The Girlfriend Project (3 page)

"New Jersey," Grandma retorts, "We Have Farms Too."

"New Jersey," I finish up, "Turn Signals Are for Wimps."

Grandma lets out a laugh. "Oh, that's a good one," she says, and begins typing. "I may have to share credit with you!" She
turns to look at me. "My goodness, Reed, is there anything you're not good at?"

I stiffen, but cover it up. "I can't speak Mongolian to save my life."

Grandma laughs again. "Reed, you are precious."

Precious.

It beats loser, I guess.

When Grandma's done working on her laptop, I help her set the table for dinner like I do every night.

"New Jersey," she says as she lays down silverware, "The Beach, the Boss, the Best."

"New Jersey," I reply as I set down plates, "Come Here and Spend Money or We'll Break Your Legs."

Dad sweeps into the kitchen, carrying a stack of books and looking lost.

"Has anyone seen my reading glasses?" he asks.

"I see them on your head," I say.

Dad reaches one hand up and pulls his glasses over his face. "The old noggin's getting rusty," he says with a sigh. "Isn't
what it used to be, my boy, isn't as young and sharp as yours."

"Well, naturally," I say. "It takes an absolute genius to spot glasses on top of someone's head."

Mom comes in and kisses my cheek. "How was your first day of school, hon?"

"Fine," I say with a shrug, setting down Grandma's beef brisket with mashed potatoes. I definitely don't want to get into
any of it.

Mom takes her seat. "I'm sure you'll do great like you always do." She smiles at me. "You're our problem-free, hassle-free,
no-maintenance kid."

Dad nods, bringing the peas to the table and taking his seat next to Mom. "Your mother's right. You practically raised yourself,
you know."

"Nah, you guys just got lazy after Christine." I help my grandmother into her chair and take my seat.

They laugh. "Well, she was a terror compared to you," Mom says.

I feel more pathetic than usual. My older sister was the kind of teenage nightmare responsible for parental ulcers—stumbling
home after curfew, partying, throwing temper tantrums, smashing vases against walls, yelling, screaming, providing nonstop
drama.

The worst thing I ever did was spill red grape juice on my pants on Picture Day in seventh grade.

"Speaking of Christine, she needs your babysitting services this Saturday night," Mom says as we dig into Grandma's dinner.

I don't mind babysitting my nieces and nephews. But my parents assuming they have a standing right to impose on my Saturday
nights shows just how pathetic I really am.

"Okay," I mumble, then wonder why they don't ask Grandma instead.

"Leo asked me to the Moon River Dance this Saturday night at the Moose Lodge," Grandma says, providing the answer.

Mom and Dad beam at her.

Grandma turns to me. "New Jersey," she says, 'A Nice Place to Visit, But You Can't Afford to Live Here."

My heart's not in it, but I manage: "New Jersey: You Got a Problem with That?"

Everybody laughs, but I'm quiet for the rest of dinner. I go up to my room afterward and sit on my bed with my laptop. I get
a message from Lonnie.

It's beyond ironic that a dork like me has a car while a player like Lonnie doesn't. Usually he uses the family Camry. I type
a message back.

Right?

I pretend not to notice. She flings open her locker right into my forehead.

Did she do that on purpose?

"Oh, Reed, I'm sorry!" she cries, but she doesn't look very sorry.

"It's okay," I reply, rubbing the spot. 'At least I'm awake now."

The corners of her mouth turn up slightly. She's holding back a smile.

I want to say something to her, but I don't know what. I'm too afraid of letting loose another stream of consciousness involving
coconut and trout—and who knows what other fish and tropical fruit.

I see Marsha Peterman in the hall later that day too, but she ignores me completely.

Do I need this aggravation?

On the other hand, do I want to spend the rest of my senior year babysitting my nieces and nephews every Saturday night?

Being scared all the time is pretty exhausting. But it beats the alternative.

Or does it?

