Here I Go Again: A Novel by Jen Lancaster

instantly forget to be distracted about what Deva told me and I disregard the fact that I’m too cool to admit to loving this music. “I know, right? Steve Vai’s talented, but he’s no Vivian Campbell.”
    Glancing over both shoulders, he crouches down and I catch a hint of the sweet tang of his Ralph Lauren aftershave. If the nineties had a scent, it would be the woody, mossy whiff of Polo, applied liberally, and then applied again for good measure. “I hear he’s been talking to Def Leppard. Rumor has it he may join.”
    “Shut up.”
    Holy crap, Vivian’s been with Lep now for so many years that I forgot there was ever a point he wasn’t with them.
    Brian leans against the passenger side, all chatty and casual-like. Other than Deva, he seems to be the one person I don’t intimidate. Hmm. “My uncle works for Geffen and he’s in on all the dirt. Total insider. Speaking of, I have some news that’ll blow your mind. Ready for this? David Coverdale and Jimmy Page are secretly working on a collaboration. My cousin just got back from the Abbey Road studio in London and he brought me a track.”
    I throw off my safety belt and fly out of the front seat. Coverdale/Page! I love that album! It’s one of my favorites and it doesn’t even come out until 1993! “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go give it a listen.”
    Brian seems taken aback, but pleasantly. “Er . . . sure! Let’s go.”
    In my dream future, which I guess is my actual future, this is the time of year when Brian and I had our little fling, only the circumstances were slightly different. Originally, last weekend was when Duke/Martin was sick in my car and he came over that Sunday and got kind of shouty and aggressive. Which made me like him all the more, according to my diary. (I’m really starting to question my teenage value system, FYI.)
    Brian came out to calm everyone down and then he made Duke/Martin leave, politely but firmly. I was so impressed with Brian’s fearlessness and command of the situation that we ended up hanging out for a couple of weeks, until I realized being with him would send me to social no-man’s-land.
    But I didn’t even see Duke/Martin over this last weekend, because I’m still kind of mad at him for his behavior in my dream future, which is actually my real future. Regardless, that means that he never actually threw up in my car.
    Ergo . . . I didn’t saddle him with “Duke,” so he’s not going to resent my giving him a nickname for the next twenty-plus years.
    Which means I’ve already made strides to fixing my future!
    Yes!
    Maybe this whole time-travel dealie really is a blessing and not some cruel joke perpetrated by a meddling hippie with large paws and an unhealthy amount of nudie art in her apartment. (I’m still probably going to call him Duke in my head, though, because every time someone says “Martin” I assume they’re talking about Martin Lawrence.)
    We cross the street to Brian’s house. His place is decorated so differently from my house, even though they’re laid out pretty similarly . . . which I discovered the last time, when I’d routinely sneak up to his room in the dark to make out with him. (But that’s not happening this time because I’m all Team Duke.)
    Whereas our central-stair Colonial is all about big vases of silk flowers and fussy couches and oil paintings, his central-stair Colonial looks like a Toys “R” Us on Black Friday. There are balls and army men and Barbie dolls on almost every surface. Crumbling LEGO kingdoms top each coffee table, and scattered bits of puzzles poke out beneath the tall pile of the living room shag rug. It’s not dirty, but it is total chaos.
    We step into his cheerful kitchen and I spot Brian’s mom outside with a couple of the smaller kids. Their backyard is overrun with swing sets and sandboxes. I watch her shoo Snowball away from the sand, shouting, “No! That’s not for you! Bad kitty!”
    Brian grabs a couple of Cokes