Argh!
I punch my keyboard in frustration.
Great. Now I’m mad and my hand hurts.
I wonder what my old neighbor Brian Murphy’s up to? He’s not listed on the RSVPs yet. He had quite the crush on me, which may or may not have been mutual.
Okay, fine.
The crush was totes mutual.
Brian gave me the kind of butterflies in my stomach that Duke never inspired, probably because he was so very sweet and genuine. He was as interested in what I had to say as what I looked like, and that was such a refreshing change from my usual meatheaded paramours.
Naturally I had to break Brian’s heart, but what choice did I have? Like I was going to dump the captain of the football team for a dork in the computer club . . . despite his being the only other guy I’ve ever entertained serious feelings about?
Again, fine.
Maybe I considered bucking the social norm for a minute, but then I was all, “Wait, what is this, a John Hughes film?” News flash—no one actually gives the popular chick the slow, standing clap when they find out you’re dating down. People don’t rally around you and praise your open-mindedness. This was real high school and not some far-flung, romanticized eighties-movie concept of it. The truth is I’d have committed social suicide in dating him, and I did not work my way to the head of the Belles to throw it all away for some guy who was more into George Lucas than Troy Aikman. Thank you, no.
Anyway, that was a million years ago. I’m sure he’s forgotten those few weeks we spent together twenty-one years ago.
I consult Mr. Google to help me find him. I insert search criteria. Pages of information come up and I begin to peruse.
Well, now, this is interesting. . . . Brian’s running a company called I Don’t Have Time for Coupons (d/b/a NoCoup.com), and if the Wall Street Journal’s to be believed, they’re going to be bigger than Groupon. There’s a rumor of an IPO, too.
My professional brain kicks into gear and I imagine how lucky some PR firm will be to land that business. There are so many compliance issues in terms of regulations, and one misstep during the SEC’s mandatory quiet period can cost a company millions in valuation. (Which I know, because I totally watched a YouTube video about this right before I was so unfairly canned.) Point is, handling the corporate communications for a pre-IPO gig would be a license to print money, back like we used to do in the late nineties.
Hey . . . wait a minute.
I’d like a license to print money.
It’s not like I don’t understand the publicity game—I’ve been doing it since I graduated, and I worked with a million start-ups back during the boom. Maybe no one’s hiring right now, but what’s stopping me from starting my own company and trying to get the business? Sure, maybe I lost my passion for my old job, but that’s because I was working for some big corporate entity, not for myself. If I were to create a firm and win Brian’s account, I’d be back in the high life again. I could have a town house in the Gold Coast and not some stupid one-bed-plus-den like stupid Duke. I could buy Akris goddess-sleeve dresses in every color! I could finally get one of those vintage Jaguar XJs like Tawny Kitaen cartwheeled all over in Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” video!
This could work. This could so work.
I make a chart of all the pros and cons of starting my own business. The only con is that I wouldn’t have that much time to watch Oprah reruns. (Know thine enemy, I always say.) In terms of pros, I’d make enough money to get my dad off my back and buy my own place before my mother’s cooking makes me so fat I’ll need the Jaws of Life to get me out of this bedroom. Plus, if I were financially independent, Duke would be so happy with me!
We could get back together!
Then I could dump that sorry son of a bitch on my own terms!
I mean, possibly.
Maybe I’d keep him around. I guess I’d have to see.
Not having an office is a minor glitch, but I can probably set up shop in the garage until I find a space. (Mamma would never allow me to sully one of her numerous, perfectly appointed guest rooms with a bunch of ugly file cabinets and four-color copiers.)
Oh, my God, I knew I was a genius! My life is fixed!
Except for the stupid reunion, which . . . you know what? I’m looking at this all wrong. So what if I’ve put on a few pounds? Who cares if I missed my last Botox injection because I was busy drowning my sorrows in a Gotta Have It–size Birthday Cake Remix sundae at Cold Stone Creamery instead? I’m still Lissy Ryder, former head of the Belles and new president and CEO of Lissy Ryder Communications, Inc. (d/b/a LissCom) and every single person at that party is a potential client. This reunion isn’t my greatest nightmare; it’s my best opportunity!
