Here I Go Again: A Novel (10 page)

Mamma deliberately sips her drink before she responds. “The right one.” Which comes out sounding like
raaaaaaaaaaht
.

Daddy is seething mad. “What do you want, for her to still be living here twenty years from now because she never learned how to work hard enough to hold a job? Help me out, Ginny, because I really don’t understand your warped set of values.”

My mother leans back against my David Coverdale poster and crosses her arms. She draws back into herself, not unlike a cobra about to strike.

In a voice as chilly as the little shards of ice floating on top of her martini, she says, “George, soon as anyone in this household gives one hot goddamn about what you
thank
, we’ll be sure and let you know.” Then she winks at me.

It’s the most terrifying wink anyone has ever seen.

All the blood drains from my dad’s face, and for a second I kind of hope he’ll fight back. But instead of exploding, he takes a few deep breaths before retreating to his library.

My mother turns back to me and gives me a victorious smile. “Now, honey bunny, let’s talk about homecomin’. Forget your silly ol’ test. I say we go shoppin’ for gowns tomorrow!”

 * * * 

S
ave for the usual tension with my folks last night, this has been one of the best weeks of my life. The Belles are looking at me with newfound respect, Duke/Martin’s mooning over me like he’s completely lovestruck, and I’ve aced every single test, quiz, and homework assignment. And my new (old?) convertible? Every girl wants to be me and every guy wants to be with me.

I am unstoppable.

So, if and when I hit my twenty-year reunion, I’m showing up with an amazing job, a fat checking account, a doting husband, and Michelle Obama arms. Bank on that.

I’m in the ladies’ slicking on one more coat of the same shade of bloodred lipstick Donna Martin wore on last week’s
90210
. Debbie (I mean Deva—no, I mean . . . crap, this is so confusing) comes into the bathroom and makes a beeline for a stall. We don’t have any classes together and it’s a huge school. I only ever run into her when she’s burning herbs in the basketball gym. As we’re smack in the middle of football season, this is the first time I’ve seen her since my dream.

I monkey around with my hair and give serious deliberation to having bangs cut. I’ll focus-group the Belles on this, with the caveat being if I opt for them, there’s a moratorium on anyone else having a trim for at least a month.

Yes.

That’s exactly what I’ll do.

I forgot the rush that comes from wielding this kind of influence. I’m the trendsetter, the tastemaker. What I say goes. I even have enough cachet to make everyone listen to hair metal again if I were to publicly deem it cool. Seriously, if I came to school in a Van Halen tee tomorrow (which I totally own) it’d be 1984 all over again. At the moment, no one can shut up about the local band the Smashing Pumpkins, whose lead singer, if my dream future is correct, is cue-ball bald and wears no eyeliner whatsoever! Blech.

Somehow, though, I kind of want to keep Axl and Tommy and Kip and David and the rest of them all to myself. So much of what I do lately is subject to public scrutiny that I’m starting to feel oddly private about a few things.

I guess what I’m saying is, I have the power to make “fetch” happen . . . but I choose not to exercise it.

I hear a toilet flush and Debbie meanders out in one of her oddball kimono shirts, all rigid and upright in her back brace. I give her a quick nod—a serious social coup for any non-Belle—and then I brush on another layer of Great Lash.

Debbie grins back at me. She methodically washes her big hands and then dries them on the scratchy brown paper towels known exclusively to public lavatories everywhere. Then she just stands there real close to me, waiting to catch my eye. When I glance over, she says—all matter-of-fact, like she’s asking me about the math assignment—“Have you achieved clarity yet?”

The only sound is that of my mascara clattering into the sink. Every ounce of my blood has completely frozen. “
Excuse me?
” I whisper.

“Your journey, Lissy Ryder. How’s it going? I’ve been meaning to catch up with you all week, but ironically chemistry’s giving me trouble this time around.”

“What? I mean . . . how?” I feel my knees go weak and I have to steady myself against the wall. Because if this isn’t Debbie doing the usual talking out of her ass, I have just fallen into a massive metaphysical wormhole. (One of the
Real Housewives of New Canaan
has a metaphysics coach, which is why I’m familiar with the concept.)

“The Incan tonic, of course.”

