The Girlfriend Project (8 page)

I stand there and take her abuse without uttering a single word in my defense, but what's going through my mind is this:

The priesthood is looking better than ever.

"I made your favorite, Reed," she says with a smile, indicating a peanut butter pie on the counter.

"New Jersey," Grandma says as I sit down beside her, "The Traffic Will Kill You. Have a Nice Day."

"New Jersey," I say, "Where the Finger Is the Official State Greeting."

Grandma laughs. "Another winner." She types away.

I wait for her to finish, then say, "Grandma, remember that time you said . . . New Jersey had an . . . identity problem?"

She looks up, giving me her full attention.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but I continue, "Well, um, why is that?"

I wonder if she knows what I'm getting at. She looks at me thoughtfully for a minute, then answers, "I guess it's that New
Jersey doesn't know where it wants to go. It's poised on a period of great change. And change is difficult."

That's it exactly!

Grandma eyes me closely. "We can't grow without change, Reed. Yet growing is painful. Maybe that's why we call it 'growing
pains.'"

"Growing pains," I repeat slowly.

This is getting murky, but it's helpful, and I have a feeling Grandma knows it.

"New Jersey," I say, feeling suddenly inspired, "We'll Let You Know When We Figure It Out."

"New Jersey," Grandma responds, "Our Grandsons Are Geniuses."

I feel a little better about everything. But, unfortunately, it doesn't last.

The following week is exactly the same as the week before.

People I don't know say hello to me in school, sophomore girls giggle, freshman boys applaud, hoot, and high-five me.

We get more posts, more requests for dates with me, and pleas for more survey questions. I cannot for the life of me figure
out how one simple Web page—five measly questions—has caused such a stir.

"Every guy in America's looking for a girlfriend," I say. "Why am I getting all the attention?"

I lower my eyes, even though this is music to my ears, especially from her.

"I'm not surprised at all," Ronnie goes on. "It's taken on a life of its own."

And this brings us to the Big Issue. "Well," I mumble, "then I think it's time to kill it, Ronnie."

"Kill it?" She looks absolutely scandalized. "No way."

"But this Web site is making my life miserable!" I say, not meaning to sound so pathetic, but it's the truth.

Ronnie snorts. "Oh, sure, Reed, it's so miserable having girls throw themselves at you."

I must be a dork down to my bone marrow, because I know other guys would kill for this setup. But this isn't what I wanted
at all. How can I make her understand that?

"I wanted a girlfriend, Ronnie, remember? Not girls throwing themselves at me."

"But you've got to date girls to find a girlfriend."

What I want to say is, "I already know who I want."

Instead I say, "I don't want to date girls."

She gazes at me for a long time. I hope she'll finally get it.

But instead, she asks, "Are you gay?"

"No!"

"It's okay if you are . . ."

"I'm not!"

She looks puzzled. "I don't understand, Reed, really. Why don't you want to date girls?"

"Because . . . because . . ."

She moves closer to me. "Because you're shy and nervous and confused?"

Yes, yes, and yes. But that's not it at all.

"You can't give up, Reed, you have to keep trying. I know it's hard for you. You're learning."

"But everything's coming out wrong!" I yell.

It had nearly killed me to tell Lonnie about the botched-up kiss with Rhonda the other day. It nearly killed him too. I think
he's downright revolted by me now.

"Take it off, Ronnie," I say, then feel my face flame. That sounds like something other than what I intended. I wonder if
that's how Ronnie will hear it. But she doesn't, and even though it's absurd, that really depresses me.

"No, Reed, I'm not taking it off. The Web site stays."

"But it's my life you're playing with!"

"You just need a little help, that's all."

'A little help? I can't even kiss a girl!"

I'm losing it. I don't want to lose it. Maybe in front of Lonnie, but not in front of her.

"You may think you're beyond help, but everyone else thinks differently. Samantha Spinner invited you to her party this weekend,
remember? That's something."

"I don't care."

"You're hot now."

'Aren't you listening? I said, I don't care." I hate the tone I'm using with her, but I'm basically at my wit's end. I peer
at her to see how out-of-line I am. She doesn't look angry. She looks concerned.

She touches my hair. I wish she'd stop touching me. It only makes things worse.

"Please give it more time. A few weeks? Please, Reed?"

"Okay," I mutter in defeat.

Has Ronnie ever noticed she can make me do anything she wants?

But that doesn't mean I ever expected anything.

She kept getting prettier and prettier, more and more popular, more and more desirable, more and more out of my league.

She's always hugged me, touched me, kissed my cheek, played with my hair. I knew she meant nothing by it. I was probably like
another brother to her.

I had resigned myself to the fact that I'd never get her in a million years. I had accepted it.

Until now.

It's no contest.

I would never have allowed myself to think this before all of this started. But now I can't help it.

I can't stop thinking that maybe I have a chance with her now.

Maybe.

On the other hand, she has a serious boyfriend. She's always had serious boyfriends.

I suppose I could get into other girls. I would've liked kissing Rhonda Wharton. I liked Marsha Peterman for years. I thought
Janet and Sarah were both cute.

But Ronnie's the one I really want.

Ronnie's the one who's always been my friend; the one who sent me Valentines, the one who saw beyond my glasses and braces
and dorkiness, the one who saved me from drowning.

