two genders. Ronnie wouldn't understand this Marsha-rejection thing as well as Lonnie. In fact, she'd probably call me a crybaby (But she'd apologize right afterward.) Yet it's usually much easier to talk to Ronnie about this stuff than L
onnie.

  Speaking of Ronnie, she's nowhere in sight, and I wonder if she's purposely avoiding me.

  "Maybe you shouldn't have asked her," Lonnie says. "Maybe you should've said you'd think about it."

  "I don't know," I say. "That's kind of cruel."

  "Exactly."

  "Nah," I say, shaking my head. "I couldn't do that to her."

  "What about what she did to you, man?"

  I think about it. "Maybe you're right. But it's too late now."

  Lonnie seems thoughtful all of a sudden. "No, you're the one who's right, Reed. That's why you've got all these girls after you. You're a . . . nice guy"

  I think he's teasing me about this, but Lonnie's serious. "Why do I spend so much time making sure I'm not?"

  I don't know if he's addressing this question to me or himself, but I reply, " Not . . . a nice guy?"

  "Yeah," he says, looking suddenly and totally morose.

  I feel like I should give him a real answer. "I guess being nice is kind of. . . dorky," I venture. "Girls like . . . bad boys. So why shouldn't a guy make sure he's not too nice? You should just be yourself, Lonnie."

  "I don't think I can," he answers softly. "I'm not even sure who I am."

  "You'll figure it out," I say.

  I realize this response is horribly inadequate, but I'm not sure what to say. I can't figure it out myself.

  Ronnie suddenly plops down at the table, looking annoyed.

  "Hey, Ronnie," I say nervously.

  "Hey," she replies curtly.

  My stomach twists up. "I asked . . . Marsha to the dance," I say, feeling very weird.

  Ronnie studies me. "That's great, Reed. I'm glad you did."

  Her words are friendly, but her tone isn't, and I wish I could confess everything right then and there. But I can't. The only thing I can manage is, "Will you give me dance lessons so I'm not a total doofus?"