I gasp for breath as the wind rushes out of me. “Are you telling me that was all
real
? That I didn’t have some bullshit dream like on
Dallas
? Are you Patrick Duffy or something?”

Now Debbie seems confused. “No, Lissy Ryder. I’m
Deva
. We’ve met. Don’t you remember—I brought you to my place after the reunion? The wheatgrass? The Ikat robe?”

I nod numbly as I slide down the wall and sink to the floor. “The tonic did more than fill in crow’s-feet.”

“Far more.”

I rest my face in my palms for a moment, not even considering what that might do to my makeup. The whole room feels like it’s swirling around me in a blur of baby pink and mint green tiles. I try to focus my eyes on the paper-towel holder while I collect my wits. I’m not sure if I want to barf or scream.

“Does this mean I don’t get to invent Facebook?”

Deva shrugs. “Can you do it in the next couple of weeks?”

“Probably not. The squad’s got to learn three new routines before homecoming, and I have an English midterm.”

Deva pats my shoulder. “That’s unfortunate. By the way, I saw your squad practice the SuperLiss. Derivative, but I like it. Reminds me of a Zulu dance I saw in sub-Saharan Africa. Here’s a thought—what if the girls bared their breasts like the tribeswomen? That would feel more authentic for me. Maybe go with a beaded skirt? Oh, you’ve not lived until you see Zulu beadwork! So intricate! So colorful! So—”

I stand up and begin to pace. “Are you planning on explaining what happened or should we keep making small talk? ‘Nice weather today! And how ’bout them LT Lions? Think we’ll beat Hinsdale Central at the homecoming game?’”

Deva shakes a large finger at me. “You’re still funny, Lissy Ryder.”

“And
you’re
still freaking me out. Can we discuss all of this”—I sweep my arms around the ladies’ room—“before I have a panic attack and then find out Ativan’s not yet been invented?”

It takes a good half an hour of tangents, diversions, and exotic travelogues until I finally wrestle the whole story out of Deva. Basically, the fluid she gave me has the ability to alter time. Each drop of the tonic is equal to one hour in the past. With the amount I ingested, I should be here in 1991 for two more weeks, as I’ve already been here a week. When the potion wears off, I’ll wake up exactly when and where I was when I drank it.

“How could you know I’d drink half the bottle? You told me to use it sparingly,” I protest.

“Lissy Ryder, you’re as predictable as the tides. Since when do you listen to what anyone tells you?” Deva gives me a playful chuck on the arm.

Touché.

“But what am I supposed to do for the next two weeks?” I ask. “If I’m just going back to my miserable life, what was the whole point of this exercise? To show me how awesome everything used to be? To make sure I don’t have enough time to invent Facebook?”

Deva seems a little disappointed in my question. “How many times do I have to tell you, Lissy Ryder? The point is to achieve clarity, purpose, and inner peace.” She narrows her eyes. “You do realize your journey’s not about ripping off that nice Mark Zuckerberg, right?”

I shrug. “I was still kind of hoping I could make it work.”

This succeeds in finally rattling her. “Do you need me to spell this out? Lissy Ryder, we’re here—
you’re
here—because you’re soul-sick. There’s a dark cloud around you. I went out on a limb for you because I’ve never seen anyone who generates worse karma.”

Likely because she’s never met Mamma.

“Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“You’re meant to take a long, hard look at your past. What do you notice? What might you change about yourself? What works? What doesn’t? What’s the source of why you are the way you are? Right now, it’s not too late to make a difference. Consider this, Lissy Ryder: A spaceship can go one degree off course and that’s nothing, right? Just one small tilt of the space steering wheel and you’re right back on track. But the farther the ship travels from where it veered off course, the harder it is to recover the original orbital trajectory. At thirty-seven, righting all your old wrongs is an almost insurmountable obstacle. But at seventeen? That’s nothing. Bear in mind, though, that the nature of time is fluid, Lissy Ryder. Place one finger in the water and the ripples impact the whole lake. Aim for subtle, not grand gestures, okay? Please don’t try to assassinate any presidents or anything.”

I feel like Keanu Reeves learning about the Matrix. My brain is throbbing and I still may or may not revisit the Cheerios I had for breakfast. “Let me get this straight—what you’re saying is, if I want to have a good life in the future, I have to make small changes to what I screwed up in the past?”