I mean, Marsha Peterman was a brutal experience four years ago. Do I want to repeat it or not?

I wish the answer came as easily as calculus does. But rocket science is simple compared to this.

After school, I head to my job at the Marlborough Free Public Library. Yeah, I realize how perfectly this line of employment
goes with my flawlessly dorky image. But it's actually a cool job. Ronnie and Lonnie both work at McDonald's, and they have
to perform truly cruddy work like mopping up puke in the bathrooms, wiping down greasy French-fry machines, and sweating over
a hot burger grill. All I have to do is handle books. No grease, no puke, and the pay isn't bad.

My parents got me my Range Rover as a birthday present, but I have to pay for my own insurance and gas. Just for the record,
New Jersey has the highest car insurance rates, and the lowest gas prices, in the country. We also have the highest property
taxes, the highest cost of living, and the lowest unemployment rates.

I've had my library job since I was sixteen. My official title is "page," which sounds truly pathetic, but all that means
is that I put books back on the shelves where they belong, check out books for people at the circulation desk, and act as
a general gopher for the ravenous reference librarians, which means going out on Dunkin' Donuts latte-and-Munchkin runs three
times a day.

When I get there, Janet Pederson, the other page, is behind the circulation desk. She does a double take when she sees me.

"Who're you?" she asks. "And what have you done with Reed Walton? Stuffed him into some goomba's car trunk in Camden?"

"Hey, Janet," I answer with a grin. "Welcome to Reed Walton, the Updated Version."

She smiles. "I go away for the summer to make lanyards with snot-nosed brats in the Poconos, come back, and find out I'm working
with a stud."

I know I've gone from dork to human being—zero to five. But zero to ten?

"Well," I say casually, "this must be your lucky day."

Janet smiles even wider. "This is definitely true," she answers.

What is this most unusual situation? Is Janet Pederson flirting with me? I cock my head to one side. I've known Janet since
both of us started working at the library last year. She goes to my school, but we don't hang out together or anything. She's
cute, actually. I've never been tongue-tied around her before, but I feel a brain freeze coming. Thankfully, Ronnie strolls
into the library at that exact moment, saving me from another coconut-trout moment. She rushes over and Janet scowls.

"I wanted to drop this off, Reed," she says breathlessly, handing me a manila envelope.

She touches my arm and again Janet makes a face.

This is getting interesting.

"I gotta get to work," Ronnie says. And, just like that, Ronnie flutters off, leaving me holding the mysterious manila envelope,

Janet smirks at it. "Love letters? Erotic poetry? Marriage proposal?"

"All of the above," I say mischievously. "I've got an official fan club now."

"Really? Do you need a recording secretary? I do great PowerPoint."

This is making me nervous.

I mumble something resembling an excuse/apology, flee the scene, and hurry into the coatroom. Besides, I want to see what
Ronnie just gave me. I'll figure out things with Janet later, when I'm thinking straight.

The coatroom's quiet and empty. I lean against the wall and open Ronnie's envelope, trying to forget Janet's astonishing words.
I exhale sharply, because what I pull out of Ronnie's envelope is a sheet of paper with this typed at the top:

I start reading.

3. Make small talk. Say, "How's it goin'?" Hang loose. Chill.

I think of Janet.

I take a deep breath.

I run out of the coatroom.

"Want to go out next Saturday?"

Once it's out of my mouth, it sounds abrupt and strange. Maybe I should've made small talk. Maybe I should've stuck to the
list.

Janet, however, seems fine with it. "Sure, Reed," she says shyly.

It activates the brain freeze, but I fight it long enough to get her number.

Then I remember Lonnie's Number 6 warning:

"Oh, no! I'm sorry!"

I bend down to help her pick them up. She bends down next to me. Our faces are so close I can see my reflection in her eyes.
It leaves me breathless. And, whatever it is she's wearing, her belly is on display, and it's the most beautiful thing I've
ever seen.

Something comes over me. I blurt out, "Movie or dinner with me next Friday?"

