The Girlfriend Project

by Robin Friedman

  "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?

  . . .

  "Reed! Reed!"

  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.

  I'm actually glad for something to do. I've done all my homework, there's nothing on TV, Ronnie's out with Jonathan, Lonnie's out shooting baskets with some guys from school.

  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.

  Making Your Marriage Work: A Primer for Couples

  What Women Want: The Truth from More Than a Hundred

  Females

  What Men Want: The Truth from More Than a Hundred Males Mars and Venus in the Bedroom: A Guide to Lasting Romance and

  Passion

  Making the Right Choice: How to Choose your Soulmate

  Marrying the Right Person: The Proven Scientific Method

  Finding the Perfect Partner: From Affection to Zen

  Huh. Maybe I should read some of these.

  "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."

  He stops typing and looks at me. Was it something in my voice? Do dads have a gene that tells them their kids want to talk to them about something?

  "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.

  Boy, my dad is good. He knows exactly when to stop and when to go. He knows that if he says too much, or seems too interested, I'll clam up. But he also knows if he doesn't tell me enough, I'll want 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."

  I think back to Marsha's incredible cruelty. 'Are you the kind of girl who does stuff like that?" I shake my head. "Did Marsha think I didn't notice that? Did she think it wouldn't bother me? Why do girls do that?"

  And why did I still like her?

  . . .

  New Jersey definitely has an image
problem.

  This has always interested me, but it's downright fascinating now. Maybe I'm mental, but I'm seeing . . . parallels.

  Or maybe it's because I was born here, I'm going to college here, and I'll probably die here. Ronnie says I'm the Ultimate Jersey Guy. I wrote an essay about this last year that was published in our local newspaper, The Asbury Park Press.

  New Jersey and Us

  Perfect or Not?

  You know you're from Jersey when . . .

  • 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.

  Then I listed all the good things about the Garden State. See, actually, New Jersey has a lot going for it. For instance, we're home to the Statue of Liberty—not that other state you're thinking of Jersey tomatoes and Jersey corn are the best you can buy. We have the most Revolutionary War sites of any state. And the game Monopoly is named for the streets of Atlantic City.

  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:

  "The graph of x + 4xy — y = 3 is continuous for all real numbers except for one value, x = c. Use the rate of change of the equation to help you find c and classify the discontinuity you find in the derivative."

  She shakes her head as she studies the equations I've scribbled in my notebook. "How do you do it, Reed? How does this stuff make any sense to you?"

  "It isn't so bad," I say.

  She places her hands on either side of my head. "You've got a gorgeous brain in there, Reed."

  I want to take her hands in mine. I want to bring them to my lips and kiss them.

  But the bell rings.

  Who am I kidding? I wouldn't have done that anyway—bell or no bell.

  I'm a wuss.

  We get up and head out of the library together.

  "I'm so excited for you, Reed! I can't wait to read the posts!" She turns to me and gives me a big hug.

  I bury my face in her hair. It smells delicious. Like strawberries.

  "Hey, hands off my girl, man."

  It's Jonathan, Ronnie's big, hairy, varsity-wrestler, pea-brain boyfriend, his meaty paws grabbing for her. I let Ronnie go, hiding my scowl.

  "Oh, put a sock in it, Jonathan," Ronnie growls. "It's only Reed."

  Only Reed.

  Only Reed.

  I walk away, beyond hurt, beyond fuming.

  She comes after me.

  "Reed, I didn't mean it like that." She throws her arms around me again.

  I forgive her on the spot. I can't help it. I hug her tightly and ignore the outrage on Jonathan's face.

  . . .

  We're in my room after school reading the posts at www.thegirlfriendproject.com. There are more than I expected, and they're kind of fun, in a weird way.

  1. Would you kiss or date someone you didn't like?

  DirtyGirl: if he was johnny depp

  greenfrog: yea!

  sk8erboy: maybe kiss but not d8

  HotStud: i kiss or d8 anything that moves

  all star: yea because i might like him once I kissed him

  flowering garlic: i'd kiss reed in a minute

  BabeHunter: ofc! do u even have 2 ask?

  2. Do you expect your dates to make intelligent conversation with your parents when they pick you up?

  monsterll: depends on ur definition of intelligent

  flowering garlic: i always get the door be4 they du

  DirtyGirl: my dad lives 4 that

  FallenAngel: i expect them 2 make unintelligent conversation

  wicked: my d8es not intelligent!

