Here I Go Again: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  Grudgingly, Deva admits, “Agreed. I appreciate who I am today because of you, and when we’re both safely ensconced in the present, I hope to share French toast sticks with you. Yet that doesn’t negate how you’re going to make me feel tomorrow. You ruined corn dogs for me ad infinitum. And I loved corn dogs.”

  My chin begins to quiver, only I’m actually sincere and not just trying to get my way like when I usually bust out the waterworks. “Deva, I’m full of regret over the incident. If I could get away with not calling you out tomorrow, you know I would.”

  Deva’s expression softens. “I understand, Lissy Ryder. Yet my dilemma is, if I don’t piss you off, you won’t be able to sell your performance tomorrow. So here goes—you’re only smart enough to get into the worst college in America, your music taste is best suited to whoever’s now appearing on the main stage, and you’re a borderline perv for touching Brian’s goodies. Also? Your Gucci bag is fake. You told everyone it was authentic but that was a lie.”

  I appreciate her effort. Maybe a little too much, because this bag is totally real. I inadvertently raise my voice. “Yeah? Well, you have man hands.”

  She gives my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Save it for tomorrow, Lissy Ryder. Save it for tomorrow.”

  * * *

  “What is all this?”

  “Brian, I think they’re called ‘stars.’”

  Brian and I are at the old quarry about thirty miles out of town on this spectacularly crisp, clear October night. We’re far enough away from downtown that there’s no artificial ambient glow to lighten the black velvet sky and dull the millions of twinkling stars. The harvest moon is just beginning to rise, and in an hour it will be almost bright enough to read out here. (If I read, I mean.) We have a blanket spread out over the hood of my car and we’re leaning against the windshield, with the boys from Poison playing quietly in the background.

  Today’s Thursday, which means tomorrow is homecoming Friday. It should also be home-going Friday, meaning I’ll likely wake up back in the future once I go to sleep. I’m trying to savor every last minute, as tomorrow it all goes to hell at my hand.

  Brian swings around to face me. “No, Liss. What’s this? You and me. What are we doing? Is this just for fun or is this going somewhere? I know how I vote, but I want to hear your thoughts.”

  I’m as cagey now as I was the first time, only for different reasons. Last time it was about making Duke jealous so I could win the upper hand. That is, until it inadvertently turned into real feelings that I didn’t know how to process. This time my emotions are so much more raw and I’m so pissed off at seventeen-year-old Lissy for not having the courage to act on them. How have I been so confident in my life that I welcomed having strange medical/aesthetic professionals renovate me from the neck down (bleaching, waxing, rejuvenating, lifting, etc.), and yet the idea of being seen in the halls with an attractive man who engaged both my head and heart was so repellent?

  Yet my response is, “That’s kind of a chick thing to ask.”

  “What am I to you, Lissy?”

  What you are is the best guy I ever met, at seventeen or thirty-seven or any age in between. “Do we have to decide now? Can we just be in the moment, you know, Lissy and Brian, watching the sky and listening to music?”

  “Of course.” He takes my hand and begins to run his thumb back and forth across my palm, almost like he’s reading it. “I just . . . You’re really something special, Lissy. I don’t mean to sound like one of your sycophants. God, not that. Never that.” He laughs. “There’s a soft side to you, a real depth that you rarely seem to show to anyone else.”

  This moment is almost too intense to breathe, so I keep quiet.

  “Trust me, I’m aware of your reputation and I’ve seen you operate in the lunchroom. Your tongue should be registered as a deadly weapon. But I believe that under all your cutting remarks there’s a real vulnerability to you. You’re exceptionally protective of your inner self and you mask it with this badass attitude and all kinds of bravado. Don’t forget, I knew you when you were the girl across the street who bought Good Humor bars for the kids from the other side of the railroad tracks who didn’t have any money. Why are you so intent on hiding that side of yourself that’s pure and selfless and light?”

  I tell him the truth.