I mean, I’ve worked on tons of campaigns for bands and designers and authors. I could help the guys in Maroon 5 work on their image. (Two words—hair spray!) I could help the mathstronaut book engagements on the lecture circuit. I could make Dr. Childs an international brand and hook her up with makeup conglomerates. Under my tutelage (and, duh, for a share of the profits), I could help her launch a line of cosmeceuticals!
Best idea ever!
All I need is my old Rolodex and some business cards.
I glance at my bloated visage in the mirror.
And some Spanx.
CHAPTER THREE
Party Like It’s 1992
“You’re late. And you’re driving a minivan. Strikes one and two.”
Color floods Nicole’s cheeks. “So sorry about the van, Liss. When we planned the night, I forgot Bobby was taking his car. Then Charlotte was delayed at swing choir, and she’s babysitting the little ones, so I couldn’t leave till she got back. But I’m here now, right?” She flashes me a toothy smile, like that’s supposed to excuse her lateness.
I simply scowl in response as I stand outside the open door.
Nicole leans across the center console. “Would it help if I tell you how pretty you look?”
“No.” Yes.
I am semihot right now, less because I’ve been able to shake off any of this excess poundage and more because I’m wearing multiple girdles. My mother and her martini kept me company while I got ready, and by the time I sucked myself into the third pair of extra-thigh-controlling shorts, she asked whether I was going to a reunion or deep-sea diving with Mr. Jacques Cousteau. It’s possible I overdid it with the shapewear, as breathing’s really not an option and my whole body pulses in time with my heartbeat. But you try losing weight in a house where lard is its own block on the food pyramid.
I remove a handful of free-range LEGOs and brush the remnants of an entire school of Goldfish crackers from the seat before I ease into it. The Spanx make it almost impossible to move from the calves up, but I manage to wedge in anyway. I contemplate not wearing a seat belt, since I’m already wrapped in the equivalent of four hundred tourniquets, but I err on the side of caution. I glance over to the driver’s side and note the dashboard on this thing looks like the cockpit of a 747. I warn Nicole, “God help you if this heap doesn’t have satellite radio.”
Nicole quickly tunes in to the nineties station on XM and we’re off to the city for the reunion. Unbeknownst to me, Nicole was part of the planning committee (strike two and a half) and they decided to throw the event at the same location as senior prom, so instead of hitting the high school, we’re heading to the Drake Hotel downtown.
“Why isn’t Bobby here?” I ask.
What I really mean is, why isn’t Bobby driving us to the event in his shiny, expensive, Goldfish-free sedan?
Nicole begins to bob her head in time with Color Me Badd’s “I Wanna Sex You Up.” Because nothing says “sex you up” like a former second-grade teacher surrounded by side-curtain airbags. Yet I can’t help but notice how defined her collarbone is in her portrait-collar dress and I’m instantly jealous. She doesn’t even try to watch her weight and routinely finishes whatever’s on her children’s plates. Her regular diet is supplemented by grilled cheese crust
s, spare chicken nuggets, Oreo cookies minus the cream filling, and GoGurt tube dregs. Yet the bitch hasn’t gained an ounce since our glory days. She says she keeps fit by chasing after her kids, which sounds like the worst weight-loss plan ever.
Nicole’s definitely getting lines on her forehead, and the parentheses on either side of her mouth are starting to deepen. I keep trying to drag her to my aesthetician, but she claims she wants to “age gracefully” and “set an example” for her children. But the only example she’s setting is what happens to a grape when you let it dry out in the sun. I mean, look at my mother! She’s pushing sixty, yet everyone routinely mistakes us for sisters. (I’m far less thrilled about this than she is, by the way.)
Nicole tucks a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and glances over at me. “Bobby’s had a fishing trip with his brothers planned forever, so I didn’t want him to cancel once we set the reunion date. Besides, it’s not like he went to school with us or knows many of our people. I figured he’d be happier at the lake. He just called and he told me the walleye are practically jumping in the boat—”
I begin to paw through Nicole’s bag. “Guest list in here?”
Nicole cuts her eyes back to the road and, if I’m not mistaken, seems suddenly anxious. “Um, why don’t we just enjoy the scenery?”
