Here I Go Again: A Novel (13 page)

Tammy flushes deeply, and her freckles, skin, and (now straight) hair are instantly the same shade of ruby red. “Well, no, it’s just . . . she was . . . come on! That was way gross, Lissy!” I can see the kernel of an idea forming, and she quickly tries to turn the situation on me. “Aren’t
you
going to say anything about it? Maybe
you’r
e the one who’s chickenpoop.”

Okay, I mentally brace myself, doing the right thing in three . . . two . . . one . . .

“Oh, honey,” I tell her, patting Tammy’s hand, “if it makes
you
feel good to mock the handicapped girl, then have at it. But I? Have better things to do. Now have some Tots; they’re delicious.”

Tammy, who should be duly chastened by what’s a heroic burn on my part, mistakes my kindness for weakness and attempts her first overt power play. Her cheeks are still pink when she swivels around to point at Deva and exclaims, “Oh, my God, she’s fellating her lunch!”

Except Tammy’s never actually
used
that word because of her faux–good girl act, so it comes out, “Oh, my God, she’s inflating her lunch!” and then April sprays chocolate milk all over Kimmy, who in turn knocks her sloppy joe onto Tammy’s lap, who then pulls April’s hair in frustration. Our table erupts in screaming and spilled comfort food. The entire cafeteria begins to laugh and the Belles turn on one another.

“You effing bee! There’s sloppy joe all over my mini!”

“Oh, like no one’s going to notice this chocolate milk bull’s-eye on my shirt?”

“You got sauce in my hair!”

Wonder if Nicole will be sorry she missed this?

The three of them begin to tussle like a bag of kittens, so I eat my last Tot and leave them to their catfight.

As I walk out of the cafeteria, Deva throws me the horns, better known as “metal hands,” and first used by Mr. Ronnie James Dio shortly after joining Black Sabbath.

Rock on
, she mouths in approval.

Indeed I will.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Back to the Future

According to my diary, I inflicted the deepest psychological damage during Spirit Week, the five days leading up to homecoming. No one was safe from my wrath, likely because I didn’t consume anything that entire week save for sugar-free Mentos and a handful of Funyuns. What can I say? Starving people aren’t predisposed to being friendly. If they were, you’d see a lot fewer Somali pirates on the news.

What sparked my own personal Dispirit Week was shopping for my homecoming dress. The first time around when Mamma and I were about to drive to the mall, my dad popped out of his library. “You ladies care for some company?” he asked.

Before I could say, “Of course, Daddy!” my mother shot him a chilling look. “Wouldn’t your day be better spent generatin’ billable hours? You’re nevah gonna make partner if you don’t buckle down.”

My dad dismissed her callousness. “It’s Saturday—I can afford to take the morning off to be with my best girls. Besides, I’m a shoo-in for the partnership.” Then he ruffled my hair and wrapped an arm around me. Daddy always smelled of Royall Lyme and Wint-O-Green Lifesavers, and to this day, those scents make me feel safe and calm.

My mother began to tap her heel. “Really, George? So you’d say beyond the shadow of a doubt that the partnership’s in the bag? And that you’ll have no trouble sendin’ Lissy ’n’ me to join Aunt Sissy and Augusta in Paris in June? We’re all set? In that case, here we go.”

My dad visibly deflated and mumbled something about a trademark infringement case he’d been meaning to look into, and we were off to the mall without him.

Once we arrived at the mall, Mamma had distinct ideas on my dress, too.

“Bring her a size four,” my mother instructed the saleslady, who was holding an off-the-shoulder, emerald green sheath that was tight to the knees before fishtailing out. I’d look like the world’s sexiest mermaid in this gown!

“Your daughter has a lovely figure, but she may be a smidge bigger than a four. Plus this one runs small,” the clerk countered. She had reading glasses perched on the edge of her nose and measuring tape looped around her neck. Considering fitting dresses was what she did all day, every day, I was inclined to believe her.

“Mamma, you know I take a six,” I added. For one glorious month in my sophomore year, I was a size two, but only because of mono. Yet Mamma bought me diamond stud earrings to celebrate. I’d since “ballooned up” to a six, which were her words, not mine. Actually Dr. Watts had told her at my last sports physical that for my height I was actually underweight, and my mother responded that there was no such thing.

Sensing her commission was on the line, the clerk returned with the smaller size. I fought my way into it, and it took both of the women to work the zipper. The top part wasn’t too horrifically tight, but I was bulgy from the waist down. A six would have fit like a dream.

