Here I Go Again: A Novel (28 page)

It’s possible I’m putting too much thought into this. I shouldn’t be having an internal jail-bait stalemate, yet here I am. If he were eighteen, things might feel different, because that way would be more Ashton and Demi. But as it stands, I’m Mrs. Robinson, coo-coo-ca-creepy-choo.

As we watch, we keep moving closer together and now our thighs are touching. On my last jump and this one, I can’t get over how comfortable I am in Brian’s presence. I can be
me
around him, probably because he doesn’t put on airs or try to be something that he’s not. And I don’t feel like he sees me as Lissy Ryder, queen of the Belles. I feel like I’m more Lissy-let’s-ride-bikes!

I mean, despite all the carnal knowledge Duke has of me, I bet he has no inkling that I’m Team Diamond Dave and not Team Sammy. Duke wouldn’t even know to know that I
had
a distinct preference. (Which is not his fault, but still.)

Of course, I spent twenty years calling him a name he didn’t like, all of which makes me wonder, what did we even talk about for the past two decades? My hair?

Regardless, I need to fire up the old maker-outer, yet I feel more nervous now than when I was seventeen. The last time I was the one who threw the first move; ergo the onus is on me again, and yet the creep factor from our disparate ages keeps holding me back. So I look and don’t touch; it’s super-Mormon-feeling.

Midway through the episode, we both nod sadly when Riki updates viewers on the status of Tom Keifer’s paresis of his vocal cords. Fortunately, I already know that Cinderella goes back to the studio in 1994 to record
Still Climbing
, but I can’t say it. A Skid Row video comes on and Brian casually remarks, “I’ve been obsessed with these guys since my uncle sent me their album for my birthday.”

I give him a playful (pedophile! stop touching!) shove. “I’m so sorry I missed your seventeenth birthday.”

His eyes are fixed on the screen. “What? No. I turned eighteen.”

I sit straight up. “How can that be? No one in our class is eighteen yet.”

He shrugs. “I was born in Indy and they had different cutoff dates to start kindergarten. I was right on the line, so my mom held me back a year—figured I’d have more of an advantage being the oldest in the class instead of the youngest.”

Oh, really?

I need to make doubly sure that I understand him. “What you’re telling me is that you’re old enough to vote?”

“Yep. My first presidential election is next year. So cool! There’s this guy William Jefferson Clinton? Out of Arkansas? Very interesting guy. I just read that—”

“So you can buy cigarettes?”

“I guess so. You smoke, Lissy?”

“No.”

(The occasional toke at parties doesn’t count—just ask Cher Horowitz.)

(I mean, in 1995, when
Clueless
finally comes out.)

“Have you already filled out your Selective Service form?”

Brian seems awfully puzzled by my line of questioning. “Yeah. Back in August, I went to the post office and—”

But he can’t complete his statement, what with my tongue in his mouth and all.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Unspoken

So that happened.

I didn’t expect to enjoy kissing Brian, even after I made peace with the Demi and Ashton math.

But I did.

So much.

He does this thing where he holds my face in his hands and just looks at me and I feel like he’s seeing into my soul or something. My thirty-seven-year-old brain has been neatly eclipsed by my seventeen-year-old hormones and it’s all I can do not to scrawl
Mrs. Lissy Ryder-Murphy
on my notebook.

I’m deeply ashamed at the intensity of my feelings for an eighteen-year-old.

Yet I can’t wait till the bell rings so I can cut cheerleading practice in favor of another mash session.

Our physical interaction isn’t even the best part—he listens to everything I say and responds as if my thoughts are just as valuable as the package that holds them. If we were to grow up and have a life together, I have no doubt that we’d be a true partnership, with none of that trophy business on either side.

Brian challenges me like I’ve never been challenged (at least since the last time we were together). A couple of days ago I went off on a rant about how I hated Nirvana, and Kurt Cobain in particular. Brian insisted I back up my assertions and didn’t allow me to make blanket statements like “He sucks.” He helped me examine the roots of my anger at Cobain, which largely stem from his wearing a dress on
Headbanger’s Ball
. I felt like he was mocking the glam rockers and not giving them credit for helping to define a genre. Although Brian didn’t agree with my assessment of the band as a whole, I was pleased that he didn’t feel he had to be on the same page. The whole conversation left me desperately wishing that Brian were in my adult life so we could discuss Cobain’s legacy. (Had I understood his impact at the time, I’d have cut him a break.)