Literally. And in general.

Ronnie gets me.

I wish I could get her.

But this stupid Web site isn't getting me closer to that.

In fact, it's doing the opposite.

"Too Afghanistan," he says of a pair of desert-camouflage pants.

"Too Korea," he says of a pair of olive cargo pants.

"Too South Bronx," he says of a pair of torn jeans.

"Lonnie, you're worse than a girl," I say.

"I didn't ask you if I was fat," he counters. "Besides, you're the only one who gets to see the real Lonnie White in all his
insecure glory."

That's true. The real world only gets to see His Coolness. It's only me who gets to see the real guy under that. Of all people,
I should know better than to give him a hard time about it.

"You want Deena back?"

"Yup."

"Why don't you call her?"

"Because she might say no, genius."

"I ain't an American Idol, Reed."

"Why do you need to be so cool, Lonnie?" I ask.

Lonnie pauses, and I expect another smart reply, but instead, he says, "Because people expect it."

"Your public?" I say, half-joking but also half-serious.

"You think it's easy being me?" he asks, and his voice is serious.

It makes me think about all the attention I've been getting lately. It's nice, I suppose, but it's also hard. Lonnie must
pick up on this thought, because he says, "I bet you sometimes wish for your dork days back, Reed."

I shift uncomfortably. "It's less confusing."

Lonnie looks disgusted. "Enough of this Oprah crap, let's go to the party already."

I guess Lonnie's sensitive side has limits. But it's easier talking to Ronnie about this kind of stuff anyway.

Samantha Spinner's party is one of those events that separates the nerds from the beautiful people. If you're here, you're
here, if you know what I mean.

Lonnie and I arrive just after 10 p.m. There are so many cars parked along the road I have to find a spot for my Range Rover
three blocks away.

Samantha's house is huge and fancy, with an iron gate in front of it and a giant brick mailbox. There are people everywhere,
all over the lawns, on the curved driveway, crowded by the front doors. Lonnie says hello to a gazillion girls, and shockingly,
they all seem to know me too.

Now, you may wonder why I wasn't the happy recipient of Lonnie's leftovers all these years. But really, with him as the main
course, who'd look at me? I wasn't good enough to be his doggie bag.

When we get inside Samantha's house, we're blasted with loud music. In the kitchen, people are playing a drinking game. Other
people are leaning against the counters, talking. I don't know if Samantha's parents are around or not, but even though she's
not serving, people always bring their own.

In the living room, a bunch of girls in tight jeans are dancing—bumping and grinding to the music. Lonnie and I stand in the
doorway and watch them. I think every guy in the place is watching them.

"Enjoying the entertainment?" someone asks Lonnie.

I look down to see Deena Winters, Lonnie's ex-girlfriend, standing next to him.

Lonnie puts his arm around her. 'Actually I prefer my entertainment to be the one-on-one kind," he says.

A few hours ago, he was a nervous wreck about this girl. Now he's so smooth, so confident, so sure of himself; it makes me
wonder which Lonnie is the real one.

Where does it all come from? Why don't I ever feel that way?

"Catch ya later, buddy," he says to me with a wink.

Oh, great. Now he could be occupied for hours. I'm Lonnie's ride home—which means I'm stuck here—by myself. Where's Ronnie?
She's supposed to be here with Jonathan. I stand there wondering what to do with myself when a bouncy girl with fiery red
hair waltzes over.

"You're that guy, aren't you?" she asks.

I look behind me. She laughs, thinking I did that on purpose.

"You should put your picture on your site. You'd get even more posts. But I guess you don't need any more. So, have you decided?
Have you found the right girl?"

"No," I say, understanding now. "Not yet." I still can't get used to comments like this about my appearance.

The girl smiles. She's got a great body. I'm about to ask for her name when someone walks right-smack into me. I look down
into the lovely face of Marsha Peterman. She's glassy-eyed, and I realize she's probably drunk. She wobbles forward, I lean
toward her instinctively, and she falls right into my arms.

The bouncy redhead makes a face. "Nice act," she mutters, and walks away.

But Marsha's not acting. She's sloshed. She's hanging onto my neck, pressing herself against me, staring steadily into my
eyes.

Normally, this would be a very thrilling moment for me. But I'm afraid she's going to puke.

"Are you okay?" I ask. "Do you need a bathroom?"

"Can we sit down?" she slurs.

I help her to a nearby sofa. Someone's just gotten up and left a deep indentation behind. I sink into the cushions and Marsha
plops into my lap and wraps herself around me.

So I sit there, holding Marsha and hoping she doesn't vomit. Other girls walk by Some smile, others scowl at Marsha's lifeless
body. I nod to a few people I know from school. Several people comment I must've found my girl.

Marsha suddenly comes to life and I brace myself for an indignant reaction. I imagine her slapping me across the face, accusing
me of pawing her while she was helpless, reminding me I brought up a painful trout memory for her.

Instead, she leans forward and puckers her lips.

For seventeen years, no girl has ever gotten close to my face. Now two girls in the same month have wanted to kiss me.

But do I really want my very first kiss to be with a drunk girl with beer breath?

On the other hand, this is my chance to redeem myself. To do what I couldn't do with Rhonda Wharton.

I know who I want my first kiss to be. But that's as likely to happen tonight as traveling to Mars.