Read Online The Girlfriend Project by Robin Friedman - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin Friedman
Tags: Ages 12 & Up
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before Bingo starts, and
let her brag about me.
"Maybe you'll stay for a few rounds," one of the old ladies says to me.
"I'd love to, but I have too much to do," I say, which is a bald-faced lie on both counts. I have absolutely nothing to do,
but I can't play Bingo at the senior center on a Sunday afternoon. It might be all right, but come on. How low do I have to
go?
I say good-bye to Grandma and, on a whim, drive to the Woodrow Wilson Basketball Courts at the George Washington Municipal
Park to see if I can find Lonnie. But he isn't there.
That girl's there, however, shooting baskets by herself. I sit in the car and watch her.
Who is she?
What kind of guys does she like?
Does she think kids should be allowed to go extinct like the dodo? Does she have an image to keep up?
In the last few days, I successfully asked out two girls. Why can't I go up to her?
I'm still getting used to the idea that I look different than I used to look. I know I'm not repulsive. But cute? A stud?
Good for somebody's image? How is it possible? I feel the same way I always did—like a dorky loser who girls laugh at.
"I wish I could go up to you and talk to you," I say out loud in the car. "But I can't. I'm too scared. Well, I did ask out
two girls and they both said yes. Things didn't work out, though." I pause. "When I was a freshman, this girl I really liked
a lot—Marsha Peterman—turned my life into a living nightmare. See, she didn't just shoot me down, she did that giggle-and-point-at-the-loser-with-her-girlfriends
thing whenever I walked by for weeks afterward."
I think back to Marsha's incredible cruelty. 'Are you the kind of girl who does stuff like that?" I shake my head. "Did Marsha
think I didn't notice that? Did she think it wouldn't bother me? Why do girls do that?"
And why did I still like her?
. . .
New Jersey definitely has an image problem.
This has always interested me, but it's downright fascinating now. Maybe I'm mental, but I'm seeing . . . parallels.
Or maybe it's because I was born here, I'm going to college here, and I'll probably die here. Ronnie says I'm the Ultimate
Jersey Guy. I wrote an essay about this last year that was published in our local newspaper, The Asbury Park Press.
New Jersey and Us
Perfect or Not?
You know you're from Jersey when . . .
• You don't think "What exit?" jokes are funny.
• There's always one kid in every class named Tony.
• You've never pumped your own gas.
• You know how to navigate a circle and a jug handle.
• You know the two things above have to do with driving.
But New Jersey is actually cool.
Then I listed all the good things about the Garden State. See, actually, New Jersey has a lot going for it. For instance,
we're home to the Statue of Liberty— not that other state you're thinking of Jersey tomatoes and Jersey corn are the best you can buy. We have the most Revolutionary
War sites of any state. And the game Monopoly is named for the streets of Atlantic City.
But we keep pretty quiet about all those things. We're a pretty cool state, but we don't want anyone to know about it.
It definitely makes me think of other things . . .
I'm thinking about it in study hall a few days later. Study hall is the only class Ronnie and I have together. It's in the
library. Ronnie's at one of the library terminals typing away; I'm sitting next to her, doing my AP Calculus homework.
She lets out a cry of excitement. "Omygosh! We got our first posts at thegirlfriendproject.com!" She turns to me. "I told
you it would work! Told you, told you, told you!"
I'm shocked, but I pretend to be bored instead. "I need a nap," I say, and yawn loudly.
Ronnie punches me softly in the arm. "Nice try." Then she happens to catch a glimpse of my AP Calculus homework. She reads
aloud:
"The graph of x + 4xy — y = 3 is continuous for all real numbers except for one value, x = c. Use the rate of change of the equation to help you find c and classify
let her brag about me.
"Maybe you'll stay for a few rounds," one of the old ladies says to me.
"I'd love to, but I have too much to do," I say, which is a bald-faced lie on both counts. I have absolutely nothing to do,
but I can't play Bingo at the senior center on a Sunday afternoon. It might be all right, but come on. How low do I have to
go?
I say good-bye to Grandma and, on a whim, drive to the Woodrow Wilson Basketball Courts at the George Washington Municipal
Park to see if I can find Lonnie. But he isn't there.
That girl's there, however, shooting baskets by herself. I sit in the car and watch her.
Who is she?
What kind of guys does she like?
Does she think kids should be allowed to go extinct like the dodo? Does she have an image to keep up?
In the last few days, I successfully asked out two girls. Why can't I go up to her?
I'm still getting used to the idea that I look different than I used to look. I know I'm not repulsive. But cute? A stud?
Good for somebody's image? How is it possible? I feel the same way I always did—like a dorky loser who girls laugh at.
"I wish I could go up to you and talk to you," I say out loud in the car. "But I can't. I'm too scared. Well, I did ask out
two girls and they both said yes. Things didn't work out, though." I pause. "When I was a freshman, this girl I really liked
a lot—Marsha Peterman—turned my life into a living nightmare. See, she didn't just shoot me down, she did that giggle-and-point-at-the-loser-with-her-girlfriends
thing whenever I walked by for weeks afterward."
I think back to Marsha's incredible cruelty. 'Are you the kind of girl who does stuff like that?" I shake my head. "Did Marsha
think I didn't notice that? Did she think it wouldn't bother me? Why do girls do that?"
And why did I still like her?
. . .
New Jersey definitely has an image problem.
This has always interested me, but it's downright fascinating now. Maybe I'm mental, but I'm seeing . . . parallels.
Or maybe it's because I was born here, I'm going to college here, and I'll probably die here. Ronnie says I'm the Ultimate
Jersey Guy. I wrote an essay about this last year that was published in our local newspaper, The Asbury Park Press.
New Jersey and Us
Perfect or Not?
You know you're from Jersey when . . .
• You don't think "What exit?" jokes are funny.
• There's always one kid in every class named Tony.
• You've never pumped your own gas.
• You know how to navigate a circle and a jug handle.
• You know the two things above have to do with driving.
But New Jersey is actually cool.
Then I listed all the good things about the Garden State. See, actually, New Jersey has a lot going for it. For instance,
we're home to the Statue of Liberty— not that other state you're thinking of Jersey tomatoes and Jersey corn are the best you can buy. We have the most Revolutionary
War sites of any state. And the game Monopoly is named for the streets of Atlantic City.
But we keep pretty quiet about all those things. We're a pretty cool state, but we don't want anyone to know about it.
It definitely makes me think of other things . . .
I'm thinking about it in study hall a few days later. Study hall is the only class Ronnie and I have together. It's in the
library. Ronnie's at one of the library terminals typing away; I'm sitting next to her, doing my AP Calculus homework.
She lets out a cry of excitement. "Omygosh! We got our first posts at thegirlfriendproject.com!" She turns to me. "I told
you it would work! Told you, told you, told you!"
I'm shocked, but I pretend to be bored instead. "I need a nap," I say, and yawn loudly.
Ronnie punches me softly in the arm. "Nice try." Then she happens to catch a glimpse of my AP Calculus homework. She reads
aloud:
"The graph of x + 4xy — y = 3 is continuous for all real numbers except for one value, x = c. Use the rate of change of the equation to help you find c and classify
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