I’m supposed to enjoy . . . what? All the smokestacks and water towers? The stately Sanitary and Ship Canal, which is the preferred body dump for local mobsters and drug lords? Billboards advertising paternity tests and personal injury attorneys? To my left, there’s a crumbling hospital for poor people, and to the right, an abandoned warehouse.
“I-55 is universally known as the armpit of Illinois. What aren’t you telling me, Nicole?” Not waiting for an answer, I dig around until I find the list and begin to scan as Nicole suddenly becomes very interested in the traffic.
Who’s worth speaking to on here? Looks like NoCoup.com’s Brian Murphy’s most likely a no, which completely bites. Approaching him about business tonight would have been way less formal than going through his assistant. Not impossible, by any means, but definitely a wrench in the works. And what if we find we still like each other? A corporate boardroom’s decidedly less flirty than the flattering light of a ballroom and the lure of an open bar.
None of the rest of the Belles is coming, either. No huge loss there. Kimmy kind of hasn’t been reasonable since I went to Puerto Rico with her boyfriend Chet back in the late nineties. I told her he was cheating on her. She didn’t believe me, so it was my job to prove it. Six times in one long weekend I proved it! (Would have been more if he hadn’t chugged all that watermelon sangria on our last night there.) Yet when I related this information she acted like I was the bad person in this scenario.
God, some people can’t appreciate the lengths I go to in the name of friendship.
April was unforgivably bitch-panicky after I kidnapped her and brought her to the Derek Lam sample sale. I mean, her Nana’s not that old. She’ll have plenty of other ninetieth birthday parties, and how often is there a sample sale of that magnitude in Chicago? (A lot less often, I’d imagine.)
And Tammy? I did her a massive favor when I changed her dress order. She would not have looked back on those pumpkin-colored nightmares fondly, let me tell you. Plus, I suspect she was putting us in them on purpose so she’d look better next to us. That shade of orange is a blonde’s worst nightmare, so clearly I had no choice if I didn’t want to be forever pasty in her wedding photo album. Yet you fix someone’s bridesmaid dresses and they shit all over you.
And please, like the bitch wouldn’t have done the same thing to me. She spent her whole high school career trying to oust me as leader; why would my wedding have been any different?
Whatever. I’m glad they’re not coming. The Belles are supposed to be my ladies-in-waiting and not just a group of thirty-something women who tend to shout at me.
Lots of people I Googlestalked have RSVP’d yes, though. I might not land them all as clients, but even a couple would make a huge impact on my bottom line. Currently the only business I’ve lured to LissCom is the industrial plating manufacturer. I’m working on a scintillating campaign to raise awareness of the lubricity of chrome plating, which is used to prevent corrosion. Hot, right? (And don’t even get me started on the bennies of cylindrical grinding!)
I run across Duke’s name. There’s a note next to his RSVP, asking to be seated with his date, who is, apparently, a member of our class, but her name isn’t specified.
And that’s fine.
No, I mean it.
It’s fine.
Seriously, who’s he going to find that’s better than me? I’m sure he’s just escorting some rent-a-skank to make me jealous. Or maybe he’s bringing Elyse, that bloodsucking divorce attorney of his who graduated with us. Either way, what’s going to happen is he’ll see her and me in the same room and there’ll be no question of who’s cuter.
And yet . . .
I feel a twist in my stomach, maybe from nerves. Of course, that could just be Mamma’s gumbo. That woman does not skimp on the andouille.
While Nicole drones on about something called Gymboree (don’t know, don’t care), I mentally prepare my pitch for the evening. When we arrive at the Drake, I insist we stop for a drink in the bar of Palm Court before we hit the reunion. Nicole’s all, “Blah, blah, blah, missing dinner in the ballroom,” but I tell her that Lissy Ryder likes to make an entrance.
“You’re not going to start talking about yourself in the third person, right? Oh, God, it’ll be tenth grade all over again.” Nicole shudders.
