Here I Go Again: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  As I have no clue as to what else to do right now, I laugh.

  Deva then leaves me to eat my breakfast, and when she returns, she has two big, steaming mugs.

  “Coffee?” I say, all expectantly. I mean, she was just in Hawaii. Stands to reason she’d have brought back a nice Kona.

  Deva sets my mug next to the naked dude on the table. “Yerba mate. It’s a tea made from a variety of holly bush in subtropical South America.”

  Of course it is.

  “Does it contain caffeine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good enough.” I take a sip and it’s not horrible.

  Deva folds herself into a complicated pretzel twist across from me. “Tell me about the texts you sent, Lissy Ryder. You’ve experienced problems with the ripples in time?”

  “Yes and no. Me? I’m great, except for the Duke business, which I guess was inevitable. I mean, I’ve got a cool life and good friends and a kick-ass business. Things couldn’t be much better. You should see my house! Is MTV Cribs still on? Because I could totally star in an episode. I even drive a bitchin’ whip.”

  But that’s not the whole truth. Instead, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. It’s probably best to be completely honest with Deva, so I amend my previous statement. “Okay, I’m about to be sued by a fourteen-year-old named ChaCha. I kind of don’t know how to do my job, because I never had this level of success before. I can handle the bare minimum, but beyond that, it gets complicated. Still, all of this is manageable and I’m one thousand percent happier than I was before.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  I stare at the Ikat robe while I try to figure out the best way to explain what’s happening. You know, the ancient people really did a bang-up job on dyeing these colors. The indigo and the fuchsia color bands are still unbelievably bright. I should find out what Deva washes this in and—

  Deva’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. “Lissy Ryder, I can’t keep telling you that denial is not a river in Egypt. Although, interesting fact about the ancient Egyptians—they called the fertile deltas around the Nile ‘black land’ and . . . Damn it, now I’m doing it, too. Spill it.”

  I take a deep breath before I begin. “The problem is, though things are aces for me, life has become drastically worse for the people around me. Even Duke, now that I consider it. He was mad the first time around, but this time he was crushed.”

  Then I run through the litany of problems I’ve encountered with the lives I’ve influenced, sparing no detail.

  Deva’s unfazed. “I explained there would be ripples.”

  “Not like this,” I argue. “A lot of these guys are stuck in lives that are awful compared to what they should have had. Nicole can’t have kids! Steve-o makes minimum wage, not albums. Amy Childs is a big heartbreaking mess, as are so many others. What happened and how can we fix it?”

  I don’t add “without messing up my present,” but I definitely think it.

  Deva’s still all nonchalant. “Again, Lissy Ryder, the nature of time is fluid. You make one change and everything around it is affected.”

  My greatest fear has been confirmed. “What you’re telling me is that by going back and making things right for myself, I absolutely messed it up for everyone else, beyond a shadow of a doubt?”

  “I am.”

  “How? That’s what I don’t understand! I didn’t do anything wrong! I was nice to everyone! I didn’t inflict any emotional scars! I didn’t engage in any verbal assaults! I was Lissy 2.0, new and improved, all the bugs worked out! No one’s making videos now saying, ‘High school was the worst time of my life, but it gets better.’ Because it didn’t have to get better for anyone, because I did the right thing from the start!”

  Deva closes her eyes in concentration and places her face in her massive mitts. When she’s finally worked out her thoughts, she looks back up at me. “Exactly.”

  The tenuous grasp I had on my patience has disappeared. “Exactly? That tells me exactly nothing! You’re speaking in riddles! Are you saying that everyone should have had a terrible high school experience if they want to be successful later in life?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Argh!”

  “Shh, calm yourself; have a sip of tea.” I comply, grudgingly. “Consider this, Lissy Ryder. It’s possible that your peers went on to incredible accomplishments specifically because you were so awful to them. Perhaps that’s your purpose. Maybe your future-fixing kindness has actually kept them from achieving their goals.”

