Read Here I Go Again: A Novel Online
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Here I Go Again: A Novel
Other Titles by
New York Times
Bestselling Author Jen Lancaster
Bitter Is the New Black
Bright Lights, Big Ass
Such a Pretty Fat
Pretty in Plaid
My Fair Lazy
If You Were Here
Jeneration X
JEN
LANCASTER
Here
I Go
Again
New American Library
N
EW
A
MERICAN
L
IBRARY
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Jen Lancaster, 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Lancaster, Jen, 1967–
Here I go again/Jen Lancaster.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-59876-4
1. Self-realization in women—Fiction. 2. Suburbs—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.A54748H47 2012
813'.6—dc23 2012021417
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Contents
For Stacey, the reigning queen of a good idea
PROLOGUE
Every high school has a Lissy Ryder—you know, the girl who’s absolutely untouchable. She goes by many names, but you might have known her as the Prom Queen.
The Head Cheerleader.
The Mean Girl.
The Bitch.
She was the richest and the prettiest, with the blondest hair, the thinnest thighs, and the hottest car, and she never let you forget it. Nothing made her happier than stealing
your
boyfriend, just to see if she could.
And she could.
Of course she could.
She was Lissy Ryder.
Lissy Ryder spent her teen years making yours miserable. She’s the one who “accidentally” tripped you on the bus, mocked the sweater your sweet old Nana knitted, and told the boys you stuffed socks in your bra, despite being the one who taught you how to do it. (Ankle socks. The trick is using ankle socks.)
Every time she looked at you, sighed, and rolled her eyes, a little piece of you died inside.
You hated her.
You wanted to destroy her.
But you were satisfied just to graduate and get away from her.
So you went to college, grew up, and now live a successful, fulfilling life, vaguely wondering if that thing called “karma” ever comes for the Lissy Ryders of the world.
Hmm . . . let’s find out.
CHAPTER ONE
Perfection Is Overrated
Oh, honey, no.
I scan the woman’s outfit up and down. A thong-bottom leotard worn over neon tights? With high-top Reeboks? Seriously? I’m sorry, were you possessed by the ghost of 1983?
I sigh into my Bluetooth. “What are people thinking when they come here dressed as extras in an Olivia Newton-John video? This is the
West End
Club, not some nineteen-dollar-a-month Boys Town storefront, full of old StairMasters and HPV germs. So shameful. So inappropriate.”
I glance at my properly clad self in the mirror across from where I’m paused on the elliptical machine. Lululemon Wunder Groove cropped capris paired with a Back on Track tank in Heathered Pig Pink?
Check.
Long blond layers of honey and ash (never platinum—I mean, who am I? Holly Madison?) pulled into a messy yet attractive high pony?
Check.
Smashbox O-Glow blush and a swipe of MAC Lipglass in Early Bloomer?
Check.
I continue. “The West End Club is a sophisticated place and you’re pretty much nobody in Chicago if you don’t belong. I mean, Oprah’s a member, for God’s sake. I wish the Big O were here right now, because she’d be all, ‘My friend Jane Fonda called and she wants her leg warmers back.’”
Nicole is my go-to person for phoning when I’m working out, because she’s always home. I’d urge her to get a life, but frankly it’s kind of nice being able to chat with her whenever I want. She hesitates on the other end of the line, finally saying, “Um . . . Lissy, I thought you weren’t allowed to come within five hundred feet of Oprah.”
I slowly begin to pedal. “That was a
suggestion
, Nicole, not a law. Like it’s
my
fault she thought I was too aggressive for sneaking into her massage room. I mean, the world of PR is all about differentiating yourself. You’d think she’d
want
to work with the publicist who tried something different to catch her attention.” I begin to pedal harder. “Whatevs. Doesn’t matter anyway, because she’s totally passé now that her show’s over. Enjoy your obscurity!”
Okay, the truth is that unpleasantness with Oprah still stings even though it was years ago. I know I’d have done an outstanding job for Harpo, Inc., but she wouldn’t even hear me out, which is rude, considering I forked over ten thousand dollars I didn’t have back then (thanks, Daddy!) to join this place to get close to her.
To be fair, she didn’t have my club membership revoked. I grudgingly give her credit for that.
I blot my face with a thick Turkish towel and pat the area around my Bluetooth so I don’t, like, accidentally electrocute myself. Theoretically I’m not supposed to use a cell phone in here, but I think that’s because the management wants patrons to keep both hands on the machines. Liability and all. A couple of the regulars are shooting me dirty looks, but if they can’t multitask while getting their cardio on, that’s not my prob.
“Who else is there today?” Nicole asks gamely.
“Um . . .” I scan the room. “There’s the Chris Colfer doppelgänger who lip-synchs to the
Glee
sound track and is always talking about his ‘girlfriend.’ You’re not fooling anyone, sweetie! The closet’s wiiiiiide open! Come out already!” I take a swig of filtered water from my skull-print SIGG bottle. “Let’s see . . . Hey, there’s Cougar Town who takes Pilates with me. She told me she can wrap both her ankles around her neck. I’m all, ‘Really? Did you do porno back in the sixties or something?’ And there are the two fake-titted twentysomethings who date Bulls players. They’re totally fat.”
