Jonathan slithers out of the classroom, throws me a look of bloody murder, and lumbers off.
. . .
Even a day later, my feelings of icy coldness won't go away.
"We're talking permafrost in Alaska," I tell Ronnie as we're driving to my sister's house.
"I'll warm you up later, Reed," she says, but it sounds distracted.
We're headed to Christine's place for her Tenth Annual Chocolate Extravaganza. It's a buffet party my sister gives every fall. Don't ask me how it started, why it started, what it has to do with anything, or why it's always every November. All I know is she's been doing it for ten years and nobody's complaining.
Everything on the buffet table has to be made of chocolate. Everything. Not just the desserts. The actual food too. Have you ever had chocolate pizza? Well, if you haven't, you haven't lived, you poor slob.
"Icier than the suds in a polar bear's Jacuzzi, Ronnie."
"I'm not going back to Jonathan, Reed."
"You promise?"
"Yes."
"Swear?"
"Yes."
'Are you willing to put it in writing?"
I'm joking. No, I'm serious.
"I would die without you, Ronnie."
"Oh, Reed," she whispers.
We're quiet the rest of the way. I can't believe I just said something so desperately, pathetically, horrifyingly clingy. I'm no better than the Ex-Ape.
When we get to my sister's, I try to act cheerful, but I'm actually miserable. Maybe I overcompensate for this by being sarcastic and annoying and offensive. For instance, when my nieces and nephews jump me at the door, as they usually do, I say, "They're like horny golden retrievers, climbing your leg and making snorting noises and stuff."
This is borderline okay. My sister laughs, and my nieces and nephews start barking playfully.
But I don't stop there. "Maybe they'll sniff people's butts one of these days. And, come to think of it, they do eat off the floor a lot and scratch themselves in inappropriate places. And the little ones do sometimes eat their you-know-what, you know, the stuff that keeps the diaper companies in business."
My sister's mortified. Ronnie pulls me down the hall into the guest bathroom and slams the door shut.
"I know you're upset, Reed," she says. "But this isn't like you. Please stop freaking out."
I gather her into my arms. "Kiss me," I say.
"Not here, Reed."
"Why not?"
"Because we're in a bathroom at your sister's house."
"So?" I lean forward and kiss her hard. She pushes me away. "Reed, quit manhandling me."
"I love you,"
I say.
"Oh, Reed."
"I do. I've always loved you."
She touches my face. "Reed, you're the sweetest guy in the whole world. But. . . don't you know this isn't. . . forever?"
I narrow my eyes at her. "What do you mean this isn't forever?"
She looks at me sadly. "I'm your first girlfriend, but . . . I won't be your last."
It's as if someone's splashed ice water in my face. "Yes, you will. You'll be my only one."
She sighs. "Don't you know that when you get to Princeton girls will be breaking down your door?"
"I don't want any other girls. I love you."
"Stop saying that!"
"What—are you trying to break up with me?"
Why, oh, why did I have to say it? Why did I utter the words? If only I hadn't uttered the words . . .
She bites her lip. "Reed, I've been thinking about this."
No. No. No.
"Thinking about it a lot, actually. I think, maybe, we should . . . go back to being friends. You . . . You . . . don't need me. You could have anybody. I don't want. . . our friendship to be ruined. We've been best friends for so long!"
"Ronnie, I'm sorry," I say immediately. "I won't manhandle you anymore. I won't tell you I love you—even though I do. I won't bring up Jonathan ever again. I won't do anything annoying at all. I promise."
"Oh, Reed, it's not that. We're neighbors . . . We have four years of college! This . . . wasn't a good idea."
"Well, I think it was a great idea. You're the girlfriend I've always wanted."
"Reed, I'm the only girl you've known. That's why you like me so much. It's almost like you . . . imprinted me. Like those baby ducks you told me about, remember? But things are different for you now. I'll still be your best friend, Reed, I'll always be your best friend."
"No."
She shakes her head. "You can't say no to this, Reed."
I get desperate. "Ronnie, please, please, don't break up with me!"
"I'll still be your best friend!"
"But I won't be able to kiss you anymore!"
"Do you know how many girls are dying to kiss you? Why don't you give someone else a chance?"
And, for some reason, this makes me think of Marsha sobbing on my shoulder when she realized she wasn't going to be kissing me anymore.
Marsha and Ronnie have a lot in common.