I wish I could talk to someone about Brian, but I kept everything under wraps last time, so I have to this time, too. I guess that’s why I was always so into journaling. Too many secrets to not come out somewhere. Nicole senses that something’s up, but she’s not said or done anything beyond raising her eyebrows and hugging me for no reason.

Tammy, on the other hand, has no such compunction.

We’re sitting at lunch, sipping Diet Coke and trying to quash the sounds of our audibly growling stomachs. Brian’s across the cafeteria with his Dungeons and Dragons buds and it’s all I can do not to run over and, like, lick him and then eat all his Tater Tots. (I would also consider reversing that order, but really, I’m good with either way.)

I’ve been stealing clandestine glances at him the whole lunch period, but I guess not clandestine enough. The Red Baron catches
everything
. “You’re not, like,
with
dweeby Brian Murphy, right? I mean, slum much?” Tammy glances over to Kimmy and April for approval.

Yes! And I luff him! He’s smart and compassionate and complex! When I’m with him,
I’m
smart and compassionate and complex, too! And because of him, Wookies will forever be erotic in my mind from this point forth!

But that’s not what I say.

The best defense is a good offense, so I have to get offensive on her ass to deflect suspicion. “Tell me, Tammy, is it like a clown wig down there? Does it look like you’ve put Ronald McDonald in a leg-lock? Do you have some serious Fanta pants happening under your Hanes Her Way?” While I say this, I point at her lap. She tries to play off her shocked reaction with limited success.

I realize this sounds shitty, but I pretty much eviscerated her last time around when she grew nosy, so I have to bring out my big guns, and the hair thing’s a huge issue for her. (Truthfully, her shade of red is lovely and chicks today pay big bucks for that look, and I imagine she eventually makes peace with it all, but I’m trying to win a war here, okay?)

“You wish” is her clever rejoinder. Clearly she received her master’s degree from the School of Snappy Retorts.

To which I respond, “As if I’d dump Duke for Bill Gates.”

“Who?”

Holy crap—does anyone who isn’t Steve Jobs know who Bill Gates is in 1991? Deflect! Deflect!

My next statement belies the panic I feel at my future-knowing slipup. “God, Tammy, do you ever read anything other than the instructions on a pregnancy test? Maybe you should, like, look at a newspaper for once in your sad life. And by the way? Jaclyn Smith for Kmart called and she wants her sweater back.”

For the record? No, I don’t secretly regret being mean to Tammy. She’s worse than I ever was, and that’s really saying something.

Chastened but not quite finished, Tammy presses on. “Really? Then why did I see him getting out of your car this morning? And into it yesterday afternoon?”

I favor her with one of my trademark, perfectly glossed, raised-lip sneers. “Wow, Tammy,
Fatal Attraction
much? So you just, like, watch me all the time? What’s next? Are you going to boil my bunny or something?”

Damn it, why doesn’t
Single White Female
come out until next year? That would be such a better burn!

Tammy reddens but holds steadfast. “No, but you seem supershady about this whole Brian thing. Maybe you’re not telling us the whole truth.” Then she stands up, as if to prepare to pull a preemptive flounce.

I deliberately yawn and fake-stretch before answering. “Since it’s soooo important for you to know, he’s my neighbor and his mom’s car is in the shop, so she can’t drive him to school. But, like, forgive me for not running my good deeds past you first. And FYI? Your Designer Impostor perfume is making me queasy. Please excuse me while I go barf.” Then I get up so quickly I knock over my chair and I saunter away without ever looking back. Kimmy and April give me the slow clap.

And that, my fellow Lions, is how you flounce.

As soon as I hit the hallway, I dash to the bathroom the farthest from the cafeteria, just in case Nicole tries to follow me. If she were to ask me what that was about, I’d be so inclined to spill everything.

Once inside the lavatory, I stand panting with my back against the door. Then I hear a flush and the creak of a metal back brace and Deva exits a stall. She doesn’t say anything, instead motioning for me to look underneath the doors to make sure we’re alone. (She’s not so bendy in that thing.) We are.

I shout-whisper, “Holy crap, Deva, where have you been all week? Are you avoiding me pre–corn dog?” That’s scheduled to go down (ha! pun intended!) tomorrow.

