The Girlfriend Project (12 page)

I turn to her. "I want you to do whatever you want. As long as you replace Jonathan with me."

She laughs. "Done."

We're quiet for a little while.

"What about Lonnie?" I ask at last.

She looks at me. "What about him?"

"He's your brother."

"You think?"

I smile, but ask seriously, "Is he going to beat me up?"

"Maybe. What about Marsha?"

"What about her?" I ask.

"Definitely," I reply with a laugh.

She sighs. "You're leaving behind a long trail of broken hearts, you know."

"I can't believe that," I murmur. "I can't believe any of this."

If someone had told me last summer that girls like Marsha Peterman, Rhonda Wharton, and Ronnie White would be clawing one
another to get me, I'd tell them they were smoking some mean banana peels.

I frown. "Marsha Peterman didn't think I was a great guy." This sounds bitter and whiny, but I don't care.

"Marsha Peterman is one girl!" Ronnie yells. 'And, I might add, in case you haven't noticed, this same Marsha Peterman is
desperately in love with you now."

"Desperately in love with my mouth, maybe."

"One."

'And that was?"

"Marsha Peterman."

"I rest my case."

We reach the restaurant and I park the car.

Ronnie says, "Maybe, if you'd asked out other girls, you'd have an argument. But you didn't, so I suggest you shut up and
kiss me. And don't stop till I tell you to. I want some serious lip action from the world's greatest kisser and I want it
now."

I lean over and do as I'm told.

"I wish you'd kissed me earlier, Reed," Ronnie says, pulling me down to the sand.

"I'm glad you like it," I whisper.

"You are so great, Reed," she sighs. "But you don't think you are. You're like New Jersey—like that contest your grandmother's
trying to win. But, then, you've always been the Ultimate Jersey Guy."

I lift up my head in surprise. 'Are you a mind reader or something? Did you have a microchip implanted in my brain?"

"It's my brain," she says, placing her hands on my head. "Everything—all of this—is mine, mine, mine."

"Yours, yours, yours," I say.

When we finally get back in the afternoon, Lonnie's sitting on his stoop looking extremely pissed off.

"Where have you guys been?" he asks, exactly like a parent would. "I wake up and it's like the day after the apocalypse. There's
nobody around, I'm all by myself, nobody cares. Where'd you go? Couldn't you wait for me?"

"Chill, Lonnie," Ronnie says gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry we left like that. I'll make you a great big
sandwich oozing with ketchup, okay?" She bends down next to him. "Come on, big guy, give me a smile."

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.

"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."

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.

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:

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.

Reed Walton? Come in, Reed Walton!

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."

"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."

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 shoulder, 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:

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?

I'd only asked out Marsha.

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.

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:

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