  My mind is reeling. “You mean if I weren’t there telling them they were talentless or fat or ugly, they wouldn’t have tried so hard to prove themselves?”

  “Exa—” Deva catches herself. “I mean, precisely.”

  “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You texted it.”

  She waves me off and creates a slight breeze with her great paw. “Oh, you can’t go by those. Nothing comes out right. Just last week I texted Shaman Bob to please bring his ‘big blue penis’ to my tent, which is hilarious.”

  “Because you meant to type ‘pen.’”

  Deva creases her brow. “No, because I meant to type ‘black.’”

  Sometimes I wish I could unhear things.

  “Back to the matter at hand. You said I couldn’t just travel back to 2004 and convince Nicole not to quit; ergo I can’t make sure she met her husband and thus fix her child-free situation.” I stand up, rather unsteadily, and I begin to pace.

  “Lissy Ryder, I learned a great many things about the tonic on this last retreat. Bob is just a font of information, truly. Although the man cannot stand on a surfboard to save his life. We were down on the Honolua Bay and—”

  “Is this relevant?” I’m in no mood for courtesy right now . . . or another pornographic reference.

  “Not really,” Deva admits sheepishly. “Ahem, the tonic. Yes. When administered by someone other than the person who made it, the tonic takes that person where they need to go, rather than where they might want to go, so you can’t pick or choose. The tonic does that for you.”

  “Did you not know that when you gave it to me?”

  “Er . . .” Deva starts to dig in a giant basket next to the couch. “I should show you the piece of driftwood I found on the beach. I swear it’s shaped exactly like Taylor Lautner’s nose.”

  “Deva. Did you not know that was a possibility?”

  She sticks her whole face in the basket. “It’s almost uncanny, Lissy Ryder—there’s flaring and everything.”

  I yank her back out of the basket by the hem of her caftan. “Damn it, Deva, you gave me a potion that had the potential to send me anywhere in time and you never mentioned it? Thank God I landed when and where I did! What if I’d ended up with the cavemen and a saber-toothed tiger ate me? What if I’d landed in Phuket right before the tsunami hit?”

  Deva glances down at her bare wrist. “Hoo . . . is it getting late? Would you care for more tea?”

  I’m about to go all HULK SMASH up in here. “You never sent anyone other than yourself, did you? I was your guinea pig! You’re still pissed off about the corn dog incident!”

  “No, Lissy Ryder, of course not!” She relents. “Well, okay, maybe a little. Mostly I figured if something happened to you, you were expendable.”

  “I can’t believe you!”

  Deva attempts to calm me. “But we’re good now. I like you a lot more than I did when I brought you here the first time. I mean, you left Spanx strips all over my bathroom! Not cool. I’m a new age healer, not a maid, Lissy Ryder.”

  I say nothing, choosing instead to glare daggers.

  “As I was saying, all is not lost. I believe there’s a way for us to fix everyone else’s situation.”

  “Finally!”

  “But you’re probably not going to like it.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  She’s Only Seventeen

  Ever hear the expr
ession that the cure is worse than the disease?

  Welcome to my world.

  Here I am, back in my childhood bedroom, under the shining visage of David Coverdale, faced with an impossible choice.

  When I left Deva’s yesterday, I started to walk home, but I ended up pacing the lakefront for hours. Nicole called, looking to commiserate about seriously regrettable decisions from the night before. Apparently she was not rocked like a hurricane. However, I told her I wasn’t feeling well. I asked her to drop my stuff on the back porch on her way home. She readily agreed. I suspect she wasn’t sad not to linger on the phone, as there was a Silkwood shower in her near future.

  When Deva explained the only way out of this, my initial thought was No, no way, no how, never going to happen. But as I walked and considered, I had to look deep inside myself and ask if I was ready to play God.

  And, narcissistic as I am, it turns out I’m not.

