Science is science.
Things add up. Things make sense.
I can't make sense of this at all.
Grandma thinks there's nothing I'm not good at.
But the truth is, if it isn't in a textbook, I'm not good at it.
This is depressing. But my sister doesn't notice my mood when I let myself into her house and make my presence known.
"Uncle Reed's here!" she yells upstairs, then turns to me and begins talking in that mile-a-minute speech pattern used by working moms everywhere. "German chocolate cake in the fridge, leftover veggie pizza, no Coke, make sure they take their multivitamins and brush their teeth and no video games past eight o'clock—gets them too wound up—if you decide to watch The Lion King be prepared to discuss the death scene afterward, I recommend Aladdin instead, make sure their milk is warmed, you might have to stay in the room with Neil till he falls asleep, Rachel and Danny too, Joely likes to dance to 'Rainbow Connection' before getting into bed. . . ."
My nieces and nephews hurl themselves down the stairs, pile on top of me, and pull me down to the carpet. There are four of them—two girls, two boys—all under the age of eight.
"I lost a tooth!"
"My new dolly poops!"
"I made it to Level Eight today!"
"Can I have three pieces of cake, and three slices of pizza, and three glasses of milk?"
You gotta say one thing about kids. They sure give you a lot of attention.
Christine smiles as she watches them climb all over me.
"They're crazy about you," she says.
"Well, see, I bribe them," I answer. "I have Tootsie Rolls in my pockets."
Christine's husband, Roger, appears beside her, slipping his arm around her waist and looking pleased with himself. It occurs to me that Roger was once my sister's boyfriend, that the two of them dated before getting married. But they've been married since I was seven, so I've never thought of the guy as anything but a husband and provider.
"What's good, yo?" Roger asks.
Talk about wack. Adults using slang to look cool. I could reply, "We straight, dawg, jus' chillin'." But that would make me sound as stupid as him.
"Where are you two lovebirds going?" I ask. I mean this as a joke, but Christine giggles, and for some reason, this depresses me even more.
"Dinner and dancing," she says.
'And more," Roger teases.
Ick. Gross. Puh-leez.
I do not want to think about this. Besides, isn't there something terribly wrong with this picture? Shouldn't my mother-of-four sister be sitting home in crusty sweatpants, inhaling microwavable pizza, and watching Disney movies with her brood? Shouldn't her seventeen-year-old stud of a brother be out on a hot date?
Lonnie's got a hot date—he's probably swapping spit with her in my backseat right now—my grandmother's got a hot date, Ronnie's probably out with Jonathan, even my parents said they were going out tonight.
I'm the only guy in the Garden State stuck at home on a Saturday night with a bunch of overexcited, sticky-fingered rugrats.
I remind myself next weekend will be different. Next weekend my life will change.
Take that, Roger.
. . .
We sing songs, eat German chocolate cake, make kettle corn, watch Aladdin, play video games, and watch cartoons. They're finally all asleep by ten o'clock.
I'm exhausted. And yet, now that it's quiet and I've got the place to myself, I feel worse than I did before.
I make myself a mug of Dutch hot chocolate and open my laptop on the coffee table in the living room. There's some old black-and-white movie playing on TCM. Casablanca, I think, with Humphrey Bogart.
I write an e-mail to Ronnie and Lonnie. I describe my history-in-the-making events in the library. Then I bombard them with questions.
wut does it mean?
BOTH ur asking-out questions worked!
need answers!
need info!
need nu tip list!
how to go on a date.
hurry!
pronto!
this is an emergency!
send help quickly!
I read over my e-mail before hitting SEND. The panic is a nice touch. I've got plenty of time—a whole week—but I want to get started as soon as possible. I don't want to screw up next weekend.
Loser feelings wash over me when I think about the sad fact that I have to ask my friends how to go on a date with a girl. But, hey, they're experts in the field. Why should I struggle when I can learn from their wisdom and experience?
I spend the rest of the night watching Bogie get the girl, lose the girl, get her again, and lose her again.
How You Doin'?
Exit 4
Sometimes, if the wind is blowing in the right direction, the delicious smells of Grandma's kitchen will carry clear over to Ronnie and Lonnie's house next door. The next morning, Lonnie's on our doorstep on cue, his nostrils having pointed the way.
"Cinnamon," he says definitively.
"The nose knows," I reply, and lead Lonnie into the kitchen.
'Ah, you're right on time, Lonnie," Grandma says. "I was just about to frost my blue-ribbon cinnamon buns."
Lonnie looks like he's waited his whole life to frost Grandma's blue-ribbon cinnamon buns. Grandma helps him get the hang of it and the two of them work together at the counter while I watch with amusement from the kitchen table. If only Marlborough Regional could see this!
Lonnie must be thinking this exact thought, because he keeps throwing me pleading looks. But he's got nothing to worry about. I'll never tell a soul Marlborough Regional's It Guy may have a secret love of frosting blue-ribbon cinnamon buns. I wonder why he cares, though. I mean, doesn't Lonnie know anything he does starts a trend? If Marlborough Regional knew their It Guy frosted blue-ribbon cinnamon buns, frosting blue-ribbon cinnamon buns would be the next big thing.
