The Girlfriend Project (5 page)

"I'm the president and CEO," Lonnie says with a wink.

"But you know what you're doing," I say.

"No, I'm pretending, like you." He holds up a blue-colored bottle. "This is your Shield of Sham."

I've had enough of stupid riddles for now. "What's he talking about?" I ask Ronnie.

She shrugs. "Beats me. But girls pretend to know what they're doing too."

Ronnie snorts. "I bet Sarah's into her eighteenth outfit by now and she still doesn't know what she's wearing." She checks
her watch. 'And, speaking of outfits, you better get dressed, Reed."

I've got three fiery breath mints rattling around in my mouth all at the same time and my tongue feels singed. Between that
and Lonnie's cologne, I may croak from olfactory overdose.

I'm early, and I realize Ronnie and Lonnie didn't cover that. I'm not sure if I should drive around the block a few times
or just wait on the driveway. I decide to wait. I hope Sarah's family doesn't call the police when they look out their living
room windows and spot a guy in a strange car possibly stalking their daughter.

The date hasn't even started yet and I'm already screwing up.

I've got my tip list in my back pocket. It feels like a cheat sheet. I've never cheated on anything in my whole life. I don't
really need the list, though, because I've memorized it. After all, memorization is my specialty. I'm probably the only guy
in school who can recite all fifty states in alphabetical order.

I'm getting nervous. I glance at the house, trying to distract myself. It's nice. There's an old-fashioned trellis along the
side that's covered with pink roses. I have a vision of scaling it to reach Sarah's bedroom window. My face flames.

I check my watch. It's time. I open the car door and walk with heavy steps to the front door.

Why has civilized society deemed it necessary to force guys through this ritual torture?

I stand in front of Sarah's door and wipe my clammy hands on my jeans. My palms've started sweating and the glands just won't
stop producing. I finally give up, ring the doorbell with my slippery fingers, and realize I haven't breathed in the last
five seconds.

I don't know what to do with my hands. This, I am to discover, will be a problem that plagues me all night. Another hole in
the list! I shove them into my pockets for now.

But thankfully, after a second or two, Sarah comes to the door. She's wearing tight jeans, high-heeled boots, and a black
top trimmed with red lace.

I don't care how many outfits it took to get here—she definitely picked a winner.

"Hi," she says. "You're right on time. I like a guy who doesn't keep me waiting."

"You look great," I mumble.

Hey—that was okay! It was fine! Not suave or anything, but not moronic either.

Sarah smiles widely. "Thanks." She beams and links her arm through mine.

Oh, boy.

I manage to escort her to my car without tripping over my feet or anything, open the door for her, and shut it without maiming
her. I walk around to my side and fumble with the lock for so long that Sarah finally reaches over and unlocks it for me.

You win some. You lose some.

I scored with my compliment. But I screwed up with the car door. Maybe this is the way dates are supposed to be. Maybe, at
the end of a date, the final tally of scores versus screw-ups determines whether it was a success or failure.

I drive to the twelve-screen multiplex on Route 9.1 manage not to wrap my car around any telephone poles or run any red lights.
I'm normally a very good driver, but I'm having trouble concentrating on the road.

We talk about school. Sarah says she goes to Marlborough Regional too. I've never seen her there, but it's a huge school.
She's a junior.

"Do you play on any teams or anything like that?" I ask her.

"I'm a cheerleader," she says.

I perk up. I'm out with a cheerleader! Way to go, Reed!

"I was in the Homecoming court last year. I was one of the princesses," she adds.

She turns to me. "I wouldn't go out with just anybody, you know. I have an image to keep up. I have to consider what people
think."

I bet I look confused, because she explains, "See, you're a senior, for one, and you're cute, for another, and you've got
a car . . ."

I'm distracted by these comments all evening. We arrive at the movie theater, I pay for two tickets, buy her popcorn and soda,
and let her hold my hand during the movie. I would've liked it a lot—it's the first time a girl has held my hand—but I'm too
bothered by what she said to me in the car.

After the movie's over, I take her home, don't kiss her goodnight, and don't say I want to see her again.

I look away. Why can't he understand? And why's he so upset about it? It's as if I've personally wounded him.

Ronnie's been quiet the whole time. We're at the Marlborough Diner on Route 34 the next morning for the "Post Game" on my
date with Sarah. Did you know New Jersey has the most diners of any state? But the diner was invented in Rhode Island. Rhode
Island! I've ordered the Jersey Pig Out—three eggs, three sausage links, three slices of bacon, three buttermilk pancakes,
a Mount Everest of home fries—but I've hardly touched it.

