The doorbell rings just as I’m applying an edifying coat of Rose Gold gloss.
Okay.
Let’s do this.
* * *
“And stay gone!” I add for good measure, kicking a tire to illustrate my point. I’m sorry that I have to make such a scene, but it’s for the best.
What’s so odd is that when Duke came to the door, I thought I’d be all shaken up from seeing him for the first time since the reunion. But the only stirrings I felt were those of sympathy and shame. I truly regret keeping him from being happy all these years. If the way Elyse looked at him at the first reunion is any indication, they’re going to have a great life together, based not only on passion, but also mutual respect and a balance of power. He deserves that.
The newly minted Duke of Hurl peels out of my driveway while Brian stands next to me. Duke and I just had the fight that forced me into Brian’s arms.
Which means I’m obligated to get into Brian’s arms in the next hour.
I feel like I’m about to be featured on some parallel-universe episode of To Catch a Predator, like Chris Hansen is about to quaff his own Incan tonic specifically so he can come to 1991 and bust my Lolita-lovin’ ass. (That’s the thing about being a classic narcissist—it’s always all about you, whatever the situation.)
Anyway, I have no choice right now. If I want to make Duke jealous and ensure Brian’s Tammy-free, coupon-company future, I’ve got to do this.
Yet I feel so dirty.
“You want to come over?” Brian asks. He’s not shy like I’d have expected. Then again, it’s not as though we don’t have history—we spent every minute together from when he moved here from Indiana in third grade until we went to LT South for ninth grade and our paths diverged. Not because I thought I was too cool for him then—mostly because that’s the age when girls don’t have boys as friends anymore, lest they be subject to an endless chorus of the Tammys of the world going, “Oooooooh, he’s your boooooooooyfriend.” We stopped hanging out then because, frankly, it was easier than explaining that just because he was a boy and my friend that— Argh. See? I’m exhausted all over again just thinking about having to explain the nuance.
As my dad’s taking care of my car before getting in a quick nine and my mom’s off shopping, there’s nothing stopping me from heading over to Brian’s place.
I shrug. “I guess there’s no present like time.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just a silly expression. Let’s locomote.”
When we enter his house, it’s exactly as it was last time, with all the toys and the dolls. But this time there’s something missing.
“What’s different?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” he replies. He steps over to the finger-painty fridge door. “Mountain Dew or Coke? Perhaps the lady would care for some SunnyD?”
“Coke’s great,” I absently reply. “But something doesn’t feel right around here.” Did I already screw this time-travel business up? Shit! If so, do I have to go back and reset again? I’m not sure how many times the universe is going to allow that before all parties involved wind up with flippers for hands or something. What’s different around here, damn it?
Brian is the consummate gentleman. “Hey, Lissy, if you’re not comfortable being here alone, we’ll go back outside. It’s just so rare that the place is completely empty that I like to enjoy the silence when I can.”
Oh, the chaos is missing. No screaming rug rats. Duh. I quickly reply, “No, we’re cool. I just couldn’t figure out why it was so quiet.”
He’s quick to smile, and when he does so, his eyes crinkle and shine. “That’s not a problem I have very often. Dad got passes for a preview screening of Beauty and the Beast and he took Mom and the kids, so I have a few noiseless hours. Honestly? I’m looking forward to college just for a little peace. Speaking of, where are you applying? I have to stay in state because of cost, but my first choice is U of I’s computer science program. Northern and SIU at Carbondale are my safeties.”
Noncommittally, I reply, “I haven’t decided yet.” Although I won’t be in the past for it, I don’t bother to submit any applications until my dad takes my keys away in the spring. Even then, I’m without my car only for the hour it takes me to work on the UCI app, which was pretty much one step above drawing a turtle on a cocktail napkin. (That’s how long it took for Mamma to find out Daddy’s plan and return the keys to me, FYI.)
Then I remember the Lissy Ryder I’m supposed to be right now and I add, “All this college talk is giving me boredom cancer. I want to do something. Maybe we should go up to your room.”
Unclean! Unclean! I feel unclean!
