Here I Go Again: A Novel (5 page)

I stand and bask for a moment and wait for my minions to rush me. The gracious paneled ballroom is a couple of stories high, and there’s a stage decked in a banner stating
WELCOME BACK, LT LIONS—CLASS OF 1992
. There’re lots of old photo collages on the sides of the bar, and over by the deejay booth there’s an enormous poster of our school’s most famous alumnus to date . . . David Hasselhoff.

Oh, yes.

Let the (lion) pride of
that
sink in for a moment.

Dozens of white-draped tables line the parquet dance floor, and they’re all topped with flowers in our school colors. Really, Nicole? Gold and blue carnations grouped around a tiny stuffed lion clad in a football jersey? Strike two and three-quarters.

Still, tonight marks my relaunch into life. Yes, things were bumpy during the summer, but that’s all over now. LT, get ready for Lissy 2.0!

I bask a little longer, enjoying the solitude before the onslaught of those hoping to catch a ride on the Lissy 2.0 Express.

I continue to bask as the song ends and Kris Kross’s “Jump” begins. Clearly every person in this room will notice me as soon as they stop hopping up and down like a bunch of cracked-out kangaroos.

Basking, basking . . .

When “Achy Breaky Heart” comes on, the crowd shrieks and storms the dance floor, like they have absolutely zero shame in two-stepping to Miley frigging Cyrus’s father. Open bar, indeed.

I continue to bask.

Nothing happens, save for a group of moderately attractive people squealing, hugging, and grooving on the other side of the room.

Um,
hello
! I’m basking over here!

Then everyone completely loses their shit for “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” I have to roll my eyes at how everyone’s banging their heads as though they were onstage with Kurt and company. Er, pardon
me
? You’re all on the wrong side of thirty-five and air guitar stopped being cute, like, two decades ago. Also, am I the only one who’s disturbed that this song is technically an infomercial about girls’ deodorant?

When Def Leppard’s “Let’s Get Rocked” plays (finally something decent!) and the dance floor empties, I make my way to the bar. Ah, looks like everyone’s enjoying fine, fine boxed wine. Strike two and four-fifths, Nicole.

I take a belt of my sauvignon blanc and put on my best Belle smile. The first familiar face I see is that of Debbie, the former—scratch that, current—hippie. She’s all done up in some kind of bizarro caftan and head wrap, and I want to ask if Maya Angelou is suing her for likeness rights. But I stop myself, remembering the article about Debbie’s booming new age boutique on Oak Street catty-corner from Prada. Growing retail outlets need crazy-big amounts of publicity, and I hear that crystal therapy is the new faux fur vest for society chicks.

Oh, Jaguar, I can feel the purr of your V8 engine as we speak!

“Hey, there, it’s Lissy Ryder. How are you, Lissy Ryder?” Debbie not only approaches me, but positions herself approximately six inches from my face. Wow, violate my personal space much?

I take a step backward and I force the new, more professional Lissy 2.0 to answer, which is why I don’t deliver a devastating burn about the bit of grape leaf from the dolma lodged between her incisors. “Fine, thanks. It’s Debbie, right?”

Her face is wreathed in smiles. “Actually, it’s Deva.”

“Um, no, I’m pretty sure it’s Debbie.” Listen, Lissy 2.0 did not study that goddamned yearbook in vain. You
are
Debbie Mitchell or the LTHS
Tabulae
is full of filthy lies.

She continues to moon at me. “Debbie is who I was. Deva is who I am now.” I must look as confused as I feel, so she continues. “Deva is my spiritual name.”

“All righty.” I say nothing else for fear of making a hilarious yet career-limiting comment. I take another step and stumble back into a potted palm.

“Lissy Ryder, how are you?” She grasps my left elbow between her large, meaty palms and assists me out of the plant.

I think,
Ready to pass out from lack of blood flow to my waist, Man Hands
, but I say, “No problem, just a little dirt.” I brush a bit of soil off my skirt.

“Lissy Ryder, really, how
are
you?”

I arrange my mouth into what I hope looks like a grin but really is more a matter of baring my teeth and pulling back my lips. “Did we not cover that with the ‘fine’ business? I kind of feel like we covered that.”

Debbie—rather,
Deva
—moves in even closer, and I can smell the onion from the dolma. “Lissy Ryder, your words say fine, but your aura disagrees. Are you in a dark place? I’m seeing an ominous cloud all around you. And your chakras! Oh! Do not start me on your chakras! Your soul is crying out for clarity and purpose and inner peace.”

