"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?"
"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."
Lonnie shakes his head. "Girls are professionals."
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."
. . .
My stomach is popping wheelies by the time I arrive at Sarah's house.
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.
Besides, most of the things on the list fall under the category of getting ready for the date. There are major, big, problematic holes in the list that I'm just now noticing. For instance, there's nothing about kissing. Kissing! That's the most important part of a date! Isn't it? Shouldn't I have discussed it with Ronnie and Lonnie? Shouldn't it have merited its own special session? On the other hand, do Ronnie and Lonnie have to show me everything? Can't I even figure out how to kiss a girl on my own?
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.
What if Sarah's mother comes to the door? What if Sarah's father does? Am I supposed to make intelligent conversation with them? Why wasn't that covered? I feel like I've stepped into an old episode of Leave It to Beaver. I see myself sitting on the sofa in Sarah's den, calling her father "sir," drinking chocolate milk, and answering questions about my intentions.
What kind of Girlfriend Project is this? Everything that's important is missing! Instead, I'm getting tips on nose hairs and toenails!
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.
Whoa.
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."
I let out the breath I've been holding in one long whoooosh. I want to compliment Sarah on her outfit, but I don't want to say something dumb. Yet another item that's missing from Ronnie and Lonnie's list. Should I go for it anyway? Do I trust myself not to screw it up?
"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.
A Homecoming princess? Woo-hoo! I'm out with royalty!
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 frown. Something about that sentiment is very, very wrong. Image to keep up? Consider what people think? 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 . . ."
Hold on, hold on, hold on. This is all wrong. I don't know how to explain it, but Sarah's words are completely, absolutely, positively all wrong.
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.
. . .
"So what? So you're good for her image. So she cares what people think. What—is that a crime? What's the big deal, Reed?"
Lonnie seems frustrated beyond belief. He's holding his head in his hands and shooting me nonstop glances of severe irritation. "Don't you want to be the kind of guy girls like to be seen with? What's the problem, pal?"
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.
"Used?! Used?! What's wrong with being used? A gorgeous cheerleader and Homecoming princess wants to use you—and you're having issues with it?" He shakes his head fervently, as if he needs to get my comment out of his ears before it does damage to his brain lobes. "You're killing me, buddy, you're just plain killing me."
"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."
Lonnie looks shocked. "Fresh meat? Bullying? I'm just trying to help here."
"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.
. . .
Saturday night. Date Number 2. New driveway. New doorbell.
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.
Her nostrils flare. "I detest kids. They should be allowed to go extinct like the dodo."
I don't kiss her goodnight either.
. . .
Lonnie looks pained. "Reed, Reed, Reed," he moans. "You're not marrying her. Why get into kids?"
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."
Ouch. When he puts it that way . . .
"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.
Ronnie throws her brother a look of pure poison. "Oh, Lonnie, why don't you do us all a favor and go hunt a woolly mammoth." She looks at me. "Yes, Reed, love does come into the picture. That's what dating is for, and that's why guys like you are such a catch, unlike some people, who'd kiss anything as long as it's still breathing, or maybe they'd just as soon kiss a corpse too."
"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."
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.
You Talkin' to Me?
Exit 5
1. Would you kiss or date someone you didn't like?
2. Do you expect your dates to make intelligent conversation with your parents when they pick you up?
3. What should your date do if he gets to your house too early?
4. Would you ever date someone you work with?
5. Should boys open car doors for girls?
"I don't know about this, Ronnie," I say after I finish reading the questions. My stomach is performing perfect-ten Olympic somersaults.
"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:
Reed Walton, Ultimate Nice Guy and Ultimate Jersey Guy, needs your help. Answer these questions so he can become an expert on dating. Maybe he'll even pick you to be his girlfriend! Besides, you'll be contributing to a greater body of knowledge. All results will be shared after tabulation.
Can it get any more humiliating t
han this?
"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."
Yippee-aye-yay for me. What's that ever gotten me?
"Besides, you said you wanted a class with a syllabus and homework assignments. This is sort of like that, isn't it?"
"Maybe, but you said life wasn't a class," I remind her. Everything Lonnie said to me comes back too: Life's not a transcript. This isn't a test you can ace or fail. You can get Cs and Ds and still he okay. There's no Ivy League for girls.
"Well, that's true, life's not a class," she replies. "But this sort of makes things more fun."
The Girlfriend Project Page 5
