Here I Go Again: A Novel (27 page)

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.

 * * * 

T
he 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 thing 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.

The doorbell rings just as I’m applying an edifying coat of Rose Gold gloss.

Okay.

Let’s do this.

 * * * 

“A
nd 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?