  “Because it’s easier.”

  He traces the designs on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “If you keep hiding the woman you really are, whether that’s ‘Lissy’ or ‘Melissa’ or whoever you wind up being, someday she may get lost amid all your bluster. For example, no one will care if you hate Nirvana, because you have well-considered reasons for feeling that way. Never be afraid to express yourself! People might even agree with you—not many, granted, because Nevermind really is a seminal piece of work and in twenty years, everyone’s still going to talk about it. My point is, by keeping what makes you you quiet, you’re doing yourself and the world a disservice. After all, you don’t want to be like your parents.”

  Whoa, what? I don’t remember this part from last time.

  He continues, oblivious to how stiff I’ve become next to him. “I mean, your mom clearly loves your dad or they wouldn’t have stayed together for so long. I don’t understand why she’s so intent on putting him down instead of building him up. Your mom is clearly not afraid to make demands—”

  “Clearly,” I interject. Seriously, this is homecoming week and I’m growing emaciated because of her. I’m well versed in her ability to make demands.

  “See? Right. Because she’s not afraid to say and do and demand what she wants, if she didn’t care to be married to your father, she’d be on the first plane back to Atlanta—”

  “Savannah.”

  “Eh, potato, potahto. So—”

  I practically bark with laughter. “Don’t let her hear you say that!”

  “Lissy.” He angles my face toward him with his palms. I can see the harvest moon reflected in his eyes, and if he weren’t so busy telling me something I didn’t want to hear right now, this would suddenly become the best night of his life, if you know what I mean.

  (I mean sex.)

  “My point is, your mom wants to be with your dad, and if she didn’t, she wouldn’t. But she’s on some bizarre power trip where she absolutely refuses to allow herself to be vulnerable to him, because it gives her the upper hand. Don’t do that. Don’t be that way. Open up.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I opt to tell him the truth again. “I promise to try.”

  Yet I’m destined to fail.

  And I couldn’t be sorrier.

  * * *

  I’m at my locker when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

  “Yo, Listerine.”

  I needn’t look to see who’s speaking. “Don’t call me that, Duke.”

  “Then don’t call me Duke!”

  I turn around and lean back against the bank of lockers. “Do you want something from me?” I mean, other than for me to be a raging bitch to you for no good reason?

  “What’s the deal with you and Murphy?” The jealousy’s written all over his face. Last time I felt like I won the lottery, but this time I just want to hug him and tell him to call Elyse now and not make her wait twenty years.

  “Pfft, wouldn’t you like to know?” Seriously? Would he like to know? Because I want to shout about my feelings from rooftops! No matter what it takes, I’m going to find Brian in the future and I’ll spend the rest of my days trying to win him back. If that means giving up Tater Tots and taking the bus and living in a one-bedroom apartment with roommates while I rebuild myself into a person who’s worthy of him, that’s what I’ll do. But don’t worry, Martin/Duke! You’re going to end up with a chick even straight women want to bang! It’s all good!

  “Do you like him?”

  Yes, yes, yes, oh, yesly yes!

  I scowl. “What if I did? You and I aren’t together. What do you think I am, Duke? A toy you can put on the shelf and pull out when you get bored? Do
esn’t work that way. We’re on or we’re off. Period. Make a decision.”

  I desperately want him to say we’re off so I can have one more night with Brian, but I can’t rewrite history. (I know; I’ve tried.) Instead, my browbeating works exactly as well as it did twenty years ago and Duke grudgingly agrees that we should attend the dance together.

  Aces.

  I muddle through the rest of the school day and the pep rally, and when I arrive at my car afterward, Brian’s waiting exactly where I expected him to be.

  I hate my life so much right now.

  We get in the car and he squeezes my knee. This is the kind of guy he is. Here I am in my cheerleading outfit, which is pretty much every guy’s fantasy, and he has so much respect for me that his only action is a brotherly touch because we’re in public. “Are you ready for tonight? Big game!”