“We’ll take it!” Mamma declared.

“That’s crazy! I’m going to have to starve between now and then to fit in it!” I groused.

Mamma pursed her lips. “What’s your point, honey bunny?”

I was incensed. “This is how girls get anorexia!”

My mother seemed to be considering this very real possibility. “If you’re plannin’ on being one o’ them anorexics, please do so before we see my spiteful sister in June. Tired of her and Grandmamma always throwin’ Gussie’s success in my face. ‘Oh, look, Gussie got into Kappa at Ole Miss; hey, Gussie’s drivin’ a brand-new S-class Benz; my goodness, Gussie’s dating the president of Co-Cola’s son.’”

Yet when faced with the prospect of a week without Eggo waffles and frozen yogurt, I didn’t care about avenging her decades-long sibling rivalry. All I wanted was permission to digest on occasion.

My mother had been riding me about my weight since my sixth birthday, when I asked for a second piece of birthday cake. She badgered me so relentlessly that I began to resent any item of food that actually tasted good. Milk shakes made me angry, and may God have mercy on whoever dared put cheese or dressing on my mixed-greens salad.

“I take it lunch is out of the question?” I asked.

“You got that raht!” She laughed. “Besides, wouldn’t you rather have shoes? Let’s see what’s new at the Nine West.”

When we walked past the food court on the way to the south side of the mall, I took a big breath and was overwhelmed by heady scents of baking pizza and fried egg rolls. “Will I ever be allowed to eat what I like?”

She stopped in her tracks and stood in front of me with both hands on my shoulders. “Oh, Lissy, yes, baby. Course you can. Eat whatever you want.” Before I could even sigh in relief, she added, “Soon as you’re married.”

True to her word, she never said boo about what I put in my mouth from the minute I walked down the aisle. Sometimes I worry that’s why I finally forced Duke to propose.

Anyway, pretty much the same thing happened while shopping for a homecoming dress this time around. However, I’m in a lot better state of mind now, largely because I discovered that Lycra bicycle shorts serve the exact same purpose as a pair of Spanx. I’ve since been enjoying Tater Tots with impunity. (And ketchup!) I’m a kinder, gentler Lissy when not in a caloric desert.

As for Spirit Week, each day encompasses a different theme, such as Fifties Day, and the school goes whole hog. Even the teachers and the lunch ladies and the janitors wear costumes. (Can I tell you how weird it is seeing Buddy Holly pushing a big mop down the hall?) Junior year, the Belles came as the Pink Ladies from
Grease
. Because no one could argue that I wasn’t the perfect Sandy, Tammy insisted on being Rizzo, like somehow that was a bigger deal.

The excitement of wearing costumes every day during homecoming week is supposed to culminate in a Lions victory on Friday night. I don’t really understand the science that translates Crazy Sock Day into a win, but apparently there’s a lot about metaphysics I’ve yet to learn.

(Side note: My cousin Augusta went to Catholic school in Savannah and they had a Dress as Your Favorite Saint Day during [Holy] Spirit Week. Gussie was sent home for wearing a St. Pauli Girl costume . . . but not before every single starting-five basketball player asked for her number.)

Anyway, on Monday the theme was to “Rock and Roll over the Hinsdale Central Red Devils,” meaning come as your favorite musician. All the guys wore ripped jeans and flannel shirts. So, pretty much business as usual, only with more air guitar. Brian was Roy Orbison, and everyone kept asking him if he was Johnny Cash. He was an excellent sport about it, though, and black suited him. Tammy caught me admiring the fit of his jeans and I had to totally lie about what I’d been looking at. I really have to keep an eye on Tammy. If she can’t stab me in the back, she’s going to try to stab me in the front soon.

The Belles and I did ourselves up like the dancers in Toni Basil’s “Hey, Mickey” video, not because any of us had a great passion for the song, but largely because we already had the cheerleading uniforms and Nicole could French braid.

Having lived through this week before, I knew what was to come. So, first thing Monday morning, I stationed myself by the door to the parking lot, ready to spring into action. The second I saw the dead ringer for Madonna vogueing her narrow ass down the hall, I threw a blanket over her cone-bra-corseted self and wrestled her into the ladies’ room.

“What are you doing?” Madonna shrieked through perfectly crimsoned lips.