I bite my tongue in order not to retort,
And
your
soul’s crying out for Listerine.
I consider this Lissy 2.0’s first official victory.

But can I just note that this?

Right here?

Is exactly why I didn’t consort with losers in high school.

 * * * 

A
fter Deva-Does-Dolmas floats off into the ether, I run into Dr. Amy Childs, plastic surgeon to the stars and hoped-for client. “Amy!” I greet her effusively. “How are you?”

Instead of returning my kind salutation, she cocks her head and looks at me like I spoke Klingon or something, like,
interested
, but not quite understanding. She’s stonily silent, which I interpret as excitement at finally having the attention of the head of the Belles. That’s right, Dr. Amy Childs. Dreams do come true!

“Amy? It’s me! Lissy Ryder!” I attempt to hug her and she kind of just stands there. “Long time no see, huh? Listen, I read about all your success—congratulations! I have to know how you’re managing your busy, busy life. And I have to wonder if, with all that you do, you’re really making the time to build your brand. Now, this is just a suggestion, but what I’d like to see is someone—maybe me—pitching you for a recurring spot on WGN’s morning show as a health and beauty expert, with an eye toward eventually parlaying that into a gig on
Today
or
GMA
. But not
CBS This Morning
, because, really, who watches that?”

Amy just stands there in what must be rapt attention, so I continue. Not surprised, of course. I really am at my best in front of an audience.

“With an eye toward the future, the way I see you maximizing your brand and, of course, your revenue, is to come out with a line of cosmeceuticals. I mean, quality stuff with antioxidants and hyaluronic acids and placentas and shit. I think manufacturers can produce eye creams without blinding bunnies and monkeys now, if that’s a concern, but that’s a few steps down the road. And then you could get a celebrity endorsement from someone like—and I’m just spitballing here—Oprah, and I’m telling you, your product would be behind the counter in fine department stores around the globe! Isn’t that exciting?”

Clearly Amy is so excited she’s speechless, so I press on.

“We could call the line Childslike, because that harkens to baby-soft skin, right? If this sounds good to you—and I suspect it does—why don’t we sit down this week and figure out how the right publicity campaign can put you on the road to fulfilling your wildest dreams. Sound good?”

Finally, Amy speaks.

“That is unbelievable.”

I reply, “I know, right? So exciting! So many possibilities!”

Amy’s face is very serious. “No. Not exciting. Unbelievable. That you have the nerve to stand here and speak to me like we’re peers, like we’re
friends
, after what you and your asshole minions did to me. You know, they all apologized eventually, but you? You just blithely went about your senior year, cheering at games and running student council and driving around in your fucking hot-pink convertible like you didn’t have a fucking care in the fucking world, like your casual cruelty didn’t almost destroy me. So, no, Lissy fucking Ryder, I don’t think your little plan ‘sounds good’; nor will I be ‘sitting down’ with you. Ever. Now, if you want to do me a favor, if you really care about me and how I’m ‘managing everything,’ you can get out of my way and never dare to speak to me again.”

I let her words sink in while I struggle for the appropriate response.

Lissy 2.0 must have left the building, because I suddenly hear myself shouting, “Maybe we should talk when you’re not having your period. Hey . . .
hey
!
If you were a proper plastic surgeon, you’d have better aim!
”

I stomp to the ladies’ room to blot off the club soda she threw at me. Well, no wonder I didn’t like her back then. I hope Oprah realizes exactly how volatile her stupid neighbor is.

I dry off fairly quickly—I suspect the Spanx possess water-wicking properties—and I smooth escaped bits of hair back into my chignon. Then I apply a fresh coat of MAC Lipglass in Desire to remind myself of my purpose here tonight. As I’m tossing the tube back into my (actually, Mamma’s) sparkly lemon-slice Judith Leiber bag, I recognize another face in the mirror.

“Brooks? Brooks Paddy?” I ask. Yes! Brooks is here! In her RSVP she said she might be needed on set for rewrites, since her show’s back from hiatus, but she made it. Excellent. Maybe I’ll just exchange some pleasantries and warm her up before I begin to talk about business.

“Don’t you mean ‘Books Fatty’?”

Uh-oh.