Brian shrugs and leads the way up to the third floor. “You want to watch a video?” he asks once we get to his room.
“Depends. What have you got?”
He rifles through his VHS tapes and I suddenly recall how excited I was to see that he understood how to work his VCR. I mean, it wasn’t even flashing twelve a.m.! He begins to pull tapes and read labels. “I have Married with Children, In Living Color, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Parker Lewis Can’t Lose, um . . . a couple of Star Wars movies, yeah, probably not your thing, um, Headbanger’s Ball, but that wouldn’t interest you, either, Matlock—my mom asked me to record that. Let me see what I have in this next box.”
“Wait,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “Headbanger’s Ball? This week’s?”
Brian acts like I just gave him his first puppy or hand job. “Really, Lissy? You watch the Ball?”
I try to play it off like I did the first time around. “Pfft, only because Riki Rachtman’s cute.”
He cues up the tape. “Then let’s Ball.” Then he realizes exactly what he’s said and he blushes all the way down to the collar band of his Tesla concert tee and I’m utterly charmed.
Damn it, self, you need to act charmed, not be charmed.
He settles in on his bed and I sit down next to him. I haven’t seen some of these videos for twenty years and I forgot exactly how much I’ve missed them. While I view the video for “Seventeen,” I think to myself, I have two words for you, Justin Bieber—Kip Winger.
Brian offers running commentary as we watch. For example, he much prefers the Crüe’s earlier work on Theatre of Pain versus Girls, Girls, Girls and David Lee Roth over Sammy Hagar. “Yeah, Sammy’s talented, but he just doesn’t embody the good-time rock-and-roll spirit that DLR brought to the table.”
I’m telling you, it’s all I can do not to stick my tongue in this kid’s mouth right this second . . . even though that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do. But that’s the thing. He’s a kid. And even though my tongue is seventeen, my brain is thirty-seven. I’m having so much trouble getting past that. Really, how did Edward not have this trouble with Bella? Before he ever set one icy lip upon her, he’d been a member of AARP for more than forty years! Or could he get past it because their love was written in the stars?
It’s possible I’m putting too much thought into this. I shouldn’t be having an internal jail-bait stalemate, yet here I am. If he were eighteen, things might feel different, because that way would be more Ashton and Demi. But as it stands, I’m Mrs. Robinson, coo-coo-ca-creepy-choo.
As we watch, we keep moving closer together and now our thighs are touching. On my last jump and this one, I can’t get over how comfortable I am in Brian’s presence. I can be me around him, probably because he doesn’t put on airs or try to be something that he’s not. And I don’t feel like he sees me as Lissy Ryder, queen of the Belles. I feel like I’m more Lissy-let’s-ride-bikes!
I mean, despite all the carnal knowledge Duke has of me, I bet he has no inkling that I’m Team Diamond Dave and not Team Sammy. Duke wouldn’t even know to know that I had a distinct preference. (Which is not his fault, but still.)
Of course, I spent twenty years calling him a name he didn’t like, all of which makes me wonder, what did we even talk about for the past two decades? My hair?
&nbs
p; Regardless, I need to fire up the old maker-outer, yet I feel more nervous now than when I was seventeen. The last time I was the one who threw the first move; ergo the onus is on me again, and yet the creep factor from our disparate ages keeps holding me back. So I look and don’t touch; it’s super-Mormon-feeling.
Midway through the episode, we both nod sadly when Riki updates viewers on the status of Tom Keifer’s paresis of his vocal cords. Fortunately, I already know that Cinderella goes back to the studio in 1994 to record Still Climbing, but I can’t say it. A Skid Row video comes on and Brian casually remarks, “I’ve been obsessed with these guys since my uncle sent me their album for my birthday.”
I give him a playful (pedophile! stop touching!) shove. “I’m so sorry I missed your seventeenth birthday.”
His eyes are fixed on the screen. “What? No. I turned eighteen.”
I sit straight up. “How can that be? No one in our class is eighteen yet.”
He shrugs. “I was born in Indy and they had different cutoff dates to start kindergarten. I was right on the line, so my mom held me back a year—figured I’d have more of an advantage being the oldest in the class instead of the youngest.”