  “Yeah, so excited,” I lament.

  Brian smoothes back the blond strands that have escaped from my ponytail. “Lissy, what’s wrong?” Please stop being so nice to me. I do not deserve you, even for the next ten minutes.

  He peers at me for a couple of seconds and then remarks, “You seem a little pale and gaunt. What have you eaten today?”

  “A couple of Mentos and four Diet Cokes.” And, yes, my stomach feels like all those explosion videos on YouTube right about now. I start the car and I begin to drive out of the lot.

  Brian’s a bit exasperated. “Lissy, that’s ridiculous. You’re going to pass out at the game. You can’t live on zero calories a day. Will you at least eat something when you get home?”

  I shake my head. “Not if my mom’s there.” Seriously. If so much as a single Apple Jack passes my lips before I have to squeeze into that stupid dress, it would be World War III up in here.

  “Lissy, turn down South La Grange Road.”

  No. Nooooooo.

  I grip the wheel to brace myself. “Why?”

  But I know why.

  “Because we need to get you something to eat. We can go to the frozen yogurt shop on the corner. Between the sugar, the protein, and the vitamin D, you just might last the night without blacking out when you shout, ‘Lion pride!’”

  I keep my gaze fixed on the road. “I don’t think so. I don’t have time.”

  Brian is a paragon of reason. “Lissy, getting yogurt will take five minutes and make all the difference in the world.” Wait for it . . . wait for it. “Plus, my mom gave me a coupon—we can get two-for-one waffle cones.”

  And here it comes.

  “I don’t have time for coupons, Brian,” I hiss.

  Brian is taken aback—of course he is, because I practically spit at him for being kind and gentlemanly and more concerned about my welfare than what’s underneath my pleated skirt. “Excuse me?”

  “I said I don’t have time for coupons, Brian. God, what are you, deaf?”

  “Whoa, Lissy, who are you right now?”

  “I’m Lissy fucking Ryder, okay? Do you really think I’m going to A) make my public debut with you at a yogurt store, and B) use a fucking coupon? Are you mental? Do you mean for me to commit social suicide? Because that’s what you’re asking me to do.”

  I can’t even look at him.

  Brian takes a couple of deep breaths before responding. “I’m going to attribute this to your brain being in starvation mode right now. Let’s get some food in you and—”

  The only thing that’s getting me through this right now is the conversation we had at the reunion. I’ve been in denial about it for two weeks, but the simple fact is that his current life is almost unbearable. Brian seemed like a fraction of his former self when we talked. He told me he spends fifteen hours a day in a tiny cubicle in a damp basement, writing code for a cut-rate insurance company for very little money. He has no outside interests or hobbies and seems so resigned to his fate. He doesn’t even give a shit about music anymore, and that was his passion. I mean, really? Kelly Clarkson? And we didn’t lose a war or anything? He even said, “I guess not everyone’s allowed a happy ending.” He hates his life and his wife, who swooped in on him last time solely because I let him down gently and didn’t scar him so badly that he barely even thought about dating until he finished college.

  So I have to sell this. For him.

  I slam on the brakes and pull over to the side of the road. “What part of ‘I don’t have time for coupons’ do you not get, Brian? Did I stutter? Was I not perfectly clear? Do I need to enunciate? My God, Brian, it’s like you don’t even know who I am.”

  Actually, it’s like I can literally see his heart break.

  He grips the door handle. “You’re right about that. I thought I knew, but as it turns out, you actually are your mother. I’ll walk home from here.”

  My job isn’t done, though. “Of course you’re going to walk!” I shout after him. “You don’t have a car, because the Murphys breed like rabbits! You shouldn’t even be allowed to live in my neighborhood if your family can’t maintain standards! And do you really think I could ever date someone who liked Nirvana?”

  He heads down the street without ever turning back to look at me.

  Which is good, because then he can’t see me cry.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sorry Seems to Be

  the Hardest Word

  “You again.”