Even though the water’s running while she washes her hands, Deva whispers back, “Absolutely, Lissy Ryder; it would not do for us to be seen conversing amiably.”

“Actually, wait, why are you
here
? I thought you were on your way to South America.”

“Right now in the present, it’s only a couple of minutes after you drank the tonic. So I
am
headed to Machu Picchu, in a few hours of future time and a little over a week of 1991 time.”

This is all so confusing. You know who could explain it all? Brian.

“Hey, real quick, I could use your advice. See, I’m falling for Brian and I don’t know what to do about it,” I admit.

“Go with it.”

“Really?” I say in a loud, hopeful voice before catching myself.

Deva dries her hands, which is a three-towel job. “Indeed. It’s imperative—if his future depends on your breaking his heart, then you must first capture it. That won’t happen if you’re not sincere.”

I gush, “Well, that’s awesome, because I feel so giddy when I’m around him, and he gets me, I mean, in ways that Duke never did and—”

She holds up a colossal digit. “Let me stop you right there.”

I look left and right. “Why, is someone coming?”

“No, it’s just that I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Why?”

“We’re not girlfriends in
this
time period.”

Ouch.

“Hold the phone, Deva—you’re still not past the corn dog thing.”

She snorts so hard it blows a paper towel off the sink ledge. “Damn skippy.”

“That’s not fair! You promised that we’re pals now! And you told me CornDogGate was what caused you to dive headfirst into the new age movement! You thanked me in front of God and your booby statues and everything!” Come on! She has to like me! I mean, having her on my side was the deciding factor for making the jump back again; I knew that this time in the future I’d have at least one friend.

Grudgingly, Deva admits, “Agreed. I appreciate who I am today because of you, and when we’re both safely ensconced in the present, I hope to share French toast sticks with you. Yet that doesn’t negate how you’re going to make me feel tomorrow. You ruined corn dogs for me ad infinitum. And I loved corn dogs.”

My chin begins to quiver, only I’m actually sincere and not just trying to get my way like when I usually bust out the waterworks. “Deva, I’m full of regret over the incident. If I could get away with not calling you out tomorrow, you know I would.”

Deva’s expression softens. “I understand, Lissy Ryder. Yet my dilemma is, if I don’t piss you off, you won’t be able to sell your performance tomorrow. So here goes—you’re only smart enough to get into the worst college in America, your music taste is best suited to whoever’s now appearing on the main stage, and you’re a borderline perv for touching Brian’s goodies. Also? Your Gucci bag is fake. You told everyone it was authentic but that was a lie.”

I appreciate her effort. Maybe a little too much, because this bag is
totally
real. I inadvertently raise my voice. “Yeah? Well,
you
have man hands.”

She gives my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Save it for tomorrow, Lissy Ryder. Save it for tomorrow.”

 * * * 

“W
hat is all this?”

“Brian, I think they’re called ‘stars.’”

Brian and I are at the old quarry about thirty miles out of town on this spectacularly crisp, clear October night. We’re far enough away from downtown that there’s no artificial ambient glow to lighten the black velvet sky and dull the millions of twinkling stars. The harvest moon is just beginning to rise, and in an hour it will be almost bright enough to read out here. (If I read, I mean.) We have a blanket spread out over the hood of my car and we’re leaning against the windshield, with the boys from Poison playing quietly in the background.

Today’s Thursday, which means tomorrow is homecoming Friday. It should also be home-going Friday, meaning I’ll likely wake up back in the future once I go to sleep. I’m trying to savor every last minute, as tomorrow it all goes to hell at my hand.

Brian swings around to face me. “No, Liss. What’s this? You and me. What are we doing? Is this just for fun or is this going somewhere? I know how I vote, but I want to hear your thoughts.”

I’m as cagey now as I was the first time, only for different reasons. Last time it was about making Duke jealous so I could win the upper hand. That is, until it inadvertently turned into real feelings that I didn’t know how to process. This time my emotions are so much more raw and I’m so pissed off at seventeen-year-old Lissy for not having the courage to act on them. How have I been so confident in my life that I welcomed having strange medical/aesthetic professionals renovate me from the neck down (bleaching, waxing, rejuvenating, lifting, etc.), and yet the idea of being seen in the halls with an attractive man who engaged both my head and heart was so repellent?