“Bingo.”

“Bingo?” What is it with her and “bingo”?

“Bingo. It’s exactly that easy.”

“Whoa.”

Deva begins to walk to the door. “Any more questions? Because I should probably get to calculus now. No matter how many times I return, I never can quite master antiderivatives. Very embarrassing in my line of work.”

I catch up to her. “The tonic—how’d you know how to make it? The shaman taught you?”

Deva has to nod with her whole body to compensate for the brace. “Right. Bob at Machu Picchu is highly skilled with ancient Incan potions. He’s a real mixologist. You should try his lime rickeys! He says the secret is using fresh juice, but I—”

“The shaman’s name is
Bob
?”

“It may be a nickname. I’ll ask him next time.”

Then I remember some boring History Channel show that Duke/Martin insisted we watch right before he dumped me. “I thought the Incans vanished entirely in the fifteen hundreds. They all died out or something.”

Deva pats me on the shoulder. “The Incans aren’t dead; they just went home.”

“Hey!” I bark. My voice echoes off the tile. “You swiped that line from Tommy Lee—not the hot one—in
Men in Black
. That movie’s not out for another six years! I thought we weren’t supposed to steal stuff from the future.”

Deva chuckles. “No, Lissy Ryder.
I’m
allowed to steal stuff from the future. You’re not.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Turn and Face the Strange Changes

“Lissy? Are you okay?”

“Huh?

I snap out of my reverie and glance up into the concerned face of Brian Murphy. He’s standing next to my car, yet I didn’t even notice him walking up to me. My heart inadvertently speeds up for a second until my head reminds me that dorks are
not
sexy-in-a-bookish-sort-of-way.

“I asked if you were okay. You’ve been idling in the driveway for a while. Saw you from my bedroom window and couldn’t figure out what you were doing out here.” When he smiles, I notice how white and straight his teeth are. I guess all those years of wearing his Nerdzilla headgear finally paid off.

“Oh, I was . . .” I’ve been in a complete fog since my conversation with Deva. Honestly, I don’t even recall the drive home. Last I knew, I was ditching seventh period and heading to my car. I got in, popped the top, cranked the tunes, and then just drove for a very long time.

Brian’s all attentive and expectant, so I have no choice but to answer. “I was just listening to some . . .” I stop myself before I finish the sentence.

Brian nods appreciatively. “
Slip of the Tongue?
Not bad, but not Whitesnake’s best. They lost something vital when Vivian Campbell left the band in ’eighty-seven.”

I don’t respond, so he takes that as an invitation to continue. “Is Whitesnake still a rock powerhouse? Yes, of course, but Vivian? He brought such an interesting element to the guitar riffs, a complexity. Real layered sound, you know? Here, listen to this.” Brian leans across the open passenger side and fast-forwards to “Kitten’s Got Claws.” “Lacks the nuance of previous work, right? It’s missing that certain something that makes them quintessentially Whitesnake.”

I sit up straight in my seat. I instantly forget to be distracted about what Deva told me and I disregard the fact that I’m too cool to admit to loving this music. “I know, right? Steve Vai’s talented, but he’s no Vivian Campbell.”

Glancing over both shoulders, he crouches down and I catch a hint of the sweet tang of his Ralph Lauren aftershave. If the nineties had a scent, it would be the woody, mossy whiff of Polo, applied liberally, and then applied again for good measure. “I hear he’s been talking to Def Leppard. Rumor has it he may join.”

“Shut up.”

Holy crap, Vivian’s been with Lep now for so many years that I forgot there was ever a point he
wasn’t
with them.

Brian leans against the passenger side, all chatty and casual-like. Other than Deva, he seems to be the one person I don’t intimidate. Hmm. “My uncle works for Geffen and he’s in on all the dirt. Total insider. Speaking of, I have some news that’ll blow your mind. Ready for this? David Coverdale and Jimmy Page are secretly working on a collaboration. My cousin just got back from the Abbey Road studio in London and he brought me a track.”

I throw off my safety belt and fly out of the front seat.
Coverdale/Page!
I love that album! It’s one of my favorites and it doesn’t even come out until 1993! “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go give it a listen.”

Brian seems taken aback, but pleasantly. “Er . . . sure! Let’s go.”