Oh, really?
I need to make doubly sure that I understand him. “What you’re telling me is that you’re old enough to vote?”
“Yep. My first presidential election is next year. So cool! There’s this guy William Jefferson Clinton? Out of Arkansas? Very interesting guy. I just read that—”
“So you can buy cigarettes?”
“I guess so. You smoke, Lissy?”
“No.”
(The occasional toke at parties doesn’t count—just ask Cher Horowitz.)
(I mean, in 1995, when Clueless finally comes out.)
“Have you already filled out your Selective Service form?”
Brian seems awfully puzzled by my line of questioning. “Yeah. Back in August, I went to the post office and—”
But he can’t complete his statement, what with my tongue in his mouth and all.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Unspoken
So that happened.
I didn’t expect to enjoy kissing Brian, even after I made peace with the Demi and Ashton math.
But I did.
So much.
He does this thing where he holds my face in his hands and just looks at me and I feel like he’s seeing into my soul or something. My thirty-seven-year-old brain has been neatly eclipsed by my seventeen-year-old hormones and it’s all I can do not to scrawl Mrs. Lissy Ryder-Murphy on my notebook.
I’m deeply ashamed at the intensity of my feelings for an eighteen-year-old.
Yet I can’t wait till the bell rings so I can cut cheerleading practice in favor of another mash session.
Our physical interaction isn’t even the best part—he listens to everything I say and responds as if my thoughts are just as valuable as the package that holds them. If we were to grow up and have a life together, I have no doubt that we’d be a true partnership, with none of that trophy business on either side.
Brian challenges me like I’ve never been challenged (at least since the last time we were together). A couple of days ago I went off on a rant about how I hated Nirvana, and Kurt Cobain in particular. Brian insisted I back up my assertions and didn’t allow me to make blanket statements like “He sucks.” He helped me examine the roots of my anger at Cobain, which largely stem from his wearing a dress on Headbanger’s Ball. I felt like he was mocking the glam rockers and not giving them credit for helping to define a genre. Although Brian didn’t agree with my assessment of the band as a whole, I was pleased that he didn’t feel he had to be on the same page. The whole conversation left me desperately wishing that Brian were in my adult life so we could discuss Cobain’s legacy. (Had I understood his impact at the time, I’d have cut him a break.)
I wish I could talk to someone about Brian, but I kept everything under wraps last time, so I have to this time, too. I guess that’s why I was always so into journaling. Too many secrets to not come out somewhere. Nicole senses that something’s up, but she’s not said or done anything beyond raising her eyebrows and hugging me for no reason.
Tammy, on the other hand, has no such compunction.
We’re sitting at lunch, sipping Diet Coke and trying to quash the sounds of our audibly growling stomachs. Brian’s across the cafeteria with his Dungeons and Dragons buds and it’s all I can do not to run over and, like, lick him and then eat all his Tater Tots. (I would also consider reversing that order, but really, I’m good with either way.)
I’ve been stealing clandestine glances at him the whole lunch period, but I guess not clandestine enough. The Red Baron catches everything. “You’re not, like, with dweeby Brian Murphy, right? I mean, slum much?” Tammy glances over to Kimmy and April for approval.
Yes! And I luff him! He’s smart and compassionate and complex! When I’m with him, I’m smart and compassionate and complex, too! And because of him, Wookies will forever be erotic in my mind from this point forth!
But that’s not what I say.
The best defense is a good offense, so I have to get offensive on her ass to deflect suspicion. “Tell me, Tammy, is it like a clown wig down there? Does it look like you’ve put Ronald McDonald in a leg-lock? Do you have some serious Fanta pants happening under your Hanes Her Way?” While I say this, I point at her lap. She tries to play off her shocked reaction with limited success.
I realize this sounds shitty, but I pretty much eviscerated her last time around when she grew nosy, so I have to bring out my big guns, and the hair thing’s a huge issue for her. (Truthfully, her shade of red is lovely and chicks today pay big bucks for that look, and I imagine she eventually makes peace with it all, but I’m trying to win a war here, okay?)
