I'm the same guy.
I'm shaking my head when I meet Ronnie and Lonnie for lunch at our usual table in the school cafeteria. I take one bite of my soggy round pizza-for-one and decide my stomach can't handle any more. Besides, the cheese tastes fake, the sauce is soupy, and the pizza's still frozen in the middle. There's a Law of the Universe out there, I know, that demands school cafeterias serve inedible food. Luckier districts may have Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, and McDonald's in their school cafeterias, but our menu is still trapped in a lunchtime Ice Age.
I tell Ronnie and Lonnie everything about my day. Ronnie's eyes grow rounder and rounder.
"I knew it!" she cries excitedly "I knew it, I knew it, I knew it."
"But this is no different than Floyd Flavin getting arrested last year," I say. "It's hype—all hype." I think this is a mature attitude, but Lonnie's not impressed.
"Go with it, dude," he says, ripping a chunk out of my pizza, shoving it into his mouth, and grimacing. "Milk it."
"But it's not real, Lonnie, it's hype."
"So what?" There's an annoyance in his voice—an annoyance I'm coming to know well since we started this Girlfriend Project. "The public's fickle. Act on the moment. You're the flavor of the month. Next month someone else will be It."
I try not to frown, but I can't help thinking that the differences between the two of us have been highlighted so much in the past few weeks it's astounding we're friends at all. When did Lonnie become so . . . superficial? Was he always like this? On the other hand, who am I to judge? The last thing I want to be is a whiny, ungrateful, goody-two-shoes Boy Scout—even though technically I am a Boy Scout.
Rhonda Wharton walks across the school cafeteria toward our table. She's hugging her textbooks to her chest nervously, but this shy-schoolgirl thing only makes her more adorable.
I stare down at my tray as she approaches our table, wondering if I should spend the rest of the period in the library. I'm weighing my options for so long I fail to notice Rhonda standing quietly in front of our table, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, waiting for me to look up. When I don't, she whispers my name, and that's when it dawns on me. She's walked clear across the school cafeteria, in plain view of everybody, to see me.
I gaze up at her with my mouth open. Then I come to my senses. It isn't right for her to stand there, looking so awkward and uneasy, while I'm sitting down. So I scramble to my feet, so quickly I almost knock over my chair. It isn't a smooth gesture, but I think she appreciates it anyway, because she smiles.
I shoot my friends a quick glance. It lasts for only a second, but I manage to catch Lonnie's mischievous wink and a go-for-it-Reed signal from Ronnie.
I decide in that instant I've been too hard on them, especially on Lonnie. He's my best friend—he only wants to help me. I decide I'm going to do what he wants. I'm going to make him proud. I inhale deeply, take Rhonda's elbow, and lead her to a quiet corner where we can talk privately. It takes everything out of me to do this, but I'm glad I do. In a way, it's downright suave. And Rhonda seems to appreciate it too, because she's practically beaming at me.
She fastens me with doe eyes that make me want to melt on the spot. "Reed, will you . . . Can you . . . Do you think you can . . . give me a ride home today . . . after school?"
I smile. "It would be my pleasure, Rhonda. Reed's Car Service is always at your service."
Rhonda giggles, but I have to wonder, Where on earth did that come from? That wasn't me talking at all. That was . . . Lonnie.
It sure sounded good, though.
. . .
Rhonda lives a ways from school in one of those new housing developments on the edge of Marlborough. McMansions, I call them. The land on which Rhonda's house is built used to be an apple orchard, but the only trace of that quaint past these days is the name of the development: Apple Tree Estates.
I guess I don't have to tell you New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the country. And we have the most shopping malls per square mile of any area in the world.
On the other hand, did you know we have more racehorses than Kentucky does?
We're pretty complicated, I guess.
Like a lot of other things.
Rhonda and I make awkward small talk on the way to her house. Honestly, I'm relieved when I finally pull into her driveway. I can't take much more of this. It's nerve-wracking. Besides, I don't have any breath mints on me.