When Grandma and Lonnie are done with their frosting work, Grandma gives us each two buns, and we all sit together at the kitchen table. Grandma opens her laptop.
"Now you have to help me with my mottos," she says.
"I got one," Lonnie says, stuffing an entire bun into his mouth. "New Jersey: What's That Smell?"
Grandma laughs.
I add, "Or how about, New Jersey: You Get Used to the Smell."
Grandma shakes her head. "Poor New Jersey. So loathed and so mocked."
"It's so bad, it's good," I say.
Grandma nods. "True. When you're that self-deprecating, you've reached a healthy self-confidence. Just like real life."
We both look at her blankly.
Grandma continues, "Identity, image, finding yourself. That's what it's about, gents."
While I try to understand this, Lonnie puts in, "We can make fun of it 'cause we live here."
I have a feeling Grandma meant something else entirely, but I don't interrupt Lonnie and neither does Grandma.
"New Jersey is actually kinda cool," Lonnie goes on. "We did invent the pork roll."
Grandma grins. 'And the drive-in theater."
"And the boardwalk," I say.
'And baseball," Lonnie says.
It's true. New Jersey may be America's armpit—and proud of it—but we did produce those things, not to mention college football, Italian hot dogs, the lightbulb, Bruce Springsteen, Jon Bonjovi, Queen Latifah, John Travolta, Ray Liotta, Frank Sinatra, and Kelly Ripa. And that's just a partial list.
"How about, New Jersey: Everything You've Heard Is True," Grandma says.
"Or New Jersey: We Can Have You Killed," Lonnie says.
"Or New Jersey: Most of Our Elected Officials Have Not Been Indicted," I say.
Grandma chuckles. "Well, gents, I think you've given me enough to work with. I hereby release you from further motto and frosting duties. And, please, take these with you."
I take the tray of blue-ribbon cinnamon buns, and Lonnie and I go up to my room. When we get there, Lonnie grabs a bun, devours it whole, and says,
"Got your e-mail. You telling the truth?"
"Sure," I reply, a bit startled.
"Two girls, Reed?"
"Um, yeah, two," I mumble.
Lonnie shakes his head. "Unbelievable."
"What?"
"You ask out two girls and they both say yes."
"So? You ask out ten girls a day and they all say yes."
Lonnie gives me a withering look.
"What?" I ask.
He cracks his knuckles noisily. "I get shot down all the time."
I snort. "Not much."
"Yes much."
"But—"
"It happens. Okay? I don't like to broadcast it." He frowns. "Doesn't go with my image."
Image? Huh.
The doorbell rings. Half a second later, Ronnie has bounded into the room and flopped onto my bed.
"It isn't calculus," she declares. "That's why you're confused, Reed."
"What?" I mutter.
Ronnie talks very slowly. "There's no right answer, Reed. There isn't one way. Both questions worked because both questions worked. Let it go." She reaches for the last bun, beating Lonnie by only a hair.
"Hog," she mumbles, watching Lonnie chew his bun with cowlike precision.
"I'm a growing boy," he protests.
"You're a growing orca," she retorts.
"Guys," I say. The older we all get, the more they seem to ride each other.
They both turn to me.
"What would we do without you?" Ronnie asks, nibbling delicately on her bun. "We would've dismembered each other a long time ago."
"Absolutely," Lonnie agrees. "And with plenty of gusto."
'Anyway" I say impatiently.
"Anyway," Lonnie repeats. "She's right. Both asking-out questions worked because they just did. There are no answers here, Reed."
"But, if that's the way it is, how can I replicate it?" I ask.
Ronnie frowns. "Why would you want to 'replicate' it? This isn't a scientific experiment. Maybe one of these girls will end up being your girlfriend. What—you want a harem or something?"
Lonnie snorts. "What's wrong with a harem? And who says he's got to pick from these two? I say he asks out at least twenty more before he makes his final choice."
Ronnie rolls her eyes.
"I don't think I have the stomach for that," I say honestly.
"It gets easier, dude, trust me."
I don't know about that. I can't even bring myself to call these two girls to get directions to their houses. Ronnie leaves after a while, but Lonnie stays to jot down a "telephone script" and rehearse it with me three times before I decide to place the calls. My insides are swirling with overzealous pterodactyls.
Lonnie sits on my bed while I talk to Sarah the belly-bearing sexy girl, shooting me nonstop, unreadable hand signals as if he's landing an F-14 on an aircraft carrier. I finally decide I want him out of my room when I call Janet. He seems put out by this.
"Kicking me out, Reed? Your coach and consultant and best buddy in the world?"
"Nothing personal, Lonnie," I say. "You're making me nervous."
"No more hand signals," he promises.
I run my fingers through my hair distractedly. "I feel like you're scoring me. Like you're going to hold up a card with a number on it."
"Maybe it'll be a perfect ten."
"Or a minus ten."
"You're freaking out, pal."
He's right. I feel like hurling Grandma's blue-ribbon cinnamon buns into the John.
"I don't know if I can go through with this," I say weakly.
He looks concerned. "Chill, dude, chill. It's just two dates with two girls."