“You wish” is her clever rejoinder. Clearly she received her master’s degree from the School of Snappy Retorts.
To which I respond, “As if I’d dump Duke for Bill Gates.”
“Who?”
Holy crap—does anyone who isn’t Steve Jobs know who Bill Gates is in 1991? Deflect! Deflect!
My next statement belies the panic I feel at my future-knowing slipup. “God, Tammy, do you ever read anything other than the instructions on a pregnancy test? Maybe you should, like, look at a newspaper for once in your sad life. And by the way? Jaclyn Smith for Kmart called and she wants her sweater back.”
For the record? No, I don’t secretly regret being mean to Tammy. She’s worse than I ever was, and that’s really saying something.
Chastened but not quite finished, Tammy presses on. “Really? Then why did I see him getting out of your car this morning? And into it yesterday afternoon?”
I favor her with one of my trademark, perfectly glossed, raised-lip sneers. “Wow, Tammy, Fatal Attraction much? So you just, like, watch me all the time? What’s next? Are you going to boil my bunny or something?”
Damn it, why doesn’t Single White Female come out until next year? That would be such a better burn!
Tammy reddens but holds steadfast. “No, but you seem supershady about this whole Brian thing. Maybe you’re not telling us the whole truth.” Then she stands up, as if to prepare to pull a preemptive flounce.
I deliberately yawn and fake-stretch before answering. “Since it’s soooo important for you to know, he’s my neighbor and his mom’s car is in the shop, so she can’t drive him to school. But, like, forgive me for not running my good deeds past you first. And FYI? Your Designer Impostor perfume is making me queasy. Please excuse me while I go barf.” Then I get up so quickly I knock over my chair and I saunter away without ever looking back. Kimmy and April give me the slow clap.
And that, my fellow Lions, is how you flounce.
As soon as I hit the hallway, I dash to the bathroom the farthest from the cafeteria, just in case Nicole tries to follow me. If she were to ask me what that was about, I’d be so inclined to spill everything.
Once inside th
e lavatory, I stand panting with my back against the door. Then I hear a flush and the creak of a metal back brace and Deva exits a stall. She doesn’t say anything, instead motioning for me to look underneath the doors to make sure we’re alone. (She’s not so bendy in that thing.) We are.
I shout-whisper, “Holy crap, Deva, where have you been all week? Are you avoiding me pre–corn dog?” That’s scheduled to go down (ha! pun intended!) tomorrow.
Even though the water’s running while she washes her hands, Deva whispers back, “Absolutely, Lissy Ryder; it would not do for us to be seen conversing amiably.”
“Actually, wait, why are you here? I thought you were on your way to South America.”
“Right now in the present, it’s only a couple of minutes after you drank the tonic. So I am headed to Machu Picchu, in a few hours of future time and a little over a week of 1991 time.”
This is all so confusing. You know who could explain it all? Brian.
“Hey, real quick, I could use your advice. See, I’m falling for Brian and I don’t know what to do about it,” I admit.
“Go with it.”
“Really?” I say in a loud, hopeful voice before catching myself.
Deva dries her hands, which is a three-towel job. “Indeed. It’s imperative—if his future depends on your breaking his heart, then you must first capture it. That won’t happen if you’re not sincere.”
I gush, “Well, that’s awesome, because I feel so giddy when I’m around him, and he gets me, I mean, in ways that Duke never did and—”
She holds up a colossal digit. “Let me stop you right there.”
I look left and right. “Why, is someone coming?”
“No, it’s just that I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Why?”
“We’re not girlfriends in this time period.”
Ouch.
“Hold the phone, Deva—you’re still not past the corn dog thing.”
She snorts so hard it blows a paper towel off the sink ledge. “Damn skippy.”
“That’s not fair! You promised that we’re pals now! And you told me CornDogGate was what caused you to dive headfirst into the new age movement! You thanked me in front of God and your booby statues and everything!” Come on! She has to like me! I mean, having her on my side was the deciding factor for making the jump back again; I knew that this time in the future I’d have at least one friend.
Here I Go Again: A Novel Page 21