Here I Go Again: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  Brian tsk-tsks me. “Lissy, hate to say it, but you’re way off on this. Nirvana’s going to be one of those bands everyone’s still talking about in twenty years. Cobain is the father of an entirely new genre and no one’s ever going to forget him. I’ll wager in fifty years, some other nerd will find himself with a pretty girl in his room and he’ll impress her by explaining the cultural significance of Nevermind.”

  He is so not winning this argument . . . even if he did just imply that I’m pretty. I mean, I know I’m way cute, but it’s lovely to hear those words coming from him. So I say, “Ha! And then when the nerd ends up taking his cousin to prom, he’ll be all, ‘How’d I blow it with the hot chick?’”

  The phone rings and thirty seconds later someone comes chugging up the stairs. His mom, Priscilla, bursts through the door wearing a dirty apron and carrying a drippy wooden spoon.

  “Oh, thank God!”

  Brian jumps out of his seat. “What the heck, Mom? The kids okay?”

  She has to catch her breath for a second before blurting, “Lissy’s mother”—gasp—“called and said she saw her come over here a couple of hours ago.” Gasp, gasp. “She said to make sure you kids weren’t having sex because—and this is a quote—‘If your son makes me a grandma, I will kill each and every one of your no-necked monsters.’ She actually said ‘keel’ but, still, I understood what she meant.” Gasp.

  “Mrs. Ryder is pretty funny. I’m sure she was joking,” Brian declares, trying to make me feel less mortified. Which is not working.

  His mother paces around his room, splattering bits of icing from the spoon as she gestures. A glob hits a scale model of the Millennium Falcon. “Are you? Because I’m not. That woman terrifies me, no offense, Lissy. Do you remember the block party where I made German potato salad instead of regular potato salad?” She flails and more frosting flies onto a Han Solo action figure. “I still have flashbacks from her reaction. Your father fought in ’Nam, yet I’m the one having flashbacks. Once in a while I wake up in the night screaming, ‘No hot vinegar!’ I thought we’d have to sell the house for a while. Do me a favor: Don’t have sex with Lissy.”

  “Not really an issue, Mom,” Brian assures her calmly, even though his ears have flushed bright red.

  She’s appeased, but barely. “Maybe leave your door propped open, too, while you’re up here. Oh, Lissy, dear, you feel like staying for dinner? It’s taco night and I’m making Bundt cake with lemon icing for dessert.”

  “I should probably take off soon,” I tell her, not mentioning how I’d like to go home and properly die from shame in my own bedroom. I may be thirty-seven inside, but mortification knows no age limits.

  “Okay,” she says, exiting the room. “If you change your mind, remember there’s cake! No sex! Just cake!”

  “I’m so sorry about that,” I tell Brian.

  “No need to apologize,” he says. “If anything, I’m sorry. Your mom didn’t come in here brandishing a loaded wooden spoon. But no-necked monsters? What’s that about?”

  “Sometimes Mamma forgets she’s not Blanche DuBois.”

  Brian frowns. “Okay . . . but you realize that line comes from Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “Unless my English teacher was lying about the collected work of Tennessee Williams.”

  “Huh. Well, please don’t tell my mother. She swears it’s Blanche DuBois who was always bitching about them, and she’s, um . . . not a fan of being wrong. And my whole point was, she’s also not a fan of children, either. Like, at all.” Clearly, Brian is confused by this statement, so I’m compelled to elaborate. “She digs me, obviously—actually, she’s a little bit obsessive in that regard—but she equates the concept of kids with death.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Brian’s so sincere that I find myself sharing something I never mentioned to Duke. “She got pregnant in college and had to get married. Of course, this is a big, tragic family secret and no one will actually admit it, but I can do basic math. I was born five months after the wedding and I wasn’t premature or anything.”

  When my parents met, my mother was a junior at the University of Georgia and my dad was just finishing law school down there. From what my aunt Sissy says, my parents weren’t at all serious about each other. Actually, my mom had been dating this wealthy football player named Bo, who was the lieutenant governor’s son, but he broke up with her because she was all in his grille about getting married. That may be the first—and last—time she didn’t get her own way.

  To make Bo jealous, she dated my dad. She figured that seeing her on the arm of some poor Yankee Democrat lawyer would incense him. And it did, but by then she was knocked up and it was too late. My grandmamma (you want to talk scary women? Let’s just say the terror apple didn’t fall far from the terror tree) gave her no choice but to marry Daddy and to stay married and the rest is history. He moved her back up to his hometown in Illinois shortly thereafter and she’s been making him pay for it ever since.

  You know what? Brian is Duke’s polar opposite, too, and Mamma knows I’ve been aggravated with Duke lately, even if she doesn’t know why. She probably thinks I’m over here having revenge sex, but the truth is I don’t discover that until college.

  “Listen,” I say, “I’d better go home and calm her down. She can be a little high-maintenance.”

  I exit the beanbag. Rather, I attempt to haul myself out, but it’s like trying to limbo when the bar’s at knee height. Brian reaches for my hand and when he touches me, I swear I feel a spark of electricity. But maybe he just dragged his shoes on the carpet first.

  “Here you go,” he says, helping me to my feet. “This was fun.”

  “Yeah, it kinda was,” I agree, before adding, “even though you’re wrong about Kurt Cobain. And Elvis, for that matter.”

  He snorts. “Ooh, stubborn, eh? If you want to come over tomorrow, we can discuss the folk branch of the tree. I’m talking all Bob Dylan, all the time.”

  “I just might take you up on that,” I curtly reply.

  As I cross the street, I consider what I wrote about Brian in my diary. Back in the day, I felt very comfortable with him very quickly. If today’s any indication, I can see why. We weren’t together long in 1991, but now that I’ve been reminded of how I felt back then, all sorts of sweet memories have returned. Like the night we drove to the quarry and listened to “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” a dozen times on a loop. Brian brought a little telescope and pointed out all the constellations unique to the fall sky. We had a real Can’t Buy Me Love moment. (FYI, Patrick Dempsey’s still smokin’ twenty-five years after that film was released.)

  Until right this minute, I hadn’t considered how different my life would be in the future if I hadn’t been so afraid of what everyone would think about my dumping the quarterback for the computer geek. Like in the scheme of things that would have been such an issue? Brian’s even better-looking than I remember in a nerdier–Ryan Gosling kind of way, and I appreciate how he never once mentioned sports or the prospect of getting into my pants. When I’m with him I feel . . . less angry at violations in the social hierarchy, as though it’s really not a huge deal if some random classmate wants to wear my signature color of pink.

  Like I said, I find him refreshing.

  None of which matters, of course, because I’m technically thirty-seven and he’s seventeen and statutory rape is no laughing matter. Although . . . Edward has no problem hooking up with Bella and he’s, like, a hundred years older than her and no one’s pressed charges yet. Also? He’s a vampire. In this case, I’d simply be the mayor of Cougar Town. Still, this isn’t a conversation I’d like to have with a judge, particularly since I’m here in the first place to right karmic wrongs, so the whole point is moot.

  When I arrive home, I have to talk my mother down from the ledge, convincing her that we’re just friends and that nothing happened, nor would happen. And yet I find myself glancing over at his window all nigh
t and I don’t stop until I see his light go out hours later.

  I’ve not yet achieved clarity or purpose, yet I feel a little bit of inner peace.

  Weird.

  * * *

  “Hi, Liss! Saved you a seat next to me!” Tammy waves and shrieks when I exit the cafeteria line, like I wouldn’t spot her and her stop sign red hair without all the histrionics.

  “Settle down, Beavis,” I tell her, and then instantly regret it when I realize the show doesn’t premiere on MTV until halfway through my freshman year of college.

  Here’s an interesting discovery this time around—except for Nicole, I don’t actually like any of my friends. Further—except for Nicole—I’m not sure any of them particularly care for me. I suspect we’ve only been palling around as long as we have because if we didn’t, the entire social fabric of the school would disintegrate.

  Fortunately, Kimmy’s dumb as a bag of hair, so she lacks the intellectual capacity to conceive of a power play. April’s no slouch, but she’s a hopeless kiss-ass, so conducting a social junta goes against her very nature. Really? April’s the very definition of a herd animal.

  (Note to self: I invented frenemies twenty years ago! Have Daddy look into copyright infringement when I get back to the future.)

  As for Tammy?

  I’m keeping my eye on that one. Ol’ Fire Crotch has been angling to take over the Belles ever since she had her braces removed. Like a little less tin in her maw would make everyone forget she’s a ginger. She makes no overt moves, mind you; she’s too slick for that. Rather, it’s the little stuff I’m starting to notice, like how she flirts with Duke, and how she’s always trying to get together with Nicole outside of the group. Divide and conquer? Not on my watch, Opie Cunningham.

  If I could prove it was Tammy who slapped the I BREAK 4 MONSTER BOOTY bumper sticker on my shiny new car, she’d be out of the group so fast her ugly crimson head would spin. Nicole’s all, “Blah, blah, blah, benefit of the doubt innocent until proven guilty,” but I know the score. (Also, Nicole’s probably too sweet for her own good.)

  Can I mention Tammy’s a stepchild with red hair, yet no one has beaten her like that old expression promises?

  Let’s rectify this, universe, and soon.

  Tammy nods at my Beavis comment, as though I’ve somehow said something meaningful. I slide in across from her and place my tray on the linoleum table, which is in the prime position, as we can see the entire room, while at the farthest point from the garbage cans, dishwashing conveyor belt, and teachers’ corner. The eastern light lands just shy of the table at this time of day, meaning we’re well lit but not squinty, and we’re spitting distance from the soda machines. When the Belles skip school, our six-top is left vacant, as no one dares sully our seats.

  I regard the lunchtime bounty in front of me. How did I turn my nose up at school cafeteria offerings twenty years ago? Iceberg wedge salads? Square slices of pizza? Grilled cheese? Goulash? Food trucks are making a killing today selling old-school comfort foods, but back then I’d suck down three Diet Cokes and one bite of Duke’s ice-cream sandwich, followed by a double Dexatrim Max chaser. No wonder I was perpetually crabby.

  (Note to self: Invent food truck.)

  Today’s exciting because lunch feels extra-retro—Tater Tots and sloppy joes and chocolate milk. I’ve died and gone to trans-fat heaven!

  “Ohmigod,” Kimmy exclaims. “You’re eating lunch?!”

  I pause in midbite, lips parted and Tater Tot hovering somewhere between my mouth and my plate. Icily, I reply, “You’re not?”

  Duly chastened, April and Kimmy hustle up to the hot food line and they gaze at the offerings with the wonder and fear of an aborigine having witnessed a Coke bottle falling from the sky.

  Nicole’s busy with a project for her child-development class, so it’s just Tammy and me at the table. She’s all poised and anticipatory, like she’s waiting for me to say some words so she can hang on them now before using them against me later. I notice girls at the other tables are all leaning in to hear me, too.

  Truth? This idol-worship business is becoming a little played out. Two weeks ago it was a real ego boost, but now? Not so much. Take yesterday, for example. I was in a total haze after hanging out with Brian until late the night before. He synched up Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and The Wizard of Oz and it blew my mind. Then he tried to explain his Usenet newsgroup (basically an online Star Wars bulletin board) that he accesses with his modem. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise for him, but seriously—he’s just going to die when he finally gets a broadband connection.

  Boy, I wish it weren’t illegal in twenty-nine states to make out with him.

  Still . . . I do have a boyfriend who’s eventually going to be my husband. Whether or not he stays my husband is yet to be determined, but maybe if stuff in our relationship doesn’t get broken, we won’t have to fix it. Plus, I’m hoping Brian’s business will make me rich someday, so I’m trying not to lead him on, much to my mother’s relief.

  Anyway, my point is, when I stepped into the shower yesterday morning, I was tired and daydreamy and I ended up washing my hair with conditioner. Because I was already halfway to straight hair after that, I gave myself a proper blowout. Then I pulled my industrial-strength curling iron through each section to make it smooth, because, let’s face it—a perm does no one any favors. Then, today? No fewer than nineteen girls, including Tammy, have attempted the same thing.