"Do you want to . . . come in?" Rhonda asks, and her cheeks immediately turn scarlet.
I freeze. My mouth replies, "I have to go to work."
This is a completely true statement, but the way it comes out sounds like I'm making excuses, like I don't want to come in at all, which is partly true and partly false. Of course I want to come in! On the other hand, I'll probably drop dead before I reach the front door. I've never, ever been inside a girl's house—not counting Ronnie—and I don't know the first thing about it. This is too much. I need a tip list! And some breath mints!
"Oh, okay," Rhonda mumbles, staring down at her lap, looking hurt.
For crying out loud!
Why am I so inept?
Can't I say something? Can't I do something?
"I'm s-sorry" I stammer, then, "Maybe another time?"
This works. Rhonda smiles.
Then she slides forward and tries to kiss me.
I let out a cry of surprise and turn my head in the wrong direction. Rhonda ends up with a mouthful of my hair. She pulls back, her face purple with embarrassment.
I want to die. Somebody, please, put me out of my misery.
Rhonda mumbles something I can't understand, opens her door, and practically runs into the house.
I sit on her driveway and bang my head on the steering wheel.
. . .
But my rotten day's still not over. Because when I get to work, Janet's got some choice words for me.
"You should've just said so," she snarls when I say hello to her. "About not going out with someone you work with. How was I supposed to know that? I had no idea. If you'd just told me . . . it's so inconsiderate. You could've said something, you know."
I stand there and take her abuse without uttering a single word in my defense, but what's going through my mind is this:
The priesthood is looking better than ever.
New Jersy:
Big Hair, Big Heart
Exit 6
When I get home, Grandma is at the kitchen table typing away on her laptop, and I'm glad, because I need to talk to someone.
"I made your favorite, Reed," she says with a smile, indicating a peanut butter pie on the counter.
"Wow," I reply. This is exactly what I need. I cut myself a slice and carry it to the kitchen table.
"New Jersey," Grandma says as I sit down beside her, "The Traffic Will Kill You. Have a Nice Day."
"New Jersey," I say, "Where the Finger Is the Official State Greeting."
Grandma laughs. "Another winner." She types away.
I wait for her to finish, then say, "Grandma, remember that time you said . . . New Jersey had an . . . identity problem?"
She looks up, giving me her full attention.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but I continue, "Well, um, why is that?"
I wonder if she knows what I'm getting at. She looks at me thoughtfully for a minute, then answers, "I guess it's that New Jersey doesn't know where it wants to go. It's poised on a period of great change. And change is difficult."
That's it exactly!
Grandma eyes me closely. "We can't grow without change, Reed. Yet growing is painful. Maybe that's why we call it 'growing pains.'"
"Growing pains," I repeat slowly.
"We have to grow, Reed," Grandma goes on. "Without growth, we stagnate."
This is getting murky, but it's helpful, and I have a feeling Grandma knows it.
"New Jersey," I say, feeling suddenly inspired, "We'll Let You Know When We Figure It Out."
"New Jersey," Grandma responds, "Our Gran
dsons Are Geniuses."
I feel a little better about everything. But, unfortunately, it doesn't last.
The following week is exactly the same as the week before.
People I don't know say hello to me in school, sophomore girls giggle, freshman boys applaud, hoot, and high-five me.
We get more posts, more requests for dates with me, and pleas for more survey questions. I cannot for the life of me figure out how one simple Web page—five measly questions—has caused such a stir.
"It's not that, Reed," Ronnie explains to me when we're on my Amish rug a week and a half later, reading everything. "It's not the questions. It's you—you advertising that you're looking for a girlfriend—your Girlfriend Project."
"Every guy in America's looking for a girlfriend," I say. "Why am I getting all the attention?"
"That's not true," Ronnie replies. "Lots of guys are just looking for action. You want a commitment. Combine that with you being cute and sweet and smart. . ."
I lower my eyes, even though this is music to my ears, especially from her.