"Movie," she replies seductively.

Do they give it any thought at all?

Does it even occur to them?

It reminds me of the time I almost died.

Last summer, Ronnie, Lonnie, and I were down the Shore in Manasquan on one of those perfect beach days.

The lifeguards had hung little triangle-shaped flags everywhere, warning people of dangerous riptides. This expression of
caution, of course, only has the effect of switching on the macho gene all guys possess in their DNA.

"Not so far out, guys," Ronnie protested as the three of us splashed into the water.

"It isn't too bad," Lonnie said, but I could tell he was as freaked as I was.

We're all strong swimmers, but I could definitely feel powerful forces in the ocean tugging at me from all directions. Don't
take your eye off the waves—not even for a second—I ordered myself.

And that was the exact moment a gorgeous girl in a tiny red bikini popped out of the water like a sensuous mermaid.

"Reed! Reed!" Ronnie shouted. "Watch out! Watch out!"

A wall of water broke over me with such ferocity I could feel my fillings rattle. Next thing I knew, I was being pulverized.

And all because of some mermaid-babe in a tiny red bikini!

Somehow, Ronnie managed to pull me out of the surf.

I couldn't say a single word, much less look at her, for two days afterward.

It was almost a week before I was able to get out the words to thank her.

"I owe you big-time, Ronnie."

That's the kind of friend she is.

After the mysterious, sexy girl in the library agreed to a movie, I stuck out my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Reed." I immediately
felt ridiculous, offering her my hand like that as if we were accountants meeting at a tax conference in Orlando.

But the girl took my hand, and instead of shaking it, she held it. "I'm Sarah," she purred.

I'd asked out two girls—in one day—within a span of five minutes.

I'd used two methods. Lonnie's "trick" question and Ronnie's straight-ahead question. Both had worked.

But what had I learned from these experiences?

Which question was the better question?

Which way was the better way?

It's like I'm at the beginning again. I'm right where I started. I succeeded, but I'm still clueless. I somehow arranged two
dates with two girls, but I have no idea how I did it.

I'm not used to this.

In the world I inhabit, things aren't this mystical. Multiple-choice questions on standardized tests have one right answer.
Calculus has one right answer. Physics has one right answer. Chemistry has one right answer.

Science is science.

Things add up. Things make sense.

I can't make sense of this at all.

Grandma thinks there's nothing I'm not good at.

But the truth is, if it isn't in a textbook, I'm not good at it.

This is depressing. But my sister doesn't notice my mood when I let myself into her house and make my presence known.

My nieces and nephews hurl themselves down the stairs, pile on top of me, and pull me down to the carpet. There are four of
them—two girls, two boys—all under the age of eight.

"I lost a tooth!"

"My new dolly poops!"

"I made it to Level Eight today!"

"Can I have three pieces of cake, and three slices of pizza, and three glasses of milk?"

You gotta say one thing about kids. They sure give you a lot of attention.

Christine smiles as she watches them climb all over me.

"They're crazy about you," she says.

"Well, see, I bribe them," I answer. "I have Tootsie Rolls in my pockets."

Christine's husband, Roger, appears beside her, slipping his arm around her waist and looking pleased with himself. It occurs
to me that Roger was once my sister's boyfriend, that the two of them dated before getting married. But they've been married
since I was seven, so I've never thought of the guy as anything but a husband and provider.

"What's good, yo?" Roger asks.

Talk about wack. Adults using slang to look cool. I could reply, "We straight, dawg, jus' chillin'." But that would make me
sound as stupid as him.

"Where are you two lovebirds going?" I ask. I mean this as a joke, but Christine giggles, and for some reason, this depresses
me even more.

"Dinner and dancing," she says.

'And more," Roger teases.

Lonnie's got a hot date—he's probably swapping spit with her in my backseat right now—my grandmother's got a hot date, Ronnie's
probably out with Jonathan, even my parents said they were going out tonight.