The Girlfriend Project (4 page)

I'm the only guy in the Garden State stuck at home on a Saturday night with a bunch of overexcited, sticky-fingered rugrats.

I remind myself next weekend will be different. Next weekend my life will change.

I'm exhausted. And yet, now that it's quiet and I've got the place to myself, I feel worse than I did before.

I write an e-mail to Ronnie and Lonnie. I describe my history-in-the-making events in the library. Then I bombard them with
questions.

BOTH ur asking-out questions worked!

need answers!

need info!

need nu tip list!

how to go on a date.

hurry!

pronto!

this is an emergency!

send help quickly!

Loser feelings wash over me when I think about the sad fact that I have to ask my friends how to go on a date with a girl.
But, hey, they're experts in the field. Why should I struggle when I can learn from their wisdom and experience?

I spend the rest of the night watching Bogie get the girl, lose the girl, get her again, and lose her again.

"Cinnamon," he says definitively.

"The nose knows," I reply, and lead Lonnie into the kitchen.

'Ah, you're right on time, Lonnie," Grandma says. "I was just about to frost my blue-ribbon cinnamon buns."

Lonnie looks like he's waited his whole life to frost Grandma's blue-ribbon cinnamon buns. Grandma helps him get the hang
of it and the two of them work together at the counter while I watch with amusement from the kitchen table. If only Marlborough
Regional could see this!

When Grandma and Lonnie are done with their frosting work, Grandma gives us each two buns, and we all sit together at the
kitchen table. Grandma opens her laptop.

"Now you have to help me with my mottos," she says.

"I got one," Lonnie says, stuffing an entire bun into his mouth. "New Jersey: What's That Smell?"

Grandma laughs.

I add, "Or how about, New Jersey: You Get Used to the Smell."

Grandma shakes her head. "Poor New Jersey. So loathed and so mocked."

"It's so bad, it's good," I say.

Grandma nods. "True. When you're that self-deprecating, you've reached a healthy self-confidence. Just like real life."

We both look at her blankly.

Grandma continues, "Identity, image, finding yourself. That's what it's about, gents."

While I try to understand this, Lonnie puts in, "We can make fun of it 'cause we live here."

I have a feeling Grandma meant something else entirely, but I don't interrupt Lonnie and neither does Grandma.

"New Jersey is actually kinda cool," Lonnie goes on. "We did invent the pork roll."

Grandma grins. 'And the drive-in theater."

"And the boardwalk," I say.

'And baseball," Lonnie says.

It's true. New Jersey may be America's armpit—and proud of it—but we did produce those things, not to mention college football,
Italian hot dogs, the lightbulb, Bruce Springsteen, Jon Bonjovi, Queen Latifah, John Travolta, Ray Liotta, Frank Sinatra,
and Kelly Ripa. And that's just a partial list.

"How about, New Jersey: Everything You've Heard Is True," Grandma says.

"Or New Jersey: We Can Have You Killed," Lonnie says.

"Or New Jersey: Most of Our Elected Officials Have Not Been Indicted," I say.

Grandma chuckles. "Well, gents, I think you've given me enough to work with. I hereby release you from further motto and frosting
duties. And, please, take these with you."

I take the tray of blue-ribbon cinnamon buns, and Lonnie and I go up to my room. When we get there, Lonnie grabs a bun, devours
it whole, and says, "Got your e-mail. You telling the truth?"

"Sure," I reply, a bit startled.

"Um, yeah, two," I mumble.

Lonnie shakes his head. "Unbelievable."

"What?"

"So? You ask out ten girls a day and they all say yes."

Lonnie gives me a withering look.

"What?" I ask.

He cracks his knuckles noisily. "I get shot down all the time."

I snort. "Not much."

"Yes much."

"But—"

"It happens. Okay? I don't like to broadcast it." He frowns. "Doesn't go with my image."

The doorbell rings. Half a second later, Ronnie has bounded into the room and flopped onto my bed.

"It isn't calculus," she declares. "That's why you're confused, Reed."

"What?" I mutter.

Ronnie talks very slowly. "There's no right answer, Reed. There isn't one way. Both questions worked because both questions
worked. Let it go." She reaches for the last bun, beating Lonnie by only a hair.

"Hog," she mumbles, watching Lonnie chew his bun with cowlike precision.

"I'm a growing boy," he protests.

"You're a growing orca," she retorts.

"Guys," I say. The older we all get, the more they seem to ride each other.

They both turn to me.

"What would we do without you?" Ronnie asks, nibbling delicately on her bun. "We would've dismembered each other a long time
ago."

"Absolutely," Lonnie agrees. "And with plenty of gusto."

'Anyway" I say impatiently.

"Anyway," Lonnie repeats. "She's right. Both asking-out questions worked because they just did. There are no answers here,
Reed."

"But, if that's the way it is, how can I replicate it?" I ask.

Ronnie frowns. "Why would you want to 'replicate' it? This isn't a scientific experiment. Maybe one of these girls will end
up being your girlfriend. What—you want a harem or something?"

Lonnie snorts. "What's wrong with a harem? And who says he's got to pick from these two? I say he asks out at least twenty
more before he makes his final choice."