  Much as I want what I have, from the house to the Jag to the pending lunch date with David Coverdale, I can’t be the one who keeps Nicole away from her rightful family. I can’t keep Amy away from Oprah, and I can keep her from rehab. I can’t keep Steve-o from all that mad naked ass. I can’t let Brian end up a low-level functionary at an insurance company because he married the red menace. Brooks needs to win her Emmy for best drama. Meredith needs to go to French Laundry. Robert needs to go to Fashion Week, Charlotte needs to attend junior high, and Jeremy has to boldly go where no man has gone before. (Well, at least not very many men.)

  Their futures are worth more than a Birkin bag . . . even one that’s made out of ostrich skin.

  Deva sent me packing with another vial of Incan fluid, this time about two weeks’ worth. Unfortunately, when I traveled back in time the last time, the fluid I didn’t drink was lost in space, because I didn’t have it in my hand at the jump. She explained you can carry stuff between dimensions as long as it’s touching you. That’s why I was still dressed when I woke up the first time.

  Deva was running low on the ingredients, so half a vial was the most she could provide. She’s planning to fly to South America today in order to start gathering supplies to make more. Said she’ll be back in about a month and she won’t be available via phone, because the cell reception’s terrible in Machu Picchu. Oddly enough, I’ll miss her texts.

  Deva explained the only way to fix the past was to jump back and do a full reset. She believes the fluid will take me to when and where I landed before, only this time my job is to do nothing.

  That’s a lot harder than it sounds.

  I can restore everyone’s life and livelihood and rosy future with one exception . . . my own. And all I have to do is be my old self. All those times I opted for kindness? No can do. When I chose to protect others, rather than denigrate them? Not this time. Will it be crooked and long and look like a schlong? Yep. Is Brooks’s nickname about to stick? Uh-huh. Does Debbie do corn dogs? If I want everyone else to be happy, she does. Am I to break poor Brian Murphy’s heart again? Abso-frigging-lutely.

  And my big, shiny reward for having done all of the above? I wind up back in my parents’ house, unemployed, friendless, and alone, lugging around thirty extra pounds.

  Karma continues to be a bitch.

  Deva says the only way to give my soul a blank slate is to sacrifice myself for the greater good of everyone else around me . . . and I picked a bad day to develop a conscience.

  To facilitate the process, Deva thought I should make the jump in my parents’ house. I was very relieved to find the place empty when I arrived earlier. The war between my folks is still raging, and that’s the last thing I need to deal with right now.

  I look around to make sure I’m not missing anything before I drink the fluid. I consider taking my high school journals with me, but their contents reflect the kinder, gentler Lissy and not the one from the first time around. Fortunately—or not—the memory of what I read the day after the reunion has stayed with me, and I’m clear on what I have to do and whom I have to do it to. And I am sorry.

  I take one last lingering look at hot thirty-seven-year-old Lissy. I know I’m headed back to my smokin’ high school bod, but that’s only temporary. My big ass will be waiting for me when I get home. I’m temporarily cheered by the idea of cafeteria Tater Tots waiting for me and then I remember I won’t be able to partake this time. Damn it!

  I sit on the bed and open the vial, prying off the rubber stopper so I can get it over with faster. The fluid rockets through me just like last time and I can feel it actively lighten my mood, despite the heaviness of my heart. Once it’s drained, I replace the stopper and the lid and shove it in my pocket. Then, right before I go under, I grab one more thing—my iPod. I’ll make it so no one ever sees it, but I need at least one anchor to the real world and I can’t take my Birkin. I slip in the earbuds and select SHUFFLE before hiding the unit in my bra.

  Whitesnake begins to play and I tear up at the notion of never breaking bread with Mr. Coverdale.

  “I don’t know where I’m going, but I sure know where I’ve been.”

  Sing it, honey.

  Sing it.

  * * *

  The yelling is what yanks me out of sleep. I can’t quite make out the words, but the voices are definitely recognizable.

  I open one tentative eye and it lands on Coverdale’s crotch, which is currently illuminated by the morning light.

  Okay, that covers where I am.

  Now to figure out when.