  3. What should your date do if he gets to your house too early?

  flowering garlic: cmon in water's fine.

  cranialtornado45: nothing perverted

  all star: test his breath 1 more time

  wrsssatty: meditate, think positive thoughts, be at 1 w/the universe.

  el sexy: get me a grande caramel mocha decaf latte no foam w/ soy milk

  4. Would you ever date someone you work with?

  DirtyGirl: if he looked like johnny depp

  Mightyviking: no.2 much trouble

  LonerWolf: if u br8k up 1 of u has to quit

  wrsssatty: if i was the boss

  wicked: pretty stupid idea

  monsterll: not if i needed the paycheck

  HotStud: if she's sexilicious

  BabeHunter: she might be the luv of my life so ya

  5. Should boys open car doors for girls?

  HotStud: what happened to feminism? how bout the girl opens car door for me?

  flowering garlic: it's nice

  monsterll: there r more important things 2 do

  FallenAngel: fine by me

  all star: ofc! regular doors too

  DirtyGirl: nbd

  el sexy: this won't matter once we start driving space ships. the doors will open by voice Ik star trek

  And, in the comments section, there are these gems:

  flowering garlic: i'm a nice jersey girl looking 4 nice jersey guy

  DirtyGirl: pick me reed!!!!!!

  all star: i'd go out w/ reed!!!!! he's a QT!!!!!

  HotStud: hey reed gr8 idea! can i steal it?

  BabeHunter: are u a genius or something?

  "It looks like we're getting guys and girls," Ronnie says. "Which is great." She shakes her head. 'All I did was post one message on the school Listserv."

  'And it looks like you might get a few dates out of it," Lon­nie adds. "Which is all well and good, but what if they're dogs?"

  Ronnie sighs. "Oh, Lonnie, why do you have to be such a pot-bellied porker?"

  "Hey, I think that's a legitimate concern. Right, buddy?"

  I don't reply, because I don't feel like I have the right to comment on this, what with my special history.

  "Fine," Ronnie relents, "we'll ask them to post photos."

  "No, no," I say. "It's okay."

  "Woof! Woof!" Lonnie yelps.

  "Come on, Lonnie, you don't mean that," I say.

  He gives me a sheepish look. "Yeah, okay. But, hey, if this gets too big for you, you mind sharing some of the action?"

  This is something new—Lonnie coming to me for dates. "Um, sure."

  "So, what do you think, Reed?" Ronnie asks.

  I can't help smiling. "It's pretty interesting," I say.

  Most of the posts are tongue-in-cheek, but some are kind of insightful. They're not earth shattering, but they're not completely worthless either. And frankly, I'm shocked that flowering garlic, DirtyGirl, and all star—whoever they are—want to go out with me.

  "You're going to be the most popular guy in school!" Ronnie gushes. She scrolls through the posts again. "I wonder who's who. . . ."

  . . .

  Things get pretty weird that week.

  People I don't know say hello to me in school. A pack of sophomore girls in identical tight jeans giggle as I walk by. And someone has scrawled "Pick Me!" on my locker in bright red lipstick. Trying to smear it off with the back of my hand only makes it worse.
I finally have to ask the janitor for help, and it takes three foul-smelling detergents to make it go away.

  I'm flabbergasted. By third period of the fourth day, my nerves are shot. Now I know why celebrities punch out paparazzi.

  Rhonda Wharton lingers at my locker between first and second periods on the fifth day as I'm getting ready to make a run for AP Biology.

  "I checked out your Web site, Reed," she says shyly, batting her eyelashes at me. Batting her eyelashes at me! She starts to say something four times as I absently pull textbooks out of my locker. But she stops each time. I wait for her to finish, but if I don't leave in the next two seconds, I'll be late. As it is, I've got to sprint clear over to the other side of the building.

  "I'm sorry, Rhonda, I gotta go," I finally mutter. "Catch ya later?"

  She looks so disappointed I want to rub my eyes in disbelief. Rhonda Wharton, a girl I've secretly admired from afar since we were twelve years old, doesn't want me to leave? I turn to go, but she puts a hand on my arm, which has the effect of instantly stopping me in my tracks.

  "You . . . Me . . . We . . . ," she murmurs.

  I like the sound of this a lot, but it also makes me nervous. Still, I don't move a muscle. There's no way I'm shrugging off Rhonda Wharton—not even if I get a detention for being late.

  But Rhonda lets me go and doesn't say anything more, so I rush off, making it to class by a hair.

  I don't get it.

  Rhonda Wharton's never given me the time of day. Now she's practically stalking me.

  What's happening?

  Celebrity? Fame? Hype? Image?

  Whatever it is, there's something not right about it.

  I know I sound like a broken record, but I have to say it again.