The Girlfriend Project (7 page)

"It isn't so bad," I say.

She places her hands on either side of my head. "You've got a gorgeous brain in there, Reed."

I want to take her hands in mine. I want to bring them to my lips and kiss them.

But the bell rings.

Who am I kidding? I wouldn't have done that anyway—bell or no bell.

I'm a wuss.

We get up and head out of the library together.

"I'm so excited for you, Reed! I can't wait to read the posts!" She turns to me and gives me a big hug.

I bury my face in her hair. It smells delicious. Like strawberries.

"Hey, hands off my girl, man."

It's Jonathan, Ronnie's big, hairy, varsity-wrestler, pea-brain boyfriend, his meaty paws grabbing for her. I let Ronnie go,
hiding my scowl.

"Oh, put a sock in it, Jonathan," Ronnie growls. "It's only Reed."

Only Reed.

I walk away, beyond hurt, beyond fuming.

She comes after me.

"Reed, I didn't mean it like that." She throws her arms around me again.

I forgive her on the spot. I can't help it. I hug her tightly and ignore the outrage on Jonathan's face.

'And it looks like you might get a few dates out of it," Lon­nie adds. "Which is all well and good, but what if they're dogs?"

Ronnie sighs. "Oh, Lonnie, why do you have to be such a pot-bellied porker?"

"Hey, I think that's a legitimate concern. Right, buddy?"

I don't reply, because I don't feel like I have the right to comment on this, what with my special history.

"Fine," Ronnie relents, "we'll ask them to post photos."

"No, no," I say. "It's okay."

"Woof! Woof!" Lonnie yelps.

"Come on, Lonnie, you don't mean that," I say.

He gives me a sheepish look. "Yeah, okay. But, hey, if this gets too big for you, you mind sharing some of the action?"

This is something new—Lonnie coming to me for dates. "Um, sure."

"So, what do you think, Reed?" Ronnie asks.

I can't help smiling. "It's pretty interesting," I say.

Most of the posts are tongue-in-cheek, but some are kind of insightful. They're not earth shattering, but they're not completely
worthless either. And frankly, I'm shocked that flowering garlic, DirtyGirl, and all star—whoever they are—want to go out
with me.

"You're going to be the most popular guy in school!" Ronnie gushes. She scrolls through the posts again. "I wonder who's who.
. . ."

People I don't know say hello to me in school. A pack of sophomore girls in identical tight jeans giggle as I walk by. And
someone has scrawled "Pick Me!" on my locker in bright red lipstick. Trying to smear it off with the back of my hand only
makes it worse. I finally have to ask the janitor for help, and it takes three foul-smelling detergents to make it go away.

I'm flabbergasted. By third period of the fourth day, my nerves are shot. Now I know why celebrities punch out paparazzi.

Rhonda Wharton lingers at my locker between first and second periods on the fifth day as I'm getting ready to make a run for
AP Biology.

"I checked out your Web site, Reed," she says shyly, batting her eyelashes at me. Batting her eyelashes at me! She starts
to say something four times as I absently pull textbooks out of my locker. But she stops each time. I wait for her to finish,
but if I don't leave in the next two seconds, I'll be late. As it is, I've got to sprint clear over to the other side of the
building.

"I'm sorry, Rhonda, I gotta go," I finally mutter. "Catch ya later?"

She looks so disappointed I want to rub my eyes in disbelief. Rhonda Wharton, a girl I've secretly admired from afar since
we were twelve years old, doesn't want me to leave? I turn to go, but she puts a hand on my arm, which has the effect of instantly
stopping me in my tracks.

"You . . . Me . . . We . . . ," she murmurs.

I like the sound of this a lot, but it also makes me nervous. Still, I don't move a muscle. There's no way I'm shrugging off
Rhonda Wharton—not even if I get a detention for being late.

I don't get it.

Rhonda Wharton's never given me the time of day. Now she's practically stalking me.

What's happening?

Celebrity? Fame? Hype? Image?

Whatever it is, there's something not right about it.

I know I sound like a broken record, but I have to say it again.

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."

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 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?"

It sure sounded good, though.

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.

"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."