The Girlfriend Project (10 page)

But the only reply I get is the sound of her ball pounding on the court. It seems to say:

"Reed—Reed—Reed—Reed."

"You're—killing—me."

"Grandma's out with Leo," she sings. "Isn't that sweet? Just goes to show you there's never a wrong time for romance."

It must be my face, because Mom asks, "What's wrong, hon? What is it?"

"Nothing," I say automatically.

"Oh, Reed, something's wrong," she says. "Here, sit down."

I let her lead me to a chair at the kitchen table and she sits down next to me. I'm transported all of a sudden back to first
grade, coming home from school, sitting in the kitchen with her, eating celery sticks slathered with peanut butter, telling
her all about my day. I never spared a single detail—I even memorized the school lunch menu every day so I could report it
back to her—and Mom always listened raptly and with absolute fascination, as if we were having the most riveting conversation
in the world.

When did those days end? How come I stopped talking to her? Why didn't I tell her about my day anymore?

"What's the matter, sweetie?" she asks softly. "You look so sad."

"I'm not sad," I lie, looking away.

She waits a minute. "Well, all right," she finally says, getting up. "If you say so."

She doesn't say this with impatience and I know she's just giving me my space. Or maybe she's like my dad, using her therapist's
skills to try and pull it out of me.

I don't say anything, but I don't get up either. I sit and watch her chop onions at the counter. Her eyes get all teary.

She wipes them with a paper towel.

"Funny, isn't it? You'd think I was upset, if you didn't know about onions. I guess people can seem upset even when they're
not."

I look away, then back. "Why is life so messed up?"

She's back at the table in two seconds flat. "Life, Reed?

What's the matter? What's messed up?"

I hesitate. "Nothing," I finally mumble.

She waits. "All right, Reed, you know where to find me if you need me. Okay?"

"Okay," I say.

I sit there a little while longer, brooding, trying to decide whether I want to talk or not, then I give up and go to my room.

"I need your help, Reed, I'm desperate. I need a good pair of hands that know how to work with bread dough."

I play along. I roll up my sleeves and put up my hands for her inspection. "How are these?" I ask. "Will these do?" She pretends
to examine them. "You know, I think they're perfect."

We prepare a batch of rye bread dough and knead it side by side at the counter. Grandma has always liked me to help her with
her baking. I'm sure I'm the only guy in school who can make pineapple upside-down cake from scratch.

Grandma observes my technique. "Oh, you're good, Reed, you're very good. When you were three years old, you know, you marched
in here and demanded to learn how to bake. You wouldn't take no for an answer. You said, Tm going to be the world's best egg-cracker,
Grandma.'"

I let out a laugh. "I said that?"

"Oh, yes," she replies. "You were a take-charge kind of three-year-old. Defeat wasn't in your vocabulary."

Grandma seems to sense my feelings, because she goes on. "You're the same way now, you know, persistent and unbeatable. That's
why you've done so well."

Grandma's right.

I've been pummeling myself nonstop, telling myself what a loser I am, but the truth really is . . . I Am Making Progress!

I mean, I kissed two girls in two days!

I'm a "phenomenal kisser"!

By the time our fresh-baked rye bread comes out of the oven, I'm feeling better.

Things may not be all that great, but it's hard not to be happy when you're eating warm, homemade bread that you kneaded with
your grandmother.

"HotStud's pretty funny—in an extremely disturbed way," I say.

"Yeah," Ronnie replies absently.

We're on my Amish rug in front of my laptop, but Ronnie's staring blankly across the room.

"Is something wrong?" I ask her.

She shoots me a look of pure, uncensored revulsion. It totally startles me.

'Are you mad at me, Ronnie?" I ask. "What is it? What'd I do?"

What happens next is a time bomb. I set it off and it explodes in my face.

"Ronnie . . . ," I say, getting to my feet and reaching for her, but she whirls away from me.

"You were madly in love with Marsha Peterman for four years—and now she's begging you to go out with her! And Rhonda Wharton
would go out with you in a minute! And they're not 'dogs'"—she wiggles her fingers to indicate quotation marks—"but you couldn't
care less!"

"Ronnie . . . ," I say, reaching for her again, but this time she recoils from me as if I've hurt her.

"You said you wanted a girlfriend!" she goes on, and her voice breaks. "Well, I'm sorry none of us are brilliant like you!
I'm sorry none of us are going to Princeton!"

"It's not that," I say desperately. "I swear, Ronnie, I don't care about that."

She puts her hands on her hips. "Well, what is it then, Reed?"

I swallow hard. "I . . . I like somebody else."

"She's not a mystery girl," I say quietly.

"Name her."

I look away.

"You're lying, Reed."

"No . . ."

"You think this is funny?"

"Ronnie, please . . ."

She sniffles. "You just don't care."