"I'm not surprised at all," Ronnie goes on. "It's taken on a life of its own."
And this brings us to the Big Issue. "Well," I mumble, "then I think it's time to kill it, Ronnie."
"Kill it?" She looks absolutely scandalized. "No way."
"But this Web site is making my life miserable!" I say, not meaning to sound so pathetic, but it's the truth.
Ronnie snorts. "Oh, sure, Reed, it's so miserable having girls throw themselves at you."
I must be a dork down to my bone marrow, because I know other guys would kill for this setup. But this isn't what I wanted at all. How can I make her understand that?
"I wanted a girlfriend, Ronnie, remember? Not girls throwing themselves at me."
"But you've got to date girls to find a girlfriend."
What I want to say is, "I already know who I want."
Instead I say, "I don't want to date girls."
She gazes at me for a long time. I hope she'll finally get it.
But instead, she asks, "Are you gay?"
"No!"
"It's okay if you are . . ."
"I'm not!"
She looks puzzled. "I don't understand, Reed, really. Why don't you want to date girls?"
Just tell her.
"Because . . . because . . ."
She moves closer to me. "Because you're shy and nervous and confused?"
Yes, yes, and yes. But that's not it at all.
"You can't give up, Reed, you have to keep trying. I know it's hard for you. You're learning."
"But everything's coming out wrong!" I yell.
It had nearly killed me to tell Lonnie about the botched-up kiss with Rhonda the other day. It nearly killed him too. I think he's downright revolted by me now.
"Take it off, Ronnie," I say, then feel my face flame. That sounds like something other than what I intended. I wonder if that's how Ronnie will hear it. But she doesn't, and even though it's absurd, that really depresses me.
"No, Reed, I'm not taking it off. The Web site stays."
"But it's my life you're playing with!"
"You just need a little help, that's all."
'A little help? I can't even kiss a girl!"
I'm losing it. I don't want to lose it. Maybe in front of Lonnie, but not in front of her.
"You may think you're beyond help, but everyone else thinks differently. Samantha Spinner invited you to her party this weekend, remember? That's something."
"I don't care."
"You're hot now."
'Aren't you listening? I said, I don't care." I hate the tone I'm using with her, but I'm basically at my wit's end. I peer at her to see how out-of-line I am. She doesn't look angry. She looks concerned.
She touches my hair. I wish she'd stop touching me. It only makes things worse.
"Please give it more time. A few weeks? Please, Reed?"
"Okay," I mutter in defeat.
Has Ronnie ever noticed she can make me do anything she wants?
. . .
I've always liked Ronnie. A lot. A whole lot.
But that doesn't mean I ever expected anything.
She kept getting prettier and prettier, more and more popular, more and more desirable, more and more out of my league.
She's always hugged me, touched me, kissed my cheek, played with my hair. I knew she meant nothing by it. I was probably like another brother to her.
I had resigned myself to the fact that I'd never get her in a million years. I had accepted it.
Until now.
The fact of the matter is, she's the girlfriend I want at the end of this dumb Girlfriend Project.
It's no contest.
I would never have allowed myself to think this before all of this started. But now I can't help it.
I can't stop thinking that maybe I have a chance with her now.
Maybe.
On the other hand, she has a serious boyfriend. She's always had serious boyfriends.
I suppose I could get into other girls. I would've liked kissing Rhonda Wharton. I liked Marsha Peterman for years. I thought Janet and Sarah were both cute.
But Ronnie's the one I really want.
Ronnie's the one who's always been my friend; the one who sent me Valentines, the one who saw beyond my glasses and braces and dorkiness, the one who saved me from drowning.
Literally. And in general.
Ronnie gets me.
I wish I could get her.
But this stupid Web site isn't getting me closer to that.
In fact, it's doing the opposite.
. . .
I go through an hour's version of I Have Nothing to Wear! with Lonnie before Samantha Spinner's party. I don't mean me. I'm fine in my favorite jeans and a cargo shirt. I mean him.