“If you’re talking to me, you must mean ‘Books Fatty,’ because that’s certainly what you called me twenty years ago.” Brooks narrows her eyes and languidly leans back onto the sink. She’s all slender angles and catlike grace now. Which I don’t love.

The public relations business is all about damage control. Clearly this person thinks I did her wrong in high school, so I’m going to learn from Dr. Premenstrual and spin this to my advantage. I place my hand on her (bony) shoulder so I come across extra sincere. “Did I? I’m so sorry. You know how girls can be. We were, like, bears or something, stalking an injured elk. You can’t blame us; it was just our nature, and elk are delicious and stuff. But come on! That was so long ago and no one remembers! Surely you’ve gotten over it. I mean, look at you! You’re all tall and thin and perfectly highlighted! You have a show on television! And is that an Herve Leger bandage dress I spy? Amazeballs!”

Brooks pulls a fresh pack of cigarettes and a fancy gold lighter out of her clutch. “Oh, sure, of course. I’m so over it, because clearly no one bears the scars from high school.”

I sigh in relief. “Whew! I’m glad you’re being cool about it. You know Amy? Dr. Amy Childs? Is she on the rag or what? She couldn’t get past some nonsense from twenty years ago and she threw a drink on me!”

“That’s practically criminal,” she coolly observes.

“I know, right?” Brooks seems plenty softened up, so I begin to pitch her. I tell her all the proactive things LissCom can do in terms of her social media presence, and she nods appreciatively the whole time I’m talking. Brooks is actually so amenable that I feel really confident that I’ve gotten through to her and I go in for a soft close.

“I would love to do business with you,” she tells me, turning my business card over in her hand. “There’s just one thing I need.”

She bought it! Woo-hoo! Town house, here I come! But I try to maintain a poker face and reply, “Of course! Just name it.” I’m already mentally moving my desk out of the garage and into some hip space down in the South Loop or River North. The next time I need a file, I’m not going to have to navigate around a pile of old cross-country skis and golf clubs to reach the drawer!

Brooks takes a long, thoughtful drag on her Virginia Slim. “I need for you to go back in time and change the past. I need you to have not relentlessly bullied me. Like the time on the class trip when you stole my suitcase and showed the guys the size of my underwear? And you flew them out the window because you said they were as big as a flag and you made everyone salute? That needs to have never happened. I need to have not been tormented. I need to have not gone home every day and cried into a half gallon of strawberry Breyers. I need to have not been so ostracized that I didn’t spend every waking minute in the library, because I knew that was the one place you wouldn’t go. Can you do that for me? Can you change history? If so, we have a deal.”

I sputter, “Are you deaf? I just apologized!”

Brooks takes my card and uses her shiny lighter to set it on fire. When it’s halfway burned, she drops it in the sink, where it curls and disappears into a pile of smoking ash. “Twenty years too late, bitch. You’re twenty years too late.”

When I exit the bathroom, I run smack into Duke and his date, who’s a dead ringer for a younger version of Sofia Vergara. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the heart with a really pointy boot.

I need a drink.

Correction: I need many, many, many drinks.

CHAPTER FOUR

McFly Girl

I try to open my eyes but it’s virtually impossible.

Whether that’s because of the hangover or due to false lashes cementing my eyes shut is yet to be determined.

I sit up and manage to peel them open, and only then do I catch a glimpse of my surroundings. I expected to rise under the glossy visage of David Coverdale, but instead I’m somewhere entirely different.

Where the hell am I?

I peer around the space and determine I’m in someone’s apartment.

No, no, that’s not it.

The word “apartment” doesn’t adequately describe the four thousand square feet of vast windows and twenty-foot-high timbered ceilings. I’m in some kind of loft and it’s filled with odd artifacts and old books. There are multicolored tapestries and dream catchers and crystals hanging all over the place, and the whole area’s infused with the kind of earthy spices I always smell in the backseat of taxis. I spot beaded curtains and tribal art and hand-hewn furniture. Maybe I’ve landed in Jerry Garcia’s afterlife?

When I glance down, I see that I’ve been passed out on a nest of body pillows and animal skins, and I’m wearing a strange kind of . . . bathrobe? Poncho? Serape? One of those scratchy, stripy blankets every frat guy buys in Cancun and keeps in his apartment until his girlfriend finally sneaks it into the trash? I can’t really say. I’ll simply add this Technicolor Dreamcoat to the list of questions I’m not entirely sure I want answered. I try to stand, but gravity gets the best of me and I buckle and drop.