The Girlfriend Project (6 page)

I hesitate. 'And there's more. You know I appreciate everything you guys are doing for me, but. . . those tip lists are missing
some important stuff." I start to recite the things I've noticed.

Ronnie looks at me strangely. I can't describe it exactly, except to say it's like a lightbulb has flicked to life in her
eyes.

"Oh, come on, Reed," she replies. "It's perfect! You get the answers you want, and you possibly get more dates out of it too."
She punches me softly in the shoulder. "It's dynamite and you know it."

I frown. "Dynamite for you, maybe," I say. "I'm not sure how dynamite it is for me."

We're in my room later that afternoon, sitting together in front of my laptop on my Amish rug. To my complete astonishment,
Ronnie has opened a Web site on my screen called
www.thegirlfriendproject.com.
A Web site she created, registered, designed,
and uploaded—all in the hours between our Post Game breakfast and now.

I move my cursor around the screen restlessly She's included an introduction before the questions, which reads:

"Ronnie, let's not do this," I say.

"But I worked on it all day," she moans.

"I'll pay you for your trouble."

She grins. "Give it a chance, Reed."

"But it makes me look like a loser."

"No, it doesn't."

"What if nobody participates?" This is the least of my worries, but a guy's got his pride.

'Are you kidding?" she exclaims, snatching one of Grandma's fresh-baked molasses cookies off a plate between us. "It'll be
all anyone talks about at school. People love stuff like this. Besides, it's a public service. It's educational. It'll help
people. They'll be able to learn from your . . ."

"Screw-ups?"

She smiles. "No."

"That's what you meant." I have to admit—I'm curious about it. But does it have to be on the Internet for the whole planet
to see?

She moves closer to me. "Come on, Reed, please?" She kisses my cheek.

I close my eyes. "Okay," I mumble, feeling a tingling sensation in the spot where she kissed me.

She gives me a smile and wriggles away.

"I wish everything was that easy," she says, getting to her feet.

"Putting up a Web site?"

"No, getting a guy to do what I want. That's why you're such a catch, Reed, because you're the nicest guy in the universe."

"Besides, you said you wanted a class with a syllabus and homework assignments. This is sort of like that, isn't it?"

"Well, that's true, life's not a class," she replies. "But this sort of makes things more fun."

"Fun for you, maybe, because you're the spectator. I'm the guy making a fool of himself for all the world to see."

She plops down next to me. "Stop thinking of yourself like that! Don't you know how far out you are?" She kisses my cheek
again. This time, I pull her into my arms, and she lets me hold her for a good long while. I'm about to do something braver
when she wriggles away again.

"Gotta go. Meeting Jonathan at the mall," she says.

Why not me?

It's Dad calling from downstairs. Ronnie left an hour ago and I'm in my room surfing aimlessly. I go to the landing at the
top of the stairs. Dad's standing at the bottom looking up at me.

"Can you give your grandmother a ride to the senior center?" he asks me. "It's Bingo Night."

"Sure," I say.

It's one of those lonely Sunday afternoons when I can't get interested in doing anything on my own—when I feel like everyone
except me has something to do—when I would give anything just to have someone I can hang out with on the couch while we watch
some old movies.

I pick up the phone twice, first almost calling Janet, then almost calling Sarah. But I hang up both times. Would they say
yes to a spur-of-the-moment thing? Maybe. But the truth is, I don't want to be with either of them.

Still, the answer isn't to hole up in my room with my laptop. Besides, my grandmother loves showing me off to all her old-lady
friends. I pull on my sneakers and head downstairs to my parents' offices.

My mom and dad are both psychologists. They have a family practice in our house—in an addition built onto the back. They do
couples counseling, marital therapy, that sort of thing. Grandma's apartment is in the addition too.

My dad's typing away at his desk when I enter his office. It's a serious-looking room, with a long burgundy couch, a dark
coffee table, paintings of barns and cornfields and covered bridges on the walls, and boxes of tissues artfully tucked into
corners.

There's floor-to-ceiling shelves on three sides of the room, lined with row after row of books. I scan some of the titles
as I wait for my grandmother to come out of her apartment.

"You've read all these books?" I ask my dad.

"Yup. At one time or another," he answers.

"So I guess you're an expert on relationships."

"I know a few things about relationships," he says. 'Anything I can help you with?"

"No," I say immediately.

He waits a minute, then starts typing again. Another gene?

There's a framed photograph of my parents on one of the lower shelves. I look at it closely They look really happy. They're
not much older than me.

