The Girlfriend Project (2 page)

"Hey, Marsha," I manage, trying not to ogle.

She gives me the whole wow-you're-like-a-different-person thing. Then she smiles wider. And waits. Expectantly.

"Coconut," I blurt out.

She looks spooked. Really, really spooked. Who can blame her? What kind of idiot says things like that?

"Do you like coconut?" I ask quickly, trying to recover.

She smiles!

"Yeah, I do, a lot," she says.

This might have worked if I let it alone. But no.

"That's great. I guess it could hurt a lot if you got bonked on the head with a coconut, but that's great. Great. Great."

She starts to dart her eyes around, like she's looking for the nearest exit.

I start to sweat. Now I have body odor to worry about too.

Think, I order myself. You've seen Lonnie do this a million times. How does he do it? What does he say? He makes it look so
easy! I beg my brain cells to give me the right words, but all I'm getting is Shakespeare.

Marsha arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. Then she smiles again. Could it be I've said the right thing?

"Yes," she breathes.

What's happening? What does this mean?

The smile slides off.

Buzzer! Wrong answer, Reed!

Her posture is changing. Her shoulders are turning away from me.

Say it. Say it. Say it.

One sentence.

"Marsha, um, will you . . . go . . . trout with me?"

She hesitates. "Trout?"

She gets a hurt look on her face. Like I've said something mean and nasty. Like I've just made fun of her.

"That isn't funny," she snaps.

She walks away.

I feel like someone's punched me in the gut.

I know he's holding back major cracking up. In Lonnie's world, this is the stuff of late-night talk shows.

We're in my Range Rover heading to IHOP after school. Lonnie claps my shoulder.

"Forget about it, dude. Besides, there's nothing a big stack of chocolate chip pancakes can't fix." He smacks his lips noisily.

But I barely hear him. "But why did it upset Marsha so much? What's so offensive about trout in the first place?"

Ronnie, in the backseat, leans forward. "It could be anything, Reed. Maybe Marsha's grandfather was a trout fisherman and
he fell overboard during a storm at sea. Maybe Marsha's aunt died choking on a trout bone."

"Maybe when Marsha was in third grade," Lonnie chimes in soberly, "someone called her Trout Wench. Or Trout Lips."

Ronnie plays with the hair at the back of my neck, giving me a colossal case of goose bumps. It momentarily takes my mind
off Marsha Peterman, but not long enough, unfortunately.

"Maybe . . . Marsha thought you were going to act out the balcony scene," Ronnie says dreamily. "Maybe she thought you were
going to tell her she was the sun."

Lonnie winks at me. "Quote some of those sonnets, dude, and you've got it made."

I'm speechless.

Quote sonnets? Act out balcony scenes?

I need drama lessons to get a date?

"That can't be right," I mutter. "It's crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy."

I feel like one of those people who talks to themselves.

I see myself in twenty years, wandering the streets of Jersey City in a ratty old coat filled with used Kleenex and reciting
lines from Shakespeare . . .

I know I'm being hard on them, but I can't help it. I'm mad. I'm really mad. I can't remember the last time I had such a rotten
day.

Lonnie stares ahead silently and Ronnie gets all quiet. I feel awful about what I've just said. They didn't deserve that at
all.

But Ronnie says, "No, you're right, Reed. You need more. Like I said. You're starting at the beginning. You need the basics."

Yet this feels downright insulting.

Is it really worth it?

We exit the car and Ronnie takes my hand. "We'll work on this, Reed, I promise."

I'm not sure how I feel about it, but I do feel terrible about yelling at her. "I'm sorry I bit your head off, Ronnie," I
say sheepishly.

"Screwed it up?" I supply in as casual a way as I can.

She giggles.

Well, it's true. Only I could bring coconut and trout into a question that should've been simple.

We enter the pancake house, the hostess shows us to our favorite U-shaped booth in the back, and we all slide in one by one.
Ronnie and Lonnie pick up their menus, but I drum my fingers on the table.

"There's still something, though," I say. "Even if Rhonda and Marsha did like me." Saying that out loud sounds positively
bizarre. I mean, they're two of the hottest girls in class and . . . I'm Professor Dork D. Dork.

"Why now?" I continue, turning this thought over aloud. "I asked Marsha Peterman out when we were freshmen and . . . she squashed
me like a stinkbug."

Ronnie looks up from her menu. "I think that's kind of obvious, Reed. Don't you think you're a . . . better specimen now?"

That's all the provocation I need. "There are two things wrong with that, Ronnie. First, I'm the same as I always was. Second,
if that's true, this is about. . . looks."

'And your point is?" Lonnie asks.

"I'm the same as I always was," I sputter. "I haven't changed."

"But you look different," Ronnie says.

I have no idea what I'm trying to argue, and it's hard enough making sense of it at an IHOP. All I know is, Ronnie and Lonnie
have always gotten me, and I wish they would now.

"It's okay to change, Reed," Ronnie says softly.

"But I haven't changed. I'm still—"

"Don't say it," Ronnie says.

"A dork."

She sighs. "You're not a dork." She leans toward me. "You're a hottie."

This comment makes my entire body burn from scalp to big toes. Why am I so like that about this?

"Better get used to it, beautiful," Ronnie says, reading my mind.

I make a snorting noise. "But, Ronnie, inside . . ."

I look away in embarrassment, but Ronnie's comment makes me instantly think of Valentine's Day. Every year, the junior and
senior classes sell carnations-for-delivery in school, and every year, Ronnie buys one for me. Next to the prom and Homecoming,
receiving a carnation on Valentine's Day is the biggest event of the year. Not getting one immediately brands you a loser—even
if you're a guy. But mine always says, "For my beautiful best friend."

It's funny. Thinking about it now makes me feel very weird, but I didn't feel that way when the carnations were delivered.
I was grateful. I mean, who else was going to send me one?

Maybe my "outside" has changed to match my "inside"—at least according to Ronnie—but I don't know if I'm ready to share either
with the world. Or maybe I'm not sure Ronnie's right—either way.

"Well. . . yeah," I admit.

Lonnie dives in headfirst. "Dude, what's wrong with being a physical object of lust? It's never bothered me."

I clear my throat noisily. "I don't know. It seems . . . dishonest."

Ronnie stares at me. "Well, then, I guess contact lenses are dishonest. And push-up bras. And high heels. I guess we need
to get rid of these things. Is that what you want, Reed?"

I come to the conclusion that I have no idea what I'm talking about. "No," I mumble. "But what if I get disfigured like .
. . the Elephant Man?"

"You're being melodramatic."

"Maybe I'm not ready for this," I say, finally getting to the point.

Lonnie takes over. "Look, buddy, next year you're going to be on your own. You have to do this. For your sake. This is good
for you. It's healthy."

"Yeah," Ronnie agrees. "Like yogurt."

They're right. . . and it scares me to death. But I mutter, "I don't eat yogurt. It has female hormones like estrogen in it.
And it's all fine and good for the two of you. You guys have never been alone."

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."

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."

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."