Ronnie rolls her eyes.

"I don't think I have the stomach for that," I say honestly.

"It gets easier, dude, trust me."

I don't know about that. I can't even bring myself to call these two girls to get directions to their houses. Ronnie leaves
after a while, but Lonnie stays to jot down a "telephone script" and rehearse it with me three times before I decide to place
the calls. My insides are swirling with overzealous pterodactyls.

Lonnie sits on my bed while I talk to Sarah the belly-bearing sexy girl, shooting me nonstop, unreadable hand signals as if
he's landing an F-14 on an aircraft carrier. I finally decide I want him out of my room when I call Janet. He seems put out
by this.

"Kicking me out, Reed? Your coach and consultant and best buddy in the world?"

"Nothing personal, Lonnie," I say. "You're making me nervous."

"No more hand signals," he promises.

I run my fingers through my hair distractedly. "I feel like you're scoring me. Like you're going to hold up a card with a
number on it."

"Maybe it'll be a perfect ten."

"Or a minus ten."

"You're freaking out, pal."

He's right. I feel like hurling Grandma's blue-ribbon cinnamon buns into the John.

"I don't know if I can go through with this," I say weakly.

He looks concerned. "Chill, dude, chill. It's just two dates with two girls."

"Easy for you to say. You've got an infinite supply. Doesn't matter if you screw up with one or two."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do," he says firmly. His voice changes, gets more serious. "Third, this isn't a test you can ace or fail, Reed.
Nobody's going to give you a grade on it—life's not a school transcript. You can get Cs and Ds instead of A-pluses in real
life and still be okay. There's no Ivy League for girls."

I don't know how to answer. Lonnie's a bright guy, but he doesn't take AP classes. He'll go to college, but not Princeton.
And yet, he understands me better than I understand myself. What he just said to me is brilliant—pure unadulterated brilliance.

I look down at my sneakers. "I'm not used to not being good at something," I mutter, not knowing how he'll react to this.
I don't know how to react to it myself.

"How do you know you're not good at this?" he asks quietly. "Maybe you're the best there ever was."

I smile. "I think you get that title."

He laughs. "I don't think so. Besides, Reed, you asked out two girls and they both said yes. You just got off the phone with
one of them and you kicked butt."

"But I haven't gone on the dates yet. And remember how I screwed up with Rhonda and Marsha?"

"Forget Rhonda and Marsha. Think Sarah. Think Janet." He gets up. "I'll be at home if you need me."

I reluctantly call Janet after Lonnie leaves. This time, the conversation is much easier. Maybe I'm getting better at this.
Or maybe I just know Janet better. Either way, I feel okay about it. I sit on my bed and open my laptop.

I'm taking this seriously.

I've showered, shaved, brushed, flossed, trimmed my nose hairs, trimmed my fingernails, and trimmed my toenails for my date
with Sarah on Friday when it dawns on me that I don't own any cologne—and I don't have time to run out and buy any.

I've had Ronnie and Lonnie's tip list in front of my face for a week! I have no excuse for screwing this up.

I race into my parents' bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist and start frantically rummaging through their cabinets,
but then I remember I'm not supposed to use anything my dad uses:

Heart-stopping panic washes over me.

Should I just. . . skip it?

But what if it's really important?

I have so little experience with this stuff.

I start to feel way out of my league, biologically incapable, never going to get it. . .

Not Good at This.

No matter how many tip lists Ronnie and Lonnie give me.

I should stick to what I know.

I can't do it.

At that moment, the telephone rings.

"Just checking up on my favorite Jersey guy," Ronnie says pleasantly.

I've never heard anything sweeter.

"Idon'thaveanycologneandldon'tknowhattodo!" I blurt out in a single sentence, not sure if Ronnie will be able to decipher
it.

But she does, of course.

"We're coming right over, Reed."

I throw on a robe, make myself sit on my bed, and don't move a muscle.

The doorbell rings. The cavalry has arrived.

"I'll be the official sniffer," Ronnie announces as she and Lonnie rush into my room. Each of them is carrying a bunch of
tiny bottles of different shades of glass. Lonnie lets loose a squirt to the left side of my neck.

"Hey! I wasn't ready!" I protest, jumping out of the way.

He ignores me, and Ronnie leans forward, thrusting her nose between my neck and shoulder.

Her touch gives me uncontrollable chills, and I step away, but Lonnie squirts me again, this time to the right side of my
neck.

"Hey!" I cry.

"All part of the pretending package," Lonnie says as Ronnie dives in again.

"Okay, enough," I say, holding up my hands. "Besides, you're mixing them all up."

"He's right," Ronnie says. She grins at me. "You're gonna smell so good, Reed. Sarah won't be able to keep her hands off you!"

I turn red right down to my perfectly trimmed toes. "What's the pretending package?" I mutter.

"Oh, you're hereby inducted," Lonnie replies. "Into the Hall of Fame."

"Of losers?" I ask.

"Oh, Reed," Ronnie says. "Please."

"Of Guys Pretending to Know What They're Doing," Lonnie answers.

"Pretending?" I ask. "Are you in that too?"