"Easy for you to say. You've got an infinite supply. Doesn't matter if you screw up with one or two."
He lets out a laugh. "First of all, you're not gonna screw up. Second, even if you do, you've got an infinite supply now too."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do," he says firmly. His voice changes, gets more serious. "Third, this isn't a test you can ace or fail, Reed. Nobody's going to give you a grade on it—life's not a school transcript. You can get Cs and Ds instead of A-pluses in real life and still be okay. There's no Ivy League for girls."
I don't know how to answer. Lonnie's a bright guy, but he doesn't take AP classes. He'll go to college, but not Princeton. And yet, he understands me better than I understand myself. What he just said to me is brilliant—pure unadulterated brilliance.
I look down at my sneakers. "I'm not used to not being good at something," I mutter, not knowing how he'll react to this. I don't know how to react to it myself.
"How do you know you're not good at this?" he asks quietly. "Maybe you're the best there ever was."
I smile. "I think you get that title."
He laughs. "I don't think so. Besides, Reed, you asked out two girls and they both said yes. You just got off the phone with one of them and you kicked butt."
"But I haven't gone on the dates yet. And remember how I screwed up with Rhonda and Marsha?"
"Forget Rhonda and Marsha. Think Sarah. Think Janet." He gets up. "I'll be at home if you need me."
I reluctantly call Janet after Lonnie leaves. This time, the conversation is much easier. Maybe I'm getting better at this. Or maybe I just know Janet better. Either way, I feel okay about it. I sit on my bed and open my laptop.
Screaming Eagle: rodger.
StudMonkey: told yoo.
Screaming Eagle: now i need 2 actually get thru these d8s.
StudMonkey: get thru? supposed 2 be FUN.
Screaming Eagle: RLY?
StudMonkey: read ur list.
I log off and take out my latest tip list.
How to Go on a Date
1. Do the gentleman thing and open the car door for her.
From Lonnie:
Wait till she's all the way inside before you shut the door or you'll be taking a short trip to the nearest hospital and spending your hot date in the emergency room.
2. Pay for the date unless she insists.
But if you're taking out Ponald Trump's daughter, let her pay for everything and order lobster tails and filet mignon.
3. Don't fart, pick your snot locker, scratch, or pop zits.
Do they think I'm a complete moron?
4. Shave extra-extra-closely.
Ready to have your face rubbed by soft girly-hands?
I feel my neck go hot at that one.
5. Trim nose hairs.
Well, duh. Who wants to stare at nose hairs?
6. Make sure your feet don't stink. Wear clean socks and clean underwear. Brush and floss. Trim your fingernails. And toenails.
This is beginning to sound like Introductory Hygiene for Disgusting Boys 101. Besides, what have my toenails got to do with anything?
7. Wear cologne. Girls like their guy to smell good.
Under no circumstances are you to slap your old man's Old spice anywhere on your person.
8. Breath mints, breath mints, breath mints. You can't ever have enough breath mints.
I go to Costco that week and buy out nearly the whole section.
I'm taking this seriously.
. . .
I run into a major problem with Number 7.
I've showered, shaved, brushed, flossed, trimmed my nose hairs, trimmed my fingernails, and trimmed my toenails for my date with Sarah on Friday when it dawns on me that I don't own any cologne—and I don't have time to run out and buy any.
Red Alert! Red Alert!
How could I have allowed this to happen?
I've had Ronnie and Lonnie's tip list in front of my face for a week! I have no excuse for screwing this up.
I race into my parents' bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist and start frantically rummaging through their cabinets, but then I remember I'm not supposed to use anything my dad uses:
Under no circumstances are you to slap
your old man's Old spice anywhere on your person.
Now what?
&nb
sp; Heart-stopping panic washes over me.
Should I just. . . skip it?
But what if it's really important?
What if it's essential?
I have so little experience with this stuff.
I start to feel way out of my league, biologically incapable, never going to get it. . .
Not Good at This.
No matter how many tip lists Ronnie and Lonnie give me.
I should stick to what I know.
I can't do it.
At that moment, the telephone rings.
"Just checking up on my favorite Jersey guy," Ronnie says pleasantly.
I've never heard anything sweeter.
"Idon'thaveanycologneandldon'tknowhattodo!" I blurt out in a single sentence, not sure if Ronnie will be able to decipher it.
But she does, of course.
"We're coming right over, Reed."
I throw on a robe, make myself sit on my bed, and don't move a muscle.
The doorbell rings. The cavalry has arrived.
"I'll be the official sniffer," Ronnie announces as she and Lonnie rush into my room. Each of them is carrying a bunch of tiny bottles of different shades of glass. Lonnie lets loose a squirt to the left side of my neck.
"Hey! I wasn't ready!" I protest, jumping out of the way.
He ignores me, and Ronnie leans forward, thrusting her nose between my neck and shoulder.
"Oooh, nice," she murmurs.
Her touch gives me uncontrollable chills, and I step away, but Lonnie squirts me again, this time to the right side of my neck.
"Hey!" I cry.
"All part of the pretending package," Lonnie says as Ronnie dives in again.
"Oooh, this one's nice too."
The Girlfriend Project Page 4