"How'd you know Mom was the right person for you?" I ask, then regret it. I don't want to talk about this. Or do I?

He stops typing. "It was a feeling. A gut feeling." He looks at me, waiting, but doesn't say more.

But I'm on to him. I don't say anything else. And Grandma comes through the door at the end of the hallway, smelling like
lilacs and saving the day. Or not? She loops her arm through mine.

"Lucky me—I've got a hot date tonight," she says, beaming at me.

"Reed's just dropping you off," my dad says with a laugh. "I'll pick you up when you're done."

"Oh, too bad," she says.

"Now, Grandma, you don't want to make your friends too jealous," I tease.

"Oh, but I do, Reed, I do," she replies.

This is our running gag.

I help Grandma out of the house and into my car. She sighs happily.

"You should be given a trophy for Best Grandson in the World."

"How about prize money? Then I can buy a Mustang and get all the girls I want."

She laughs. "You don't need a Mustang to get girls, Reed. You're a catch."

A catch. Everyone keeps telling me that. If I hear it one more time, I'll barf. Funny thing is, neither my grandmother nor
my parents have made much of the new and improved me. Grandma's been calling me a "handsome boy" since I was fourteen, but
I guess that's what grandmothers do.

I pull out of the driveway. I feel like talking.

"Have you ever been bad at something, Grandma?" I ask. "Have you ever tried to do something that you kept screwing up?"

"Oh, heavens, yes," she says, turning to me. "Baking."

"Baking?"

"I was awful at it in the beginning. I burned my first cake to a crisp. A crisp, I tell you."

"But you're so good. That's what you do."

"That's because I kept trying. I didn't give up."

I don't say anything. Grandma continues to look at me, but she doesn't ask me what I'm getting at. Maybe that's why I've always
felt so comfortable around her. She never pushes me. I imagine this is what it's like to sit at a bar and spill your guts
to a friendly bartender.

"Didn't you wonder if you'd ever get it right?" I finally ask.

She nods. "Oh, yes. But I believed in myself."

We arrive at the senior center. I help her inside the building, stand around with her in the lobby before Bingo starts, and
let her brag about me.

"Maybe you'll stay for a few rounds," one of the old ladies says to me.

"I'd love to, but I have too much to do," I say, which is a bald-faced lie on both counts. I have absolutely nothing to do,
but I can't play Bingo at the senior center on a Sunday afternoon. It might be all right, but come on. How low do I have to
go?

I say good-bye to Grandma and, on a whim, drive to the Woodrow Wilson Basketball Courts at the George Washington Municipal
Park to see if I can find Lonnie. But he isn't there.

That girl's there, however, shooting baskets by herself. I sit in the car and watch her.

Who is she?

What kind of guys does she like?

Does she think kids should be allowed to go extinct like the dodo? Does she have an image to keep up?

In the last few days, I successfully asked out two girls. Why can't I go up to her?

I'm still getting used to the idea that I look different than I used to look. I know I'm not repulsive. But cute? A stud?
Good for somebody's image? How is it possible? I feel the same way I always did—like a dorky loser who girls laugh at.

"I wish I could go up to you and talk to you," I say out loud in the car. "But I can't. I'm too scared. Well, I did ask out
two girls and they both said yes. Things didn't work out, though." I pause. "When I was a freshman, this girl I really liked
a lot—Marsha Peterman—turned my life into a living nightmare. See, she didn't just shoot me down, she did that giggle-and-point-at-the-loser-with-her-girlfriends
thing whenever I walked by for weeks afterward."

And why did I still like her?

• You don't think "What exit?" jokes are funny.

• There's always one kid in every class named Tony.

• You've never pumped your own gas.

• You know how to navigate a circle and a jug handle.

• You know the two things above have to do with driving.

But New Jersey is actually cool.

But we keep pretty quiet about all those things. We're a pretty cool state, but we don't want anyone to know about it.

It definitely makes me think of other things . . .

I'm thinking about it in study hall a few days later. Study hall is the only class Ronnie and I have together. It's in the
library. Ronnie's at one of the library terminals typing away; I'm sitting next to her, doing my AP Calculus homework.

She lets out a cry of excitement. "Omygosh! We got our first posts at thegirlfriendproject.com!" She turns to me. "I told
you it would work! Told you, told you, told you!"

I'm shocked, but I pretend to be bored instead. "I need a nap," I say, and yawn loudly.

Ronnie punches me softly in the arm. "Nice try." Then she happens to catch a glimpse of my AP Calculus homework. She reads
aloud: