Here I Go Again: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  With this new sense of awareness about Nicole, I’ve noticed that when the other Belles get all catty, she excuses herself to hit the restroom or study for an exam.

  I have the feeling she appreciates the changes I’ve made, and we’ve grown so much closer than we ever were in the first 1991. I even confided in her about my parents fighting and all the pressure my mother puts on my dad and me. Nicole simply listened without judgment and I felt better afterward. She said she suspected my parents’ marriage wasn’t perfect, but never wanted to say anything.

  When I return to the future, the first thing I’m going to do is apologize for everything. Somehow I must have thought I bought her complicity when I treated her to all those Good Humor bars so many years ago, and I’ve been taking advantage of our disparity in power ever since. The time has come to make amends for three decades of pushing her around and not showing her the respect she so richly deserves. And I’m going to keep saying I’m sorry until she believes me. Then I’m going to prove to her that I’m worthy of being her friend. I’ll make a real effort to be better to her kids, too. I’ll even find a way to bond with awful Charlotte. (Maybe I’ll teach her a little something about real music! Kids love anything retro, right?)

  My heart feels all happy and unburdened and I want to share the joy with everyone, starting with Nicole. “Maybe you should captain the cheer this time, Nic.” Her whole face lights up and she throws one pom-holding arm around me before deftly leading the squad in a rousing chant about the importance of touchdowns. What’s ironic is, it really is our best cheer ever.

  I’m scanning the crowd during a Gatorade break and I spot Brian. I give him a little nod and he returns a melancholy salute before focusing his attention back on his computer club buddy. I guess I can’t expect him to be all moony over me after our conversation earlier today.

  After the pep rally, I drove him home so that we could talk. Once we climbed into the car and selected our sound track (David Bowie, as Brian’s been educating me on the origin of glam rock), he asked, “What time do you want to work on your essay tomorrow?”

  In addition to my musical education, Brian’s been helping me with my college applications over the past few weeks, too. Determined to create a key future fix, I’ve been pouring all my effort into them. We’ve been together every day, and I’m at the point where I can barely keep from jumping on him, but karma demands that I not break his heart, so I’m following a hands-off policy. And besides, I don’t know what my future holds with Duke, but I can’t risk going back with this kind of dangling thread. Yes, Brian and I have had an intense couple of weeks, but I miss Duke. A fortnight of breezy fun and puppy love is no match for twenty-plus years of history. I’m pretty sure I want to be with Duke, or at least have the opportunity to figure that out, which means I need to head back unencumbered.

  I had to end things with Brian. And the fact that no one had touched anyone’s goodies yet made everything way less dramatic than the first time around, which, frankly, got a little shouty and a lot mean.

  I kind of don’t like to think about how it ended, because no matter how I spin it, my words and actions were inexcusable. I went for his jugular, and he was too much of a gentleman to do anything but allow me to unload. Much as I try to live my life with no regrets, I’ve never quite stopped regretting that day.

  But today was much easier, because instead of crafting an elaborate lie about my feelings, I simply told him the truth.

  Not the whole truth, mind you, but enough for it all to make sense.

  I pulled over by the park so I could give him my full attention. “Listen, Brian, we have to stop hanging out like this, at least for now.”

  Concern was etched all over his face. “Why? Have I done something wrong?”

  Oh, God, why is he so damn supportive? I hope that the Duke in the future is like this.

  I took a deep breath and proceeded. “No, of course you’re a perfect gentleman, Brian. . . . You know I have a boyfriend and that nothing can happen between us, but if we keep spending time together, it will. I’m afraid that I’ve been leading you on, and that’s not okay. You’re an awesome person and you deserve better than to be yanked around by me.”

  Brian toyed with the seat belt until he finally replied, “Don’t I have a say in this? What if I want you to yank me around?”

  “You don’t,” I said, suddenly very aware of how quiet my dad gets every time my mother runs roughshod over him. “Trust me on this.”

  He handled my not-really-a-breakup breakup like a champ, and we agreed to be cordial albeit distant friends. To prove that he was fine with whatever our eventualities, he insisted on buying me some frozen yogurt before we went home to get ready for the game.

  I take comfort in having let him down as gently as I could, as opposed to the histrionics of the first time. I’ll miss him, but ultimately I’m confident I’ve done the right thing for my present and my future.

  Mostly confident, anyway.

  Close to the end of the game, there’s a problem with the fancy new electronic scoreboard, so there’s a delay in the action on the field. I watch as our computer teacher nabs Brian to enlist his help.

  We cheerleaders are kind of standing around, unsure of what to do. Do we chant something about the scoreboard repair? Go, fight, reboot?

  As we’re all grouped together in front of the bleachers, I notice Amy Childs sitting right up front. I don’t recall her attending many games before, and I assume she’s in the cherry fifty-yard-line spot this time only because she received some big science award at halftime.

  I’m not sure if Amy’s been hit with a bad cold or if it’s the chill in the air, or if maybe she just needs one good swipe from her Cover Girl compact, but whatever the circumstances, her nose is so red that it’s extra-noticeable, to the point of being a tad phallic. And by “a tad” I mean, for the love of all that’s decent, put a black censored-for-TV box over that thing.

  Shit.

  It’s last time all over again. I immediately turn away so no one else sees what I’ve spotted, in the hope of not repeating an unfortunate piece of history.

  “Holy doody,” Tammy exclaims, “Santa called Amy Childs—something about guiding his sleigh tonight?”

  Kimmy and April giggle while Nicole suddenly becomes very interested in a mosquito bite on her shin. I simply roll my eyes in the hope that it ends this line of discussion tout suite.

  It doesn’t.

  Tammy presses on. “Check out the full frontal nudity of Childs’s nose! She needs to slap a condom on her face!”

  Amy sees that we’re watching her and she begins to shift in her seat, making eye contact with everyone but us. I guarantee her inner monologue’s repeating, Please don’t look at me, please don’t look at me, please don’t look at me.

  I feel enormous pangs of guilt over my behavior last time. What happened was not okay and I’m ashamed at having been so harsh. What could I have been thinking? Why would I ever be so deliberately awful?

  Now it’s time for me to flip the script.

  I smile and nod at Amy, officially granting her the Lissy Ryder Seal of Approval. I can see the relief washing over her and that makes me happy. Maybe we’ll become friendly this year. Bet she’s less of a drag than Tammy—of course, how hard could that be? Maybe someday she’ll invite me to her lake house and then I can be BFF with Oprah, too. Surely the Big O will have forgotten all the West End Club foolishness by then. Maybe we’ll even laugh over it while we eat s’mores.

  I turn away from Amy to face the field. Nicole follows suit. The players are starting to run back onto the grass, so the scoreboard problem must be fixed. When I spot Duke, I shake my pom-poms at him and give him a high kick, because I’m positively effervescent right now at having skirted all the unpleasantness. Had I known the rush from doing the right thing previously, I’d have been on board years ago. When Duke spots me doing my Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders impression, he offers me a huge grin and I can see his mouth guard. He looks
like he’s eating a navel orange slice the way we used to do when we were kids.

  The teams start to play and I assume that Tammy’s issue with Amy has passed. Tammy, however, senses another opportunity to assert herself as the Belles’ true leader. As it turns out, my acknowledging Amy was actually an invitation for Tammy to cause trouble. She starts her cheer off low and slow, but soon Kimmy and April join in and the crowd begins to shift their attention from the field.

  “It’s crooked! It’s long! Amy’s nose looks like a schlong!”

  Okay, I did not just hear that.

  “It’s crooked! It’s long! Amy’s nose looks like a schlong!”

  Oh, no she di-in’t.

  “It’s crooked! It’s long! Amy’s nose looks like a schlong!”

  Listen, did I not just bend the space-time continuum specifically to prevent this from happening?

  No. No frigging way.

  Amy turns chalk white. Instead of running away like any sensible person, she’s frozen in her seat in horror.

  “Shut up, Tammy,” I demand. I try to grab her arm, but she’s jumping up and down so much that I can’t quite keep my grip on her.

  “It’s crooked! It’s long! Amy’s nose looks like a schlong!” Tammy and company turn their sound up to eleven.

  Amy’s friends begin to creep away from her, anxious to not claim her social annihilation as their own. You know what? High school girls are lethal. We should send them to Afghanistan. A couple of passive-aggressive Facebook status updates, three unflattering photo tags, and a well-timed unfriending and those godless hordes would lay down their arms in a hot minute.

  But I can’t worry about world peace right now, even though I make a mental note to myself about contacting the UN with my idea.

  “Tammy, I will end you. Understand? Stop. This. Now,” I shout. But, spurred on by having finally gotten a reaction from me, she keeps on chanting.

  “It’s crooked! It’s long! Amy’s nose looks like a schlong!”

  People as far as ten rows back are starting to stare at Amy, who’s sitting stiff as a statue, save for the tears threatening to spill over at any minute. Nicole’s shell-shocked by the depth and breadth of Tammy’s petty assholery, but she’s not strong enough to fight them on her own.

  This all comes down to me.

  I need to drown out these bitches, but how? Do I tackle her? Throw a punch? I suddenly wish I were my future size so I could put a little weight behind a right hook.

  We’re moments before Duke throws the desperate pass that in 1991 cost us the game, and I’m suddenly struck with an inspiration. Turns out having Brian instruct me on the roots of rock and roll is about to come in handy.

  “Follow my lead,” I call to Nicole.

  According to Brian’s lecture last week, “Gene Dixon and Earl Edwards had already experienced some success on the R and B scene back in the early sixties, but they didn’t have a number one hit until ‘Duke of Earl,’ their crossover doo-wop single, dropped on January thirteenth, 1962.” Though I could give a flying fart about that American Bandstand–sounding nonsense, his lesson stuck with me, and now it may be exactly what saves Amy.

  To the cadence of the song, I begin to chant, “Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Quarterback is the Duke of Hurl! Nothing can stop the Duke of Hurl!”

  I clap and bounce and shout even louder for the second round. My calves burn and the balls of my feet kill, but I keep leaping higher and higher as I chant. This time, Nic joins in.

  “Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Quarterback is the Duke of Hurl! Nothing can stop the Duke of Hurl!”

  Tammy ratchets her voice up even louder while Kimmy and April pause, anxious to see who’s going to win this power struggle so they can follow the true leader.

  They’re going to follow me, though. Bank on that.

  After all, I’m still Lissy Ryder.

  “Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Quarterback is the Duke of Hurl! Nothing can stop the Duke of Hurl!”

  At this point, the only one chanting with Tammy is Tammy, and that’s just until Mrs. Colecheck, our cheerleading coach, yanks her off the field by her flaming ponytail. Spell broken, Amy Childs is whisked away by her friends and the crowd returns their attention to the game.

  Spurred on by our enthusiasm, or possibly by the prospect of having earned a way-cool new nickname, Duke throws a Hail Mary pass. This time around? The wide receiver actually catches it, the Lions clinch the victory, and every one of us (except those being scolded in the locker room) loses our damn mind!

  “Lions, Lions, that’s our name, ask us again and we’ll tell you the same! Lions, Lions, that’s our name! Check out the board, ’cause we won the game! Lion pride, woo!”

  I know this is some no-matter match and that today’s really twenty-one years from where I’ll be tomorrow, yet the excitement I feel from the victory of this moment is absolutely genuine.

  I’m still on an endorphin high an hour later, when the Belles and I arrive at the dance, sans Tammy, who’s since received a three-day suspension. Ha!

  The gym has been magically transformed from a sweaty, gross, vaguely-smelling-of-soup place into a sweaty, gross, vaguely-smelling-of-soup-but-now-with-bonus-streamers place. Yet I don’t mind. I’m in the moment, and the moment feels fantastic.

  I spot Duke coming out of the locker room. His hair’s still damp and I can see the comb tracks in it. He rushes over to me amid claps on the back and shouts of “Duke!” “Hey, it’s the Duke of Hurl!” A couple of juniors try to lift him over their shoulders, failing miserably and spilling him onto the floor. Instead of getting mad like usual, Duke simply laughs and lets them help him up. Then he sweeps me up, my mermaid tail flying out behind me.

  “Did you see that pass I threw? That was a million-to-one shot! I can’t believe it!” He’s intoxicated with the excitement, as opposed to last time, when he was drunk on Meister Bräu.

  “That was amazing!” I gush. “You’re a regular Peyton Manning—I mean, Troy Aikman!”

  “I can thank you for that. Your cheer got the crowd to its feet and I fed off that energy! Duke of Hurl! That was awesome!” Duke’s as animated as I’ve ever seen him. I forgot how boyishly charming he is when he’s content. I wonder if I haven’t seen this side of him in a while because I haven’t given him anything to be happy about. (Note to self: Fix that, like, now.)

  “Coach says there was a scout from U of I here tonight. Glad I gave him something to remember!” He starts simulating passes to teammates, who leap and pretend-catch.

  In 1991, I cemented myself to Duke’s side, sure he was going to dance with other girls the second I turned my back. But tonight I tell him, “Why don’t you go talk to your friends? Bet they’re not quite done rehashing the game.”

  He looks at me as though he’s trying to figure out my angle, or like I’m testing him and he’s about to fail. “Really?”

  “Of course! Tonight’s all about you, not me. You’re the conquering hero! Now go bask in everyone’s admiration. You earned it.”

  I finally realized that Duke needs his moments in the spotlight as much as I’ve always demanded mine. (See? People like to bask.) For us to make it work, I have to be able to take a backseat when it’s his time to shine, because it can’t be all about me.

  This night is a turning point for us; I can tell. What’s so weird is that right now is the most affection I’ve felt for him of any time since we’ve been married. We’ve been a couple by force of habit for so many years—yet I suspect this do-over might possibly bring us to the place where we’re together by choice.

  “You sure, babe?”

  Wow. I really must have been overbearing.

  (And we weren’t even doing it yet!)

  I give him a little shove. “Go! Have fun!” Then he takes my face in his hands and gives me the kind of kiss that I feel all the way down to my hot-pink to
enails. I’m struck with a longing for him that’s almost a physical ache. I can’t remember another instance when we had this kind of simple, heartfelt moment. Mostly I remember fighting with him and breaking up and then getting back together again. But we must have had hundreds of magic moments like this in the two decades we’ve been together . . . right? Regardless, I’m suddenly glad I made the appropriate decision with Brian.

  What’s so strange is that tonight we truly feel like a couple, like together we’re more than just the sum of our respective parts, and I realize that what he brings to the table is equally important as what I contribute. It’s never been like this before; our relationship has been a perpetual power struggle, and I’ve always tried to bend him to my will. I had no clue that the minute I stopped playing games, he would, too. If I’m able to miracle myself back into his life in the future, I’m going to start taking care of him and not vice versa.

  Although Duke spends a portion of his time goofing off with his teammates, he returns to dance every slow song with me, not because I make him, but because he genuinely wants to. And when we’re elected homecoming king and queen (a lot more enthusiastically this time than last, I might add), he doesn’t even balk when I suggest we dance to “Love Bites.”

  Bliss. Every second of the night is bliss.

  When I arrive home, I find my parents asleep on the couch in front of the big old Magnavox. Their heads are tilted toward each other and their shoulders are almost touching. This is the least oppositional I’ve seen them in years, and I stand back, trying to save a mental picture. I feel a lump rise in my throat, like I’m going to miss them when I’m gone in the morning, even though I’m likely going to wake up in their house beneath my David Coverdale poster.

  I kiss them both and then quietly climb the stairs to change into my pajamas.

  When I wash my face, I give my seventeen-year-old countenance one last, wistful look, admiring the smooth, clear skin. I hope Lissy-at-seventeen starts using moisturizer with SPF, like, yesterday, because that convertible top is doing my epidermis no favors. As for my hair? Its 100 percent real highlights are perfectly blond from the sun and not by some snippy queen who calls it “our hair,” mocks my grays, and charges four hundred dollars for the privilege. (In case you were wondering? The carpet actually matches the drapes right now, or at least it will until I tear it out and install hardwood.)