They both crushed me.
I walk out of the bathroom.
And I don't stop.
. . .
I don't know why grown-ups think college is the greatest gift they can give us.
I think it stinks.
College means starting over. It means leaving home. It means not having your own room anymore. It means not seeing your best friends anymore.
It means leaving behind everything that's important.
And I'm not even going out of state.
The night of the Chocolate Extravaganza, I left my sister's house and walked all the way home. It took me two hours and I cried the whole way. I guess I forgot I had a car. When I got home, I crawled into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and stayed that way for the next two days. Good thing the next two days were Saturday and Sunday.
Mom and Dad bring my car back for me, try to lure me out of my self-imposed bed rest all weekend, bring me roast beef sandwiches and peppermint tea.
I tell them to go away.
Christine comes over with leftovers—chocolate mousse inside molded chocolate swans, chocolate casserole sprinkled with chocolate marshmallows, chocolate lasagna layered with white chocolate creme, chocolate ravioli stuffed with chocolate pudding.
I touch nothing.
Ronnie sends me five e-mails and six text-messages and calls seven times.
I ignore them all and tell my parents to tell her I'm dead.
Which I am.
Lonnie comes over four times. Each time I pretend to be sleeping.
On Sunday evening, Grandma knocks on my door. I get up and let her in. I'm still in the same clothes I wore to my sister's party. The only reason I'm allowing Grandma into my room is because I know how hard it is for her to climb the stairs. I don't want her to have made the trip for nothing.
She sits next to me on the bed and rubs my back like she used to do when I was small. "Oh, my poor, poor Reed," she says. "This is the hardest lesson of all. But everyone learns it sometime. Everything will be okay in the end. You'll see. Broken hearts heal. They do, Reed, really. You know I'd never lie to you."
I thought Marsha broke my heart when she squashed me four years ago. But that was nothing compared to this.
"I need your help, Reed," Grandma continues. "You think you could lend me a hand? I want to make a cream cake tonight. Someone I know is crazy about cream cake. I think it would cheer him up."
She kisses my cheek. "New Jersey: We May Look Tough on the Outside but We're Soft as Salt Water Taffy on the Inside. That's a good thing, Reed. Oh, I know this is the last thing you want to hear right now, but healing is growing. And growing is painful."
I follow Grandma down the stairs like an obedient puppy. As usual, she knows what's best for me. There's something about sticking your fingers into a huge bowl of whipped cream that makes you forget you're miserable.
By the time Grandma's cream cake is done, I'm feeling a tiny bit better. It's th
e first solid food I've consumed all weekend. I gobble up five slices all in a row.
I've never tasted anything so good.
. . .
On Monday at school, I don't bother to hide the fact that I'm crushed. I walk around with my head down all day, and go to great lengths to avoid Ronnie and Lonnie. At lunchtime, I head to the library by myself. I sit at a table in the back, unpack my school books, and stare at them. Lonnie finds me there.
"Reed, you don't have to sit here by yourself," he says quietly. "Ronnie says she'll sit at another table. You can still sit with me. Come on, I'll treat you to a nice cup of weak coffee."
"No."
"I don't like it that you're here all by yourself."
"I'd rather be here."
He sits down next to me. "I'm still your best friend, Reed," he says. "I always will be. No matter what happens."
I look at him, but say nothing.
He spends the whole period with me. He doesn't say anything to me and I don't say anything to him, but I'm happy he's with me and I wish I could tell him that.
. . .
When I get home, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I'm haunted by the fact that the girl I love and need is right next door. But she might as well be on the moon.
I take out my laptop, go to www.thegirlfriendproject.com, and write a letter to my faithful fans.
attention everyone,
after extensive reflection, i have concluded that The Girlfriend Project was a miserable failure, i have also concluded that i am a miserable failure, sorry to disrupt your happy and productive lives with this inconvenient expression of my personal despair, but this is my site and i'll say whatever i feel like saying on it.
love stinks,
reed walton
It's sarcastic and painful and bitter, but I don't care. It's exactly the way I feel at the moment, and I send it on its way before I can change my mind. Then I go to the Web company that hosts the site and end my subscription.
In twenty-four hours, The Girlfriend Project will be history.
. . .
The rest of the week basically sucks.
Lonnie sits with me in the library at lunchtime every day. We don't talk, but I appreciate it anyway.