  For the first time ever, my poster of David Coverdale doesn’t fill me with delight. Seeing him means I’m back exactly where I should be, whether or not I like it. The raised voices and slamming doors confirm it—I’m home again.

  I don’t even bother to look in the mirror this time, because I know what I’m going to see.

  As I change out of my pajamas, my iPod and the empty vial fall onto the floor. I’m glad I had the presence of mind to bring them back, because this way there are no loose ends.

  I’m not sure what to do right now. As I’ve reverted back to post(apocalyptic)reunion Lissy, I’m surely still living at home and I have few professional prospects. But at least I have some self-awareness that I previously lacked, and I look forward to being able to sit down with Daddy and show him my full support.

  Actually, that makes me feel a bit better, so I head down the stairs to say good morning to him, but I guess the slamming doors means they both left, because the house is empty. According to the note, my mom’s provided breakfast in the fridge and there’s coffee in the pot. You know what? That’s shameful. I’m thirty-seven years old and it’s time I learned to cook a meal for myself.

  I wonder where my parents went. Technically, this is the Sunday after Thanksgiving—is it possible they’re still boat shopping, or was that only the case the last time I came back to the future? Being the same sad sack that I was the first time around, does that mean Daddy’s not thinking about boats and retirement? For his sake, I truly hope he is.

  I guess my main priority should be to figure out what’s next for me. What I want is to find Brian right this minute and go to him, but if he still thinks of me at all, it’s not fondly. I need to be a better Lissy before I come back into his life, in all aspects.

  It sounds shallow, but I’ll have to diet and exercise first, not because he’s someone who doesn’t accept a person as she is, but because I’ll feel better about myself if I get back on track. I don’t have to be who I was, but I need to find a happy medium between gluttony and starvation. I never considered myself someone “normal” or “average,” but that would be an excellent goal right about now. I can’t be good to anyone else until I feel better about me.

  What else? I need to get my shit together professionally. You know, some schooling wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Maybe if I went back and took some classes, this time around I’d actually pay attention and garner enough knowledge that I could run a successful PR firm, possibly even with a music specialty. It’s not too late. Maybe I’d pick up the kind of skills that would help me land new clients, ones who weren’t doing my parents a favor, or feeling obligated because I tried to twist fate.

/>   I should also work on who I am as a person. The time has come to make amends. Rather, I want to make amends, and not because there’s any personal gain attached. No one’s going to hire me because I said I’m sorry, and I wouldn’t expect them to. Actually, until I have a better grip on how to run publicity campaigns, I wouldn’t let them work with me. (Note to self: Send the electrical plating company back three hundred and fifty of their four hundred dollars.)

  This time when I apologize, I’ll be able to do so with an entirely new perspective. I don’t expect anyone to forgive me, but for my own sake, I must officially own up to my behavior.

  To begin, I’d better verify that everyone’s exactly where they should be in the present.

  Oh, please, oh, please let this have worked.

  I sit down at the computer my mother keeps on her kitchen desk and begin to Google.

  I search for Robert and the first link takes me to PerezHilton .com. Apparently Robert, whom critics are calling the second coming of Alexander McQueen, has just been romantically linked with Adam Lambert. There’s a photo of them coming out of Nobu together holding hands. Perez has drawn big white hearts around both of them, and I feel a rush of pride for which I have no rightful claim.

  I can’t help grinning over how much better it got for him.

  After some clicking I find a Contact Me! box on his design Web site and I input the following:

  Robert ,

  You probably don’t remember me.

  Actually, I’m sure you do. I’m writing to tell you how sorry I am for everything that happened to you twenty-one years ago. You had your ass handed to you that day because of me.

  The whole truth is, you made a better Madonna than Madge herself and I was jealous of the reaction you caused when everyone thought you were some new, hot girl. Granted, the boys are the ones who attacked you, but it was me who incited them.