Free The Girlfriend Project by Robin Friedman Page A

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 Grandsons 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?"