Here I Go Again: A Novel (15 page)

People as far as ten rows back are starting to stare at Amy, who’s sitting stiff as a statue, save for the tears threatening to spill over at any minute. Nicole’s shell-shocked by the depth and breadth of Tammy’s petty assholery, but she’s not strong enough to fight them on her own.

This all comes down to me.

I need to drown out these bitches, but how? Do I tackle her? Throw a punch? I suddenly wish I were my future size so I could put a little weight behind a right hook.

We’re moments before Duke throws the desperate pass that in 1991 cost us the game, and I’m suddenly struck with an inspiration. Turns out having Brian instruct me on the roots of rock and roll is about to come in handy.

“Follow my lead,” I call to Nicole.

According to Brian’s lecture last week, “Gene Dixon and Earl Edwards had already experienced some success on the R and B scene back in the early sixties, but they didn’t have a number one hit until ‘Duke of Earl,’ their crossover doo-wop single, dropped on January thirteenth, 1962.” Though I could give a flying fart about that
American Bandstand
–sounding nonsense, his lesson stuck with me, and now it may be exactly what saves Amy.

To the cadence of the song, I begin to chant, “Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Quarterback is the Duke of Hurl! Nothing can stop the Duke of Hurl!”

I clap and bounce and shout even louder for the second round. My calves burn and the balls of my feet kill, but I keep leaping higher and higher as I chant. This time, Nic joins in.

“Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Quarterback is the Duke of Hurl! Nothing can stop the Duke of Hurl!”

Tammy ratchets her voice up even louder while Kimmy and April pause, anxious to see who’s going to win this power struggle so they can follow the true leader.

They’re going to follow
me
, though. Bank on that.

After all, I’m still Lissy Ryder.

“Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Duke, Duke, Duke of Hurl! Quarterback is the Duke of Hurl! Nothing can stop the Duke of Hurl!”

At this point, the only one chanting with Tammy is Tammy, and that’s just until Mrs. Colecheck, our cheerleading coach, yanks her off the field by her flaming ponytail. Spell broken, Amy Childs is whisked away by her friends and the crowd returns their attention to the game.

Spurred on by our enthusiasm, or possibly by the prospect of having earned a way-cool new nickname, Duke throws a Hail Mary pass. This time around? The wide receiver actually catches it, the Lions clinch the victory, and every one of us (except those being scolded in the locker room) loses our damn mind!

“Lions, Lions, that’s our name, ask us again and we’ll tell you the same! Lions, Lions, that’s our name! Check out the board, ’cause we won the game!
Lion pride, woo!
”

I know this is some no-matter match and that today’s really twenty-one years from where I’ll be tomorrow, yet the excitement I feel from the victory of this moment is absolutely genuine.

I’m still on an endorphin high an hour later, when the Belles and I arrive at the dance, sans Tammy, who’s since received a three-day suspension. Ha!

The gym has been magically transformed from a sweaty, gross, vaguely-smelling-of-soup place into a sweaty, gross, vaguely-smelling-of-soup-but-now-with-bonus-streamers place. Yet I don’t mind. I’m in the moment, and the moment feels fantastic.

I spot Duke coming out of the locker room. His hair’s still damp and I can see the comb tracks in it. He rushes over to me amid claps on the back and shouts of “Duke!” “Hey, it’s the Duke of Hurl!” A couple of juniors try to lift him over their shoulders, failing miserably and spilling him onto the floor. Instead of getting mad like usual, Duke simply laughs and lets them help him up. Then he sweeps me up, my mermaid tail flying out behind me.

“Did you see that pass I threw? That was a million-to-one shot! I can’t believe it!” He’s intoxicated with the excitement, as opposed to last time, when he was drunk on Meister Bräu.

“That was amazing!” I gush. “You’re a regular Peyton Manning—I mean, Troy Aikman!”

“I can thank you for that. Your cheer got the crowd to its feet and I fed off that energy! Duke of Hurl! That was awesome!” Duke’s as animated as I’ve ever seen him. I forgot how boyishly charming he is when he’s content. I wonder if I haven’t seen this side of him in a while because I haven’t given him anything to be happy about. (Note to self: Fix that, like, now.)

