The Girlfriend Project

by Robin Friedman

  And Ronnie? She was one of the prettiest girls in class. And she'd been with Jonathan Morrow since the junior prom. And there were three boyfriends before him. The line for Ronnie stretched all the way from here to Katmandu. And there was no spot for me in it.

  "Besides," I say, trying to sound like I couldn't care less. "Girls like bad boys."

  "Now you're being difficult," Ronnie says.

  "Floyd Flavin got arrested last year and now he's the most popular guy in school—total pimp," I say.

  "Well," Ronnie says. "We like celebrities. Sometimes it's the fame factor."

  "Nice guys finish last," I mutter.

  "Not in your case, Reed, not if we can help it."

  . . .

  We covered so much ground at IHOP I'm tired just thinking about it—looks, fame, celebrity, bad boys, nice guys, trout. Yet none of it makes any sense to me, and I don't know if it ever will. When I get home, I'm happy to help Grandma set up her laptop on the kitchen table to take my mind off things.

  My grandmother bought a laptop last year. "It's a new millennium and it's time for me to get an e-mail address," she declared.

  Grandma's friends thought she was loony. For them, computers are alien artifacts left behind by Martians, which must be shunned at all costs. But Grandma said, "Balderdash, Reed. It's when you stop growing that you get in trouble."

  Now Grandma belongs to a dozen Listservs—from growing tea roses to baking bread to cruising the Caribbean to square dancing. Sometimes I think she spends more time online than I do.

  Grandma's latest interest is our state motto contest. See, last year, the New Jersey Division of Tourism decided to update New Jersey's old motto, "New Jersey and You: Perfect Together." They hired a consultant from New York for $260,000 and got "New Jersey: We'll Win You Over."

  Everybody hated that, naturally I mean, yeah, we know it's our job to entertain the rest of the country, and yeah, we take it seriously. But maybe you better let us do the thinking—you might hurt yourself, you know? Besides, the new motto cost too much. And why go and hire a consultant from the state that's our natural nemesis? So, Acting Governor Richard Codey scrapped the bad motto and did what he should've done all along—invited regular New Jerseyans to submit suggestions online.

  "New Jersey," Grandma says as she slides in front of her laptop, starting it off, as she always does, in the private contest between her and me, "More Than Just the Turnpike."

  "New Jersey," I reply on cue, 'At Least We're Not Delaware."

  "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.

  Attention! Loser Alert!

  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.

  Ouch. My eighty-two-year-old grandmother has a hot date and I don't.

  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.

  Stud Monkey: need reedmobile 4 sat nite. ok?

  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.

  Screaming Eagle: np. ill be in loserville, USA, anyway, m/b i shud hand over the keys 4 gud.

  StudMonkey: baby sitting duty?

  Screaming Eagle: ya.

  StudMonkey: bummer, next sat nite.

  Screaming Eagle: wut?

  StudMonkey: w8 & c.

  I get a message from Ronnie.

  Faerie Charmer: i'm working on The Girlfriend Project & it will be SWELL! L8r!

  I laugh out loud. Ronnie's on a campaign to bring back words from the past. She's had enough of "cool."

  Screaming Eagle: GROOVY.

  I log off, wondering what my friends are up to. I feel crappy, for sure, relying on them for a love life. But I'm also grateful. A guy can't be a certifiable dweeb when he has friends like that.

  Right?

  Bada Bing, Bada Boom !

  Exit 3

  Rhonda Wharton is at her locker Friday morning, and this time she's wearing tight jeans that accentuate every luscious curve.

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

  "Arghl" I yelp.

  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."

  My mouth twitches. 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.

  Is Janet jealous1?

  "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?"

  Whoa.

  "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:

  How to Ask Out a Girl

  I start reading.

  1. Smile. Even when you're freaking out. Never let 'em see you sweat.

  There's scribble next to that in Lonnie's handwriting:

  Slather on double-duty deodorant dawg.

  I read on.

  2. Watch your posture. Stand up straight. No slouching, cowboy.

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

  Another scribble from Lonnie:

  Make sure deodorant is working.

  4. Ask in a casual way, "Wanna go out Saturday?"

  Here Lonnie has scribbled something in all caps:

  NO NO NO!

  REPEAT!

  NO NO NO!

  Don't EVER EVER EVER give them an out to say no!

  Shoot yourself in the groin instead!

  Trick them with a multiple-choice question:

  Movie or dinner With me Saturday?

  Fascinating.

  5. After she says yes, say, "Great! I'll call you. What's your number?"

  From Lonnie:

  Eh, no way, Jose. say: "That's cool, baby. Gimme your number."

  6. Get her number.

  From Lonnie:

  Code Red! Code Red!

  Evacuate the area IMMEDIATELY, before she changes her mind!

  I stand there feeling numb. I don't know what to make of this.

  I think of Janet.

  I take a deep breath.

  I run out of the coatroom.

  . . .

  Janet's still behind the circulation desk when I emerge from 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.

  Shyly?

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

  Then I remember Lonnie's Number 6 warning:

  Code Red! Code Red!

  Evacuate the area IMMEDIATELY, before she changes her mind!

  I hop away to the periodicals department. . . and promptly crash into a girl carrying a stack of Glamour magazines, which explode into a giant mess all over the floor.

  "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 girls get it that wearing sexy clothes turns our brains into Farina?

  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."

  "You've been my best friend since kindergarten, Reed. I owe you big-time."

  That's the kin
d of friend she is.

  . . .

  By the time I arrive at my sister's house to babysit after my asking-out experiences in the library, I'm more confused than ever. I've replayed it a hundred times in my head, but I still don't get it.

  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 felt myself being sucked into her seductive eyes. But I snapped out of it, helped her gather the rest of her Glamour magazines, got her number, and she left the library.

  What had just. . . happened?

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

  And they'd both said yes.

  It was history.

  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.