Again, But Better
Christine Riccio
For my parents. I love yous.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
This book you’ve picked up is the one I needed to read in college. Putting yourself out there to have experiences and meet people—“doing college,” if you will—can be really difficult. Freshman through junior year I ended up spending almost all of my free time in the dorm with my books. I buried myself in novel after novel, finding solace in the adventures of other girls. But in the end they did little to ease my growing anxieties about impending adulthood.
The young women in all the YA books I loved were high-school age. By eighteen, the majority of them had saved the world, not to mention: kissed people, traveled, been in a relationship, had sex. At twenty I felt like a pathetic, unaccomplished, uncultured, virgin grandma. It sounds like a joke now, but at the time, around all these people my age casually discussing all of the above, I felt so small.
I, so badly, wanted to read a coming-of-age story about someone who was twenty—someone who was still finding themselves and struggling with becoming an adult even after they hit the double-decade mark. I needed to know there was at least one other twenty-plus person out there feeling as alone and lost as I was. At the time I couldn’t find one.
This is for all the teens/young adults/adults who feel like they’ve been left behind. You’re not behind. You have time to find yourself and love and adventure. It’s all out there, and when you’re ready to push yourself out of your comfort zone and look for it, you’ll find it.
Again, but Better is fiction, but inspired by my own experiences. Thank you so much for picking it up. I hope you enjoy. ?
xo, lovely day, sincerely, best,
Christine Riccio
Part 1
2011
1. Take a Chance
I’m leaving the country because I have no friends.
That’s what it comes down to. People can continue along most paths, however unpleasant, if they have at least one good friend with them. Not having one has forced me to consider my path-changing options. Now, I’m thousands of miles over the Atlantic in a giant hollowed-out pen with wings, on my way to a study abroad program that’s irrelevant to my major.
My parents don’t know about the irrelevant part. Every time I think about it, my hands start shaking.
I grip the armrest nearest to the window. No second-guessing. I fold forward, trying not to bang my head on the seat in front to me, and extract the pen and notebook from my book bag on the floor—writing usually helps. I find it cathartic to pour out my soul via pen and paper. These days all my notebooks are Horcruxes, so I’ve started titling them accordingly; Horcrux notebooks one through eight are piled up in a Rubbermaid under my bed back in New York.
This new notebook makes a satisfying noise as I pull back the cover and flip it around to view my first entry.
1/1/11
COLLEGE, TAKE TWO: STUDY ABROAD GOALS
1) Kick ass at internship—turn it into a paid summer job.
2) Make friends you like to hang out with and who like to hang out with you.
I’m going to make friends. I am. I’m going to talk to people I don’t know like I already know them—that’s the secret. I’ve watched my cousin Leo do it in school for years, and I’m ready. These friendless times call for extreme outgoing measures.
I click the pen and scribble down four more goals.
3) Kiss a boy you like. Stop kiss-blocking self.
4) Have adventures in the city you’re in. You’ve done nothing in New York City during the 2.5 years you’ve been there, you idiot.
5) Maybe try getting a little bit drunk. Don’t black out or anything, but find out what it’s like in a controlled, self-aware environment. You’re legally allowed to in the UK!
6) Start your great American novel. You’ve spent an absurd amount of time trying to think of the perfect first sentence. Stop it. Just write.
“What’s that?”
I startle, my arm flying up instinctively to cover the page. The woman next to me—a slim forty-something-year-old with a pile of bright red hair on her head—eyes me impatiently.
“What?” I sputter.
“How in the world does one kiss-block themselves?” she asks in an irritated British voice.
My eyes bulge. “I—”
“How old are you?” she presses.
I’m silent for a beat before mumbling, “Twenty.”
The left side of this woman’s lip curls up in alarm. “Are you saying you’re twenty years old and you’ve never kissed anyone?”
Leave it to me to get heckled by a stranger on a plane. I look away pointedly, unwilling to confirm or deny. This is never worth discussing. People can’t handle it. They get condescending, like you’ve suddenly morphed back into a ten-year-old. General PSA: Kissing people doesn’t make you better than non-kissed people. Sit down. And self-kiss-blocking is a real thing. I’ve experienced it. I’ve gotten close a few times, with random dancing frat dudes at parties my roommates dragged me to. When the time came, I turned away out of pure terror. I believe my exact thoughts were: Demon, demon! Too close to my face!