“Coach says there was a scout from U of I here tonight. Glad I gave him something to remember!” He starts simulating passes to teammates, who leap and pretend-catch.

In 1991, I cemented myself to Duke’s side, sure he was going to dance with other girls the second I turned my back. But tonight I tell him, “Why don’t you go talk to your friends? Bet they’re not quite done rehashing the game.”

He looks at me as though he’s trying to figure out my angle, or like I’m testing him and he’s about to fail. “Really?”

“Of course! Tonight’s all about you, not me. You’re the conquering hero! Now go bask in everyone’s admiration. You earned it.”

I finally realized that Duke needs his moments in the spotlight as much as I’ve always demanded mine. (See? People like to bask.) For us to make it work, I have to be able to take a backseat when it’s his time to shine, because it can’t be all about me.

This night is a turning point for us; I can tell. What’s so weird is that right now is the most affection I’ve felt for him of any time since we’ve been married. We’ve been a couple by force of habit for so many years—yet I suspect this do-over might possibly bring us to the place where we’re together by choice.

“You sure, babe?”

Wow. I really must have been overbearing.

(And we weren’t even doing it yet!)

I give him a little shove. “Go! Have fun!” Then he takes my face in his hands and gives me the kind of kiss that I feel all the way down to my hot-pink toenails. I’m struck with a longing for him that’s almost a physical ache. I can’t remember another instance when we had this kind of simple, heartfelt moment. Mostly I remember fighting with him and breaking up and then getting back together again. But we must have had hundreds of magic moments like this in the two decades we’ve been together . . . right? Regardless, I’m suddenly glad I made the appropriate decision with Brian.

What’s so strange is that tonight we truly feel like a couple, like together we’re more than just the sum of our respective parts, and I realize that what he brings to the table is equally important as what I contribute. It’s never been like this before; our relationship has been a perpetual power struggle, and I’ve always tried to bend him to my will. I had no clue that the minute I stopped playing games, he would, too. If I’m able to miracle myself back into his life in the future, I’m going to start taking care of him and not vice versa.

Although Duke spends a portion of his time goofing off with his teammates, he returns to dance every slow song with me, not because I make him, but because he genuinely wants to. And when we’re elected homecoming king and queen (a lot more enthusiastically this time than last, I might add), he doesn’t even balk when I suggest we dance to “Love Bites.”

Bliss. Every second of the night is bliss.

When I arrive home, I find my parents asleep on the couch in front of the big old Magnavox. Their heads are tilted toward each other and their shoulders are almost touching. This is the least oppositional I’ve seen them in years, and I stand back, trying to save a mental picture. I feel a lump rise in my throat, like I’m going to miss them when I’m gone in the morning, even though I’m likely going to wake up in their house beneath my David Coverdale poster.

I kiss them both and then quietly climb the stairs to change into my pajamas.

When I wash my face, I give my seventeen-year-old countenance one last, wistful look, admiring the smooth, clear skin. I hope Lissy-at-seventeen starts using moisturizer with SPF, like, yesterday, because that convertible top is doing my epidermis no favors. As for my hair? Its 100 percent real highlights are perfectly blond from the sun and not by some snippy queen who calls it “our hair,” mocks my grays, and charges four hundred dollars for the privilege. (In case you were wondering? The carpet actually matches the drapes right now, or at least it will until I tear it out and install hardwood.)

I place my hands on my waist and admire its small span before practically kissing my unblemished thighs good-bye. I swing my arm around, reveling in my elbow’s freedom of movement. Then I do a back walkover, just because I still can.

I won’t lie—I’m going to miss the package that seventeen-year-old Lissy Ryder came in, because gravity takes no prisoners. Yet I’m equally excited to find out where thirty-seven-year-old Lissy comes out, not just with Duke, but in all aspects of my life—professionally and with my friends and family, too. I accomplished everything Deva told me to do, and now I’m ready to go back to the future.

I drift off to sleep feeling an overwhelming sense of clarity, purpose, and inner peace.

(Note to self: Send Deva a fruit basket upon reentry.) (Organic, if possible.)

As I nod off, my last thought is . . . Here I go again.

CHAPTER NINE

Back in Black

First thing I see when I open my eyes is a bare chest.

And this time it doesn’t belong to David Coverdale.