Ronnie tries to talk to me at least five times a day. Each time I run away from her, even though she seems upset by it.
"Reed! Please!" she always cries. "Please talk to me!"
But I don't.
On Friday, she grabs the back of my jacket as I'm hurrying off, but I wiggle out of it, leaving her holding it. Lonnie returns it to me at lunchtime.
"Love stinks," I say to him. It's the first thing I've said all week.
"Yeah," he answers.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He gives me a sympathetic look. "I thought you knew more about it than I did. You were reading all those books, working on the site, taking all those surveys . . ."
Ha! And I had the nerve to think I was a dating expert!
"I don't know squat about it, Lonnie."
"Neither do I."
"I'm going to be a priest."
He lets out a laugh. "Nah, Reed, it won't come to that."
"I'm pretty sure it will."
"Well, if you become a priest, I will too."
We shake on it.
. . .
On Friday evening, Mom announces we're having a Family Luau Night.
My sister comes over with her family, Mom drapes us all with pink plastic leis, and Grandma whips up pineapple boats with maraschino cherries, coconut-fried shrimp, papaya bread, and mango sorbet. My dad puts on a grass skirt for the occasion. I think he does it just to get a laugh out of me. It works.
"What do you think, Reed? Think I got a future as a tiki dancer?"
"Not a paid one," I reply.
We feast on Grandma's tropical dinner, have a hula contest, see who can say King Kamehameha ten times in a row, and watch an old Elvis Presley beach movie.
Christine sits next to me on the sofa with her arm around my shoulders, like she used to do when I was the baby brother she took care of.
My family's awesome.
. . .
On Saturday morning, I'm still in bed when Mom tells me I have a visitor. I get ready to pretend I'm sleeping, automatically assuming it's Ronnie. But when I open one eye to peek, I see Marsha Peterman standing in my doorway.
"Reed?" she whispers. 'Are you . . ."
She waits a second or two, then starts to go, but I lift my head out of the covers.
"Marsha?"
She walks toward me. "Hi, Reed," she says awkwardly. "I hope . . . Were you sleeping? I didn't mean to wake you."
I sit up. "No, I wasn't sleeping."
I feel very weird. I guess Marsha does too, because she keeps glancing at her feet.
I point to a chair. "Have a seat," I say too cheerfully.
I think about hopping out of bed, getting dressed, and presenting myself as an actual human being. But I'm in a T-shirt and boxers, and I feel funny having her see me like that. So I stay in bed with the covers over me.
Marsha sits in my chair and leans toward me. "I know this is strange, Reed. I didn't know if I should come, but. . . It's just . . . I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to talk to you earlier . . . You looked so sad in school all week. And I read what you wrote on the site. . . ." She frowns. "You're not a failure, Reed. I . . . I really wanted things to work out between us. But I can see why you liked Ronnie so much. Because she was always nice to you and I . . . wasn't." She gives me a small smile. "It's my loss. Really."
My jaw falls to the floor.
She goes on. "Reed, you're gonna find someone else. I know you don't think so, but you will. And, well, the girl who gets you in the end is going to be lucky. Really, really lucky. I . . . I wanted you to know that. I wanted to tell you. That's all. That's all I wanted to say. You were so nice to me when . . . well, you know . . . I wanted to do something nice for you too."
She gets up. When I don't reply, she heads for the door.
"Marsha," I call out after her. "Thank you."
She smiles. "Hey, I heard your grandmother won the state motto contest. That's great."
"New Jersey," I say, "Where Anything Is Possible."
After Marsha leaves, I jump out of bed and get dressed. I'm going to talk to Ronnie today. I'm going to tell her she's right. We were boyfriend /girlfriend for a little more than a month. We were best friends for a little more than twelve years. Even I can see the significance of that.
But there's something I need to do first.
. . .
I park my car at the Woodrow Wilson Basketball Courts at the George Washington Municipal Park. And this time, I open my door and walk right up to her.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi," she answers. "I've been wondering when you'd finally get out of your car."
Great. She thinks I'm a stalker. Or a perv.
I take a deep breath. "Want to get a coffee somewhere?
With me?"
"Yeah, I would like that a lot," she says, smiling.
I smile back. "I'm Reed, by the way."
"I know."
I cock my head to the side. "Do I know you?"
"Yeah, you do. I'm Mallory but you might know me as . . . flowering garlic."
The Girlfriend Project Page 13