I throw my arms around her, but she breaks away with such ferocity it makes me take a step backward.

"You're doing this on purpose."

"No!"

She narrows her eyes at me. "For—the—last—time. Who is it?"

"It's . . . It's . . ."

Have you ever struggled to reach for something that's just out of range of your fingers? That's how I feel at that moment.
I'm stretching myself as hard as possible to get to it, and I think I may almost have it in my grip, when Ronnie snarls, "I
always thought it was because you were shy, Reed, but I was wrong." She pauses, then hisses, "You think you're better than
everyone else."

"No," I whisper.

"I'm sick of you, Reed."

And she stomps out.

Talk about an image problem.

How can my best friend—a person I've known since I was five, a person I thought knew me better than anyone else—think that
about me?

I feel like throwing up.

For the past hour, I've been sitting on the floor cradling my pounding head in my hands. I finally open my laptop.

I wish I had a clue how to make this work. I finally confess everything in an e-mail:

I do, however, save it in my DRAFTS folder.

Marsha takes matters into her own hands by cornering me as I come out of AP Chemistry.

"I'm sorry about the beer breath thing on the Web site, Marsha," I say, figuring that's why she's come to see me. "I'll take
it off."

"Oh, that's okay, I thought it was funny," she says.

What's this? Marsha Peterman being a good sport?

I start to move away, figuring I'll do the asking-to-the-dance thing at the end of the day, but Marsha asks, "Reed, um, are
you going to the, um, Fall Dance?"

I stare at her. "Oh, well, actually, I'm glad you asked. . . ."

"You are?" she says, her face lighting up. "How come? Because you want to . . . ask me?"

I open my mouth, then close it. She's completely knocked the wind out of my sails.

"Um, yeah," I say, figuring I'll make it formal for the record anyway. "Would you like to go with me?"

"Sure, Reed, I'd love to go with you," she answers, smiling. "I can't wait."

I realize I'm different, and not just on the outside. I'm not shuffling my feet, I'm not stuttering, my heart's not pounding
in my ears, I'm not blabbering about coconut and trout like I did a month ago at her locker.

I'm different than I was four years ago.

I'm different than I was a month ago.

We're in the school cafeteria and I've just told him about Marsha and the Fall Dance.

"That girl is hot for you."

I frown at that, and he catches it.

"Don't you like her?"

"Yeah," I say. "It's just. . . what she did to me four years ago."

"That was brutal," Lonnie says, nodding.

I'm grateful Lonnie understands this. I mean, I know four years is a pretty long time, and you're probably thinking I should
be over it by now. But like most guys, Lonnie gets the concept of a guy carrying a scar-for-life, inflicted by a girl he loved.

I realize in that moment I'm lucky to have best friends of two genders. Ronnie wouldn't understand this Marsha-rejection thing
as well as Lonnie. In fact, she'd probably call me a crybaby (But she'd apologize right afterward.) Yet it's usually much
easier to talk to Ronnie about this stuff than Lonnie.

Speaking of Ronnie, she's nowhere in sight, and I wonder if she's purposely avoiding me.

"Maybe you shouldn't have asked her," Lonnie says. "Maybe you should've said you'd think about it."

"I don't know," I say. "That's kind of cruel."

"Exactly."

"Nah," I say, shaking my head. "I couldn't do that to her."

"What about what she did to you, man?"

I think about it. "Maybe you're right. But it's too late now."

Lonnie seems thoughtful all of a sudden. "No, you're the one who's right, Reed. That's why you've got all these girls after
you. You're a . . . nice guy"

I think he's teasing me about this, but Lonnie's serious. "Why do I spend so much time making sure I'm not?"

I don't know if he's addressing this question to me or himself, but I reply, " Not . . . a nice guy?"

"Yeah," he says, looking suddenly and totally morose.

I feel like I should give him a real answer. "I guess being nice is kind of. . . dorky," I venture. "Girls like . . . bad
boys. So why shouldn't a guy make sure he's not too nice? You should just be yourself, Lonnie."

"I don't think I can," he answers softly. "I'm not even sure who I am."

"You'll figure it out," I say.

I realize this response is horribly inadequate, but I'm not sure what to say. I can't figure it out myself.

Ronnie suddenly plops down at the table, looking annoyed.

"Hey, Ronnie," I say nervously.

"Hey," she replies curtly.

My stomach twists up. "I asked . . . Marsha to the dance," I say, feeling very weird.

Ronnie studies me. "That's great, Reed. I'm glad you did."

Her words are friendly, but her tone isn't, and I wish I could confess everything right then and there. But I can't. The only
thing I can manage is, "Will you give me dance lessons so I'm not a total doofus?"

Ronnie laughs. "Of course, Reed, anytime." She smiles at me, and even though I know there's still something guarded behind
it, I feel better.