"Too Afghanistan," he says of a pair of desert-camouflage pants.
"Too Korea," he says of a pair of olive cargo pants.
"Too South Bronx," he says of a pair of torn jeans.
"Lonnie, you're worse than a girl," I say.
"I didn't ask you if I was fat," he counters. "Besides, you're the only one who gets to see the real Lonnie White in all his insecure glory."
That's true. The real world only gets to see His Coolness. It's only me who gets to see the real guy under that. Of all people, I should know better than to give him a hard time about it.
"Anyway," Lonnie goes on, "I hear Deena will be there."
"You want Deena back?"
"Yup."
"Why don't you call her?"
"Because she might say no, genius."
"To you?"
"I ain't an American Idol, Reed."
"Why do you need to be so cool, Lonnie?" I ask.
Lonnie pauses, and I expect another smart reply, but instead, he says, "Because people expect it."
"Your public?" I say, half-joking but also half-serious.
"You think it's easy being me?" he asks, and his voice is serious.
It makes me think about all the attention I've been getting lately. It's nice, I suppose, but it's also hard. Lonnie must pick up on this thought, because he says, "I bet you sometimes wish for your dork days back, Reed."
I shift uncomfortably. "It's less confusing."
Lonnie looks disgusted. "Enough of this Oprah crap, let's go to the party already."
I guess Lonnie's sensitive side has limits. But it's easier talking to Ronnie about this kind of stuff anyway.
Samantha Spinner's party is one of those events that separates the nerds from the beautiful people. If you're here, you're here, if you know what I mean.
Lonnie and I arrive just after 10 p.m. There are so many cars parked along the road I have to find a spot for my Range Rover three blocks away.
Samantha's house is huge and fancy, with an iron gate in front of it and a giant brick mailbox. There are people everywhere, all over the lawns, on the curved driveway, crowded by the front doors. Lonnie says hello to a gazillion
girls, and shockingly, they all seem to know me too.
Now, you may wonder why I wasn't the happy recipient of Lonnie's leftovers all these years. But really, with him as the main course, who'd look at me? I wasn't good enough to be his doggie bag.
When we get inside Samantha's house, we're blasted with loud music. In the kitchen, people are playing a drinking game. Other people are leaning against the counters, talking. I don't know if Samantha's parents are around or not, but even though she's not serving, people always bring their own.
In the living room, a bunch of girls in tight jeans are dancing—bumping and grinding to the music. Lonnie and I stand in the doorway and watch them. I think every guy in the place is watching them.
"Enjoying the entertainment?" someone asks Lonnie.
I look down to see Deena Winters, Lonnie's ex-girlfriend, standing next to him.
Lonnie puts his arm around her. 'Actually I prefer my entertainment to be the one-on-one kind," he says.
A few hours ago, he was a nervous wreck about this girl. Now he's so smooth, so confident, so sure of himself; it makes me wonder which Lonnie is the real one.
Where does it all come from? Why don't I ever feel that way?
"Catch ya later, buddy," he says to me with a wink.
Oh, great. Now he could be occupied for hours. I'm Lonnie's ride home—which means I'm stuck here—by myself. Where's Ronnie? She's supposed to be here with Jonathan. I stand there wondering what to do with myself when a bouncy girl with fiery red hair waltzes over.
"You're that guy, aren't you?" she asks.
I look behind me. She laughs, thinking I did that on purpose.
"You should put your picture on your site. You'd get even more posts. But I guess you don't need any more. So, have you decided? Have you found the right girl?"
"No," I say, understanding now. "Not yet." I still can't get used to comments like this about my appearance.
The girl smiles. She's got a great body. I'm about to ask for her name when someone walks right-smack into me. I look down into the lovely face of Marsha Peterman. She's glassy-eyed, and I realize she's probably drunk. She wobbles forward, I lean toward her instinctively, and she falls right into my arms.
The Girlfriend Project Page 7