Read Here I Go Again: A Novel for Free Online

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