"I don't know," I say, staring down at my coffee. "I feel. . . used." I know immediately from Lonnie's expression that this
is the wrong thing to say. And think.

"Oh, quit it," Ronnie snaps, making us both stare at her. It's the first thing she's said since we got there. "You're bullying
him. Not all guys are in it for the fresh meat, you know."

"Well, you're not helping." She gazes at me. "Look, there are all kinds of guys in the world. The ape sitting next to me is
obviously one kind." At this, Lonnie makes a face. "But you, Reed, are obviously a different kind—a more sensitive, caring
kind." She gives me a smile when she says this, and for some reason, it makes me feel. . . odd.

"Hey!" Lonnie yelps. "I'm as sensitive and caring as the next guy."

Ronnie ignores him. "Forget her, Reed. I know how you feel. You deserve better."

We're quiet for the rest of our meal and barely touch our food.

I can't help feeling I've screwed up.

Again.

I'm not used to this.

I feel a little better this time. I guess because I know Janet more. And I feel battle-hardened after my date with Sarah.
After some debate, I decide to take her to the same movie. It makes no difference to me. It's a chick flick that girls seem
to like, and I don't care about seeing it twice. That's really not the point, is it?

I'm feeling scarred after what happened at breakfast, though. I still don't know why Lonnie reacted the way he did. He's right
in a way I mean, it was just one date. Maybe I misread Sarah's comments. Maybe she didn't mean what I think she meant. Or
maybe, like Lonnie said, I'm making too much of a big deal out of it. She's incredibly cute and she obviously likes me. So
what if she makes me feel cheap and used? Maybe I'm the one with the problem.

My hands don't get clam up when I stand in front of Janet's door. Maybe I'm getting more experienced. And this time, I don't
fumble with the car-door lock either. I'm beginning to relax. This isn't too bad. I'm learning. It's only the second date
of my life and everything is a little smoother.

Janet looks different than she normally does at work. She's wearing high-heeled boots like Sarah wore, tight jeans, and a
tight sweater. She looks great, and I tell her that. That's getting easier too. She gives me a huge smile.

The conversation in the car flows well and the drive to the movie theater is fine. We talk about the people we work with at
the library, and I make her laugh several times.

When we take our seats inside the theater, a gang of kids races up the aisle from an earlier show, giggling, screaming, fighting,
reminding me exactly of my crazed nieces and nephews. An exhausted couple struggles to corral them, without success.

"Snot-nosed brats," Janet mutters. "Disgusting urchins. Repulsive terrors. They ought to be taken out back and shot."

"You don't like kids?" I ask.

I don't kiss her goodnight either.

It's the next day. Breakfast. Marlborough Diner. Post Game.

I don't mean to, but I find myself on the defensive. "It's not about marriage. It's just . . . we didn't click. I can't click
with a girl like that. I have four nieces and nephews."

"So what?" he thunders. 'Are you planning to bring them with you on dates?" He lays his head down on the table. "I can't take
this, buddy." He talks into the tabletop. His words are muffled, but I hear them loud and clear. "You're just being picky
now. It's almost like . . ."

'Almost like what?" I ask angrily.

'Almost like you're looking for excuses—lame excuses."

I glare at the top of his head. It's as if I'm putting him through a personal trial or something.

He lifts his head off the table. "Don't you want a girlfriend? Don't you want to kiss a girl?"

I take a sip of my coffee, but I don't taste it. "Sure. But shouldn't I at least like the girl?"

"Not necessarily. You think I've liked every single girl I've kissed or gone out with?"

Ronnie and I both gape at him in surprise.

"What?" he demands. "Is that a felony? Should I be locked up for it?"

"You should definitely be locked up," Ronnie mutters. "You're a menace to society."

Lonnie sighs and stabs his Belgian waffle with his fork. "I guess you're a man of principles, Reed. And you know what? I hope
these noble principles are a comfort to you the next time you're babysitting your nieces and nephews alone on a Saturday night."

"Doesn't love ever come into the picture?" I sputter.

I can't believe I just said this. I may have thought it, but I didn't plan to say it.

"Love?"

Lonnie repeats it with so much revulsion, it's as if I've uttered the dirtiest swear word in the dictionary.

"Hey!" Lonnie protests. "Don't make me out to be the caveman in this equation. I believe in love as much as the next guy."

We're all quiet for a while. I feel like I should say something to clear the air—or at least change the subject. I venture,
"There's another thing too. Janet and I work together. I don't know if I should go out with someone I work with."

Ronnie nods. "That's actually a good point, though you probably should have thought about that before you asked her out."