In the pale pink predawn light, my eyes trail up from the six-pack to the face, which belongs to Duke.

Whew
.

I tiptoe out of bed and try to get my bearings in this entirely strange place. I don’t know where I’m going, but I sure know where I’ve been. (Yeah, Whitesnake lyric; I went there.) I can say with certainty that this is not my parents’ house or my old condo. Outside of that? No clue.

I wander into the first open door and I find myself standing in a walk-in closet. It’s not quite a Carrie-marries-Big closet, but it’s still pretty damn swanky.

I ease the door shut behind me and flip the light switch and when I do, I see that I’m surrounded by racks of neatly stored, highly polished shoes and row after row of suits and dresses, all of which are in shades of gray and black. Really? Not even a hint of fuchsia? That’s not like me. Still, these garments are high-quality; that’s patently obvious.

I peek at the label on a severe black dress. Armani.

Very nice.

Then I see it’s a size four.

Very nice!

I continue my tour of the closet, dismayed to see a dearth of denim. I grew rather fond of my ol’ high-waisters and I’ll need to rectify this situation immediately. I wonder if I have credit cards that aren’t maxed.

Judging from an overall lack of casual clothing, I have the feeling I spend a lot of time in an office. Where do I work? Considering all the somber colors in my wardrobe, I hope it’s not a funeral home. Or a law firm. Ugh, what if I’m my dad’s secretary?

I run across a mountain of exercise gear, which explains not only the size-four wardrobe but also how I spend my free time.

Am I a humorless fitness Nazi now?

I step out of my teenage cotton nightgown and throw on yoga pants, a tank, and a zipped fleece before I continue the tour. Everything fits beautifully.

Oh, Lululemon, let’s never fight again.

I’m just about to pass into the bathroom when I spot something that takes my breath away—a Birkin bag! No! Could it possibly be real? Holding the bag to the light, I give it the ten-point inspection and it checks out everywhere, from the perfect seams to the interior chèvre leather. The zipper, the accent over the E in Hermès, the impeccable skin of the outside—this is the genuine article!

Ohmigod!

A real live Birkin bag! And if it’s in here, that means it’s
mine
! I hug it to my chest and say a little thanks to my mom, because how else would I own one?

I walk into the attached bath and flip on the lights. Holy cats, this is the bathroom of my dreams! Everything seems ultramodern and hip, although that may be due to my having spent the last three weeks in bathrooms that were stylish twenty years ago. (Mauve, you shan’t be missed.) Even without the comparison, this room’s pretty spectacular—the tub’s a massive freestanding unit in the center of the room and it’s both deep and wide enough to seat two, boxed off in a rich, wide-plank mahogany that matches the cabinets.

The shower’s across from the bath and you could wash a minivan in this stall! Two ginormous rain showers extend from the ceiling, and a dozen different body sprays are located in key points up and down the sage green, sand, and pale powder blue glass-tiled walls. The commode is enclosed in its own frosted-glass booth and it’s next to a bidet. Heh. I could give myself an ass bath in here.

I’m surprised to see there’s only one sink . . . and then I notice the mirror image of this bathroom out the door. Sweet child o’ mine! I thought that
was
a mirror, but no! This is a real his-and-hers set of baths. Duke’s doesn’t have a tub, but, hey, he’s welcome to use mine!

At this point, I figure I’d better check out the damage to myself, but when I pull up a lighted makeup mirror, I’m delighted to see how much better I’ve been at fending off the ravages of time. I was hyperconscious of engaging in antiaging rituals once I turned thirty, but maybe starting to use UVA blockers at seventeen made a big difference. Sunscreen! Genius! Kurt Vonnegut was right!

I run my fingers through my hair and I’m thrilled with the color, even though the cut’s a bit short and severe for my liking. Since when do I opt for a chin-length bob? Who am I, Anna Wintour? How am I supposed to give my high pony a condescending toss when someone says something stupid?

Oh, wait. I kind of don’t do that now. My bad.

Walking through a sitting area, I get to the main hallway. I close the bedroom door behind me so as not to wake Duke before thoroughly inspecting the massive corridor. The hall leads to a landing where I find staircases made of metal and mahogany, and they go down at least two flights and up one. Not only is this a single-family home—it’s monolithic, to boot.