  I suspect that if I were to go Britney-on-a-bender and buzz my hair clean off, they’d be all, “Can we borrow your clippers?”

  Kimmy and April approach the table with, hey, what do you know? Trays of sloppy joes, Tots, and chocolate milk. I consider messing with them by dunking my Tots in my milk before eating them, but that seems pointless and icky. Also, the Tots are golden and salty and magnificent and I don’t want to mar this experience for one minute. I figure I’m going to be in this bod for only the next week, so I may as well enjoy it. Too bad camera phones aren’t out yet. I’d definitely take some underwear-clad, MySpace-type photos to keep on file, because my derriere will never be tighter, smaller, or higher than it is at this moment. I’d like to memorialize it, maybe put it on a Christmas card.

  (Note to self: No reason to invent MySpace.)

  The rest of the Belles gamely chew and try to hide their grimaces over the influx of empty calories. I have no doubt they’ll be revisiting their lunches as soon as they can sneak away to the ladies’ room. Oh, ladies . . . bulimia is so 1990.

  I’m falling madly, truly, deeply in love with these Tots when Tammy elbows me. “Check it out,” she hisses. She gestures to the side of the caf with the unflattering light over by the dish room. I follow her pointed finger until I see the object of her derision. Deva’s trying to navigate around her corn dog with her back brace and the results are . . . kind of pornographic.

  I’m not going to sugarcoat it: She’s working that nitrate on a stick like Jenna Jameson, all tongue and bared teeth and tilted head. I’m starting to realize that I didn’t always make the best choices in my past, but come on! Deva’s practically begging someone to mock her.

  I’m not advocating bullying (I’m totally about “it gets better,” after all), but for Christ’s sake, if you don’t want to be teased, then stop sending everyone an engraved invitation!

  I beg of the kids today, please don’t show up for school wearing an ascot or your grandfather’s smoking jacket or guyliner (unless you’re Nikki Sixx). Save your budding individuality for college, where you won’t get your ass handed to you for requesting a glass of sparkling water at a kegger. For now, stay with the herd! The herd’s way safer than being out there all by your lonesome with your pink hair and nose ring! Eccentricity is great . . . but wait until you graduate.

  I’m slowly beginning to understand that a lot of the time I don’t even want to mock others, but there they are in their Mork and Mindy suspenders and crocheted hats more suitable for hiding extra toilet paper rolls
than wearing, and they give me very few other options. High school is a battlefield, and no one wins the war wearing Moon Boots. It’s kill or be killed up in here; thus it’s imperative to strike the first blow.

  I want to laugh at Deva’s performance, but then I catch myself before I actually say what I’m thinking.

  Wait a sec: This is one of those opportunities to make a future fix! Everyone’s going to follow my lead regardless of what I do, so if I’m not intentionally cruel in this instance, it stands to reason that no one else will be, either.

  Tammy’s virtually vibrating from the scent of fresh prey. She likes to fancy herself my “second,” like if I can’t fulfill my Belle duties, she’ll take over.

  Pfft. She’s fourth at best.

  Tammy pokes me again. “Look! It’s like she’s giving her corn dog a whoomp-whoomp!”

  I lean back in my seat and cross my arms, focusing all my attention on Tammy. “A what?”

  Tammy giggles nervously and waggles her eyebrows. “You know, a whoomp-whoomp.”

  I’m purposefully dim. “I’m sorry; I don’t understand what you mean.”

  Tammy starts to panic. A while back she was all, “You swear too much, Lissy, so I’m going to set an example and never use dirty words,” to which I replied, “Knock yourself out, motherfucker.”

  But now she’s finding herself in an unwinnable sitch. She can curse and go back on her big declaration, or she can be cagey and continue to flounder.

  After sputtering and making some hand gestures that assure us all that she’s never satisfied a boy once she got his pants off, she must figure that she’s dug herself into this hole and the only way out is through. She clears her throat and then whispers, “She appears to be giving that corn dog a . . . ahem . . . ” following up with an openmouthed wink.

  “Tammy,” I say slowly and deliberately, “are you too chickenshit to say ‘blow job’? What are you, twelve?”