Here I Go Again: A Novel (14 page)

“Your aura colors are stupendous, Lissy Ryder! Such an improvement! When I saw you at the reunion, your natural glow was almost completely marred by blackness, but today you’re all light and love. Well, mostly light and love. There are a few spots here and there, because you’re still intrinsically you, but still, well-done! Up here!” Deva holds up her hand for a high five and then smacks me so hard with her catcher’s mitt that she almost dislocates my shoulder.

“Ow!”
I exclaim, shaking out my arm.

“Sorry,” she says, all sheepish. “The Mayans play a game with a nine-pound rubber disk called an
ulli
and I’m quite skilled, because I can really palm it, you know? Sometimes I forget my own strength.”

Three weeks ago, I’d have been deeply annoyed by Deva’s casual mention of yet another Mesoamerican Fun Fact, but now I’m charmed, especially with how she’s all present tense with the Mayans, like she might go visit as soon as she’s done with 1991. (Which, I guess, she actually might.) She’s so much more interesting than I ever imagined, and I wish I’d given her a chance back in high school. Surely I’d have enjoyed her conversation more than Tammy’s daily treatise on
Saved by the Bell
. It’s been all I can do to not mention that Screech eventually releases a sex tape.

“Hey, real quick—you said I should be heading back tomorrow. How does that work?” I’m bent over my K-Swiss, tightening my laces and slouching my socks.

Deva replies, “Simply go to sleep and you’ll wake up within a few minutes of when you left three weeks ago.”

“That’s all there is to it?” I gather my hair in a ridiculously high pony, adorning it with a massive white ribbon. (The tight pony—the next-best thing to Botox, you know.)

“That’s it.”

I smooth my hair and swipe on some gloss. “Easy enough. All righty, all set. I guess I’d better head to the gym. They can’t have a pep rally without all my pep.” I wedge my stuff into a hot-pink Vera Bradley tote and make my way to the door. “No time like the present, right?”

Deva shoots me a lopsided grin. “I prefer to say there’s no present like time.”

 * * * 

“W
e’ve got the spirit now, it’s all around us now, we’ve got the spirit now, ’cause it lifts us off the ground!”

At the “lifts us off the ground” part, the Belles and I take three big hops to the right. We repeat this over and over, until we succeed in coaxing the crowd to participate in taking three little hops in their own seats as well. Each clattering hop fills the stadium with the sound of thunder and it’s awe-inspiring.

It’s a perfect night for a football game, too. Chilly without being too cold, and the air’s crisp, but scented with the slightest tang of a hardwood fire. We haven’t been hit by the cold November rains that Axl will sing about next year, so there’s been no dampness to speed the decay of the fallen leaves. The whole night feels magical, and even though I already know our team will lose shortly after Duke gets sacked, I’ve had a blast being here.

“Which cheer should we do next, Liss? Let’s make it our best ever!” Nicole says. She’s as excited to be out here as I am, color high in her cheeks and breath coming out in little white puffs.

I started off this experience furious with her for bailing on me at the reunion, but as I’ve observed her over the past few weeks, I’m struck by what a kind person she is. She talks to everyone, regardless of their social status. If some nerd’s struggling under a load of books, she’s right there to retrieve those that fall. If some stoner girl needs a tampon, she doesn’t hesitate to dive into her purse. She doesn’t gossip and she doesn’t mock and she doesn’t judge. I can see now why she chose to work with children as a career—her patience is infinite and being helpful is second nature to her.

That she still chose to be my friend for the past twenty years is nothing short of miraculous and speaks to her gentle soul. In retrospect, I haven’t been the best friend. I can think of a million instances when I bullied and steamrolled and negated her feelings.

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!”