  I slide out of bed and scuttle over to the mirror. Judging from the clear skin and long, bouncy hair, I’m back in high school (whew, no saber-toothed tigers!) but I can’t yet be sure of the date. I start searching my room for clues, but not before deciding to tape my iPod to the back of my dresser drawer for safekeeping.

  Mission accomplished, I locate my purse and dump its contents on my bed. I find the usual detritus of a normal teenage girl’s bag—a few free-range pieces of Trident gum, passed notes, loose change, pressed powder, Clinique Rose Gold lip gloss, three scrunchies, mascara, a shitload of extra-slim tampons (aw, bless my not yet slutty heart), a couple of twenties, a credit card that’s direct-billed to my dad, my shiny new driver’s license, a BMW key, and a dime bag.

  No, really, I was just holding it for a friend and—

  Ahem.

  Anyway—keys and a license. These are important. That means my birthday’s already passed, because I didn’t even bother trying for my license until I had my new car. I remember telling my parents I refused to drive anything I didn’t personally own, so my folks had to cart me all over the place.

  In retrospect, I probably would have benefited from a few spankings in my youth.

  If I were to hazard a guess, this may be the Sunday after Duke yakked in my car. If there was only a way to know for sure. I poke my head out the bedroom door to see if my parents’ fight offers any clues.

  My father is as outraged as I’ve ever heard him. “Are you out of your mind, Ginny? You actually expect me to hose out the vomit in her brand-goddamned-new car? Do you have any idea how much it cost? The ridiculous paint job alone ran an extra two grand! And what do you think pink is going to do to the resale value? Not appreciate, that’s for damn sure. Of course, I wanted to get her a used Honda and only if she improved her grades, but noooo—”

  My mother cuts him off at the knees by saying, “Spare me the histrionics, George. Your opinion stopped bein’ credible when you voted for Jimmy Carter—twice.”

  Yep.

  It’s Duke of Hurl Sunday.

  It’s also patently ridiculous that either my mother or I would expect my poor father to clean out my car after yet another week of sixteen-hour days. I throw on a comfy pair of LT-logo sweats and pull my hair into a ponytail, intent on doing the work myself, and then I stop in my tracks.

  I can’t.

  I can’t take care of the car myself.

  I can’t comfort my dad or tell him how much I appreciate his generosity. I can’t do a damn t
hing that I didn’t do the first time. I have to wait for my mother to work her “magic” and force him into the thankless and humiliating task of cleaning up what’s rightfully my mess.

  I climb back on my bed and curl into a ball, waiting for their argument to be over. Then I’ll have to hang tight for another half an hour while my dad struggles with a scrub brush before he takes it to the car wash for professional detailing.

  Daddy, why didn’t you just do that in the first place? Or better yet, send me out to do it? Why did you let Mamma browbeat you so hard that you thought your only option was a bucket and some disinfectant? Why do you allow her to treat you like that? And why hasn’t anyone ever said anything to her about her behavior? She’s kind of awful. I used to find her overbearing nature charming, but now she’s coming off as a shrew, and I hate that I’ve been mirroring her traits.

  I pledge that as soon as I get back to the future, I’m going all Team Daddy. He’s endured too much for too long to not have someone on his side. No one can fight Mamma alone, especially since she’s always been about divide and conquer, but if we team up we may just best her.

  Duke’s going to show up at some point in the next hour or so, furious because my doing doughnuts made him barf and then I played tonsil hockey with his friend, which means . . . today’s the day he officially becomes Duke and I hook up with Brian for the first time.

  I have no choice but to get together with young master Brian, and that feels all kinds of weird, statutory aspect aside. I know how it all plays out—Brian defends me, Lissy 1.0 gets all squishy at his courage, and we dash over to his house while our families aren’t home. We roll around on Wookie sheets with some heavy over-the-shirt action until I see my mom return, whereupon I sneak home.

  As I’m not sure what else to do, I brush and floss really thoroughly before hopping in the shower.