Ignoring her, I down my first skinny-girl margarita, followed by another. I pretty much have to keep my hand clamped over Nicole’s wrist while we’re at the bar, because she keeps claiming she needs to manage the registration table. I tell her if our classmates are too dim to figure out that they’re supposed to take the tag with their own name and photo on it, then they need a helmet, not a facilitator.
At eight thirty-two p.m., one hour and thirty-two minutes after the reunion starts, I release Nicole and she sprints off ahead of me. I’m not in love with how cut her calf muscles are as she fifty-yard-dashes into the party. (Note to self: Encourage Nicole to eat more carbs.)
As I push through the doors of the ballroom, the deejay begins to spin Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy.” Not my favorite jam by a long shot, but definitely a fine, fine song for making an entrance.
I stand and bask for a moment and wait for my minions to rush me. The gracious paneled ballroom is a couple of stories high, and there’s a stage decked in a banner stating WELCOME BACK, LT LIONS—CLASS OF 1992. There’re lots of old photo collages on the sides of the bar, and over by the deejay booth there’s an enormous poster of our school’s most famous alumnus to date . . . David Hasselhoff.
Oh, yes.
Let the (lion) pride of that sink in for a moment.
Dozens of white-draped tables line the parquet dance floor, and they’re all topped with flowers in our school colors. Really, Nicole? Gold and blue carnations grouped around a tiny stuffed lion clad in a football jersey? Strike two and three-quarters.
Still, tonight marks my relaunch into life. Yes, things were bumpy during the summer, but that’s all over now. LT, get ready for Lissy 2.0!
I bask a little longer, enjoying the solitude before the onslaught of those hoping to catch a ride on the Lissy 2.0 Express.
I continue to bask as the song ends and Kris Kross’s “Jump” begins. Clearly every person in this room will notice me as soon as they stop hopping up and down like a bunch of cracked-out kangaroos.
Basking, basking . . .
When “Achy Breaky Heart” comes on, the crowd shrieks and storms the dance floor, like they have absolutely zero shame in two-stepping to Miley frigging Cyrus’s father. Open bar, indeed.
I continue to bask.
Nothing happens, save for a group of moderately attractive people squealing, hugging, and grooving on the other side
of the room.
Um, hello! I’m basking over here!
Then everyone completely loses their shit for “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” I have to roll my eyes at how everyone’s banging their heads as though they were onstage with Kurt and company. Er, pardon me? You’re all on the wrong side of thirty-five and air guitar stopped being cute, like, two decades ago. Also, am I the only one who’s disturbed that this song is technically an infomercial about girls’ deodorant?
When Def Leppard’s “Let’s Get Rocked” plays (finally something decent!) and the dance floor empties, I make my way to the bar. Ah, looks like everyone’s enjoying fine, fine boxed wine. Strike two and four-fifths, Nicole.
I take a belt of my sauvignon blanc and put on my best Belle smile. The first familiar face I see is that of Debbie, the former—scratch that, current—hippie. She’s all done up in some kind of bizarro caftan and head wrap, and I want to ask if Maya Angelou is suing her for likeness rights. But I stop myself, remembering the article about Debbie’s booming new age boutique on Oak Street catty-corner from Prada. Growing retail outlets need crazy-big amounts of publicity, and I hear that crystal therapy is the new faux fur vest for society chicks.
Oh, Jaguar, I can feel the purr of your V8 engine as we speak!
“Hey, there, it’s Lissy Ryder. How are you, Lissy Ryder?” Debbie not only approaches me, but positions herself approximately six inches from my face. Wow, violate my personal space much?
I take a step backward and I force the new, more professional Lissy 2.0 to answer, which is why I don’t deliver a devastating burn about the bit of grape leaf from the dolma lodged between her incisors. “Fine, thanks. It’s Debbie, right?”
Her face is wreathed in smiles. “Actually, it’s Deva.”
“Um, no, I’m pretty sure it’s Debbie.” Listen, Lissy 2.0 did not study that goddamned yearbook in vain. You are Debbie Mitchell or the LTHS Tabulae is full of filthy lies.
She continues to moon at me. “Debbie is who I was. Deva is who I am now.” I must look as confused as I feel, so she continues. “Deva is my spiritual name.”
Here I Go Again: A Novel Page 3