“What should have been done long ago,” I replied. “Now wash your face and don’t make me tell you twice.”

I stood over Madonna while she used lavatory hand soap and brown paper towels to scour off the layers of freckle-hiding pale foundation, black liner, and expertly arched brows, bitching and moaning the whole time. “I woke up at five a.m. to get my costume ready! You’re just jealous because you don’t look as hot as I do! You’re such a hag! I don’t know why everyone lets you get away with everything. This is so not fair!”

“Yep, life sucks and then you get a minivan,” I replied, all philosophical-like. “Keep scrubbing, Madge. The fake mole goes, too.”

I positioned myself between the sink and the door so she couldn’t escape. If she’d tried to bolt, I was capable of stopping her, because even though my seventeen-year-old body was lean, I was extra-strong from having to basket-toss-and-catch Tammy’s big ass every day at practice. (Dollars to doughnuts, that bitch gained weight over the summer specifically to injure me. Well, too frigging bad, Porky. You lose again.)

“Why are you doing this to me?” Madonna huffed.

I didn’t answer.

She wouldn’t have believed me if I told her.

When she was finally fresh-faced, I demanded she hand me her Marilyn Monroe wig. I took the squeeze bottle I’d filled with vegetable oil and gave it a healthy douse before pulling a comb through it. The previously pristine locks now fell in blunt, greasy, dirty-blond chunks, exactly the look I’d hoped to achieve.

I handed Madonna a plain T-shirt, ratty cardigan, jeans, and a pair of Chuck Taylors before forcibly removing the pointy bra. “Put these on over your leotard.”

“You’ve ruined my costume, you hateful cunt!”

I shrugged. “I sure did. Put ’em on. And take this.” I handed her a cigarette to tuck behind her ear.

For the finishing touch, I used spirit gum to attach a scraggly goatee. Once the transformation was complete, I stood back to admire my handiwork, and it was even better than I’d hoped.

“You look exactly like Kurt Cobain!” I said proudly.

Ex-Madonna stomped and screeched. “I don’t
want
to look like Kurt Cobain! I hate Nirvana! They sing about antiperspirant! I want to look like Madonna and you ruined everything because you are the suckiest suck whoever sucked!”

I smiled beatifically. “You’ll thank me someday, Robert.”

I knew that the only thing I’d ruined was his trip to the ER with a broken nose and a fractured rib from my inadvertently whipping a couple of football players into a frenzy over his cross-dressing.

I thought about his winning on
Project Runway
. “It gets better, but not today,” I told him. “Now go to class.”

Tuesday was Fifties Day, and not so dramatic (the fifties were a simpler time, after all), but I made a number of small but crucial changes then, too. For example, instead of ridiculing the future food critic, I had everyone try her taro chips, and she, in turn, tasted my Tater Tots. Turns out she was a big fan!

I did all kinds of other good-karma stuff over the course of the week, like getting the mathstronaut to explain a trig principle so no one would be distracted by his massive flood pants on the Red Devils Can’t Top Us or Our Outrageous Hats Day. On Backward Day, I chatted with the orchestra geek about how both Eddie and Alex Van Halen were first classically trained musicians, and he seemed superintrigued.

Earlier this week in English class, the substitute was taking roll, and when she called out Brooks’s name, Tammy was all, “Don’t you mean
Books Fatty
?”

Seriously, Winona Ryder was right in the movie
Heathers
. (No relation, unforch.) I cut the head off of Heather Chandler (myself), and Heather Duke’s head (Tammy’s) has sprung right back in its place. However, I was dealing with real life, not the movies, so I quashed her little rebellion right quick. My head spun around all Linda Blair–like and I replied, “I’m sorry, did you have something to contribute,
Hammy
?”

Trust me, no one was talking about Brooks after that.

Deva’s been remarking on my progress all week.

“Your aura! So changed! So light yellow and pale green!” she gushes.

We’re chatting in the bathroom while I slip out of my Show Your School Colors Day outfit and into my cheerleading uniform before the pep rally.

“Is that what my aura’s supposed to look like?” I step out of my blue leggings and into my cheer bloomers before pulling up my skirt. (To answer everyone’s burning question, yes,
of course
cheerleaders wear undies beneath their bloomers.) (Unless you’re a whore,
Tammy
.) When I spin, the pleats billow out and then snap right back into place, all tidy but still swingy. You know what? This needs to be the year fashion brings back the pleat, because I am patently adorable in this skirt.