Here I Go Again: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

injection because I was busy drowning my sorrows in a Gotta Have It–size Birthday Cake Remix sundae at Cold Stone Creamery instead? I’m still Lissy Ryder, former head of the Belles and new president and CEO of Lissy Ryder Communications, Inc. (d/b/a LissCom) and every single person at that party is a potential client. This reunion isn’t my greatest nightmare; it’s my best opportunity!
    I mean, I’ve worked on tons of campaigns for bands and designers and authors. I could help the guys in Maroon 5 work on their image. (Two words—hair spray!) I could help the mathstronaut book engagements on the lecture circuit. I could make Dr. Childs an international brand and hook her up with makeup conglomerates. Under my tutelage (and, duh, for a share of the profits), I could help her launch a line of cosmeceuticals!
    Best idea ever!
    All I need is my old Rolodex and some business cards.
    I glance at my bloated visage in the mirror.
    And some Spanx.

CHAPTER THREE
    Party Like It’s 1992
    “You’re late. And you’re driving a minivan. Strikes one and two.”
    Color floods Nicole’s cheeks. “So sorry about the van, Liss. When we planned the night, I forgot Bobby was taking his car. Then Charlotte was delayed at swing choir, and she’s babysitting the little ones, so I couldn’t leave till she got back. But I’m here now, right?” She flashes me a toothy smile, like that’s supposed to excuse her lateness.
    I simply scowl in response as I stand outside the open door.
    Nicole leans across the center console. “Would it help if I tell you how pretty you look?”
    “No.” Yes.
    I am semihot right now, less because I’ve been able to shake off any of this excess poundage and more because I’m wearing multiple girdles. My mother and her martini kept me company while I got ready, and by the time I sucked myself into the third pair of extra-thigh-controlling shorts, she asked whether I was going to a reunion or deep-sea diving with Mr. Jacques Cousteau. It’s possible I overdid it with the shapewear, as breathing’s really not an option and my whole body pulses in time with my heartbeat. But you try losing weight in a house where lard is its own block on the food pyramid.
    I remove a handful of free-range LEGOs and brush the remnants of an entire school of Goldfish crackers from the seat before I ease into it. The Spanx make it almost impossible to move from the calves up, but I manage to wedge in anyway. I contemplate not wearing a seat belt, since I’m already wrapped in the equivalent of four hundred tourniquets, but I err on the side of caution. I glance over to the driver’s side and note the dashboard on this thing looks like the cockpit of a 747. I warn Nicole, “God help you if this heap doesn’t have satellite radio.”
    Nicole quickly tunes in to the nineties station on XM and we’re off to the city for the reunion. Unbeknownst to me, Nicole was part of the planning committee (strike two and a half) and they decided to throw the event at the same location as senior prom, so instead of hitting the high school, we’re heading to the Drake Hotel downtown.
    “Why isn’t Bobby here?” I ask.
    What I really mean is, why isn’t Bobby driving us to the event in his shiny, expensive, Goldfish-free sedan?
    Nicole begins to bob her head in time with Color Me Badd’s “I Wanna Sex You Up.” Because nothing says “sex you up” like a former second-grade teacher surrounded by side-curtain airbags. Yet I can’t help but notice how defined her collarbone is in her portrait-collar dress and I’m instantly jealous. She doesn’t even try to watch her weight and routinely finishes whatever’s on her children’s plates. Her regular diet is supplemented by grilled cheese crusts, spare chicken nuggets, Oreo cookies minus the cream filling, and GoGurt tube dregs. Yet the bitch hasn’t gained an ounce since our glory days. She says she keeps fit by chasing after her kids, which sounds like the worst weight-loss