Going in Circles

Raves for Pamela Ribon's “witty, wonderful, and wise” (
Maryland Gazette
) novels

WHY MOMS ARE WEIRD

“A rollicking page-turner. . . . Fantastic and satisfying.”

—
Albuquerque Journal
(NM)

“Compassionate. . . . fans will identify with this kind, imperfect heroine.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“This joyous, single-sitting read is as bright and witty as it is wise and bittersweet. . . . Ribon is a sparkling talent.”

—
South Florida Sun-Sentinel

“Hilarious and heartfelt.
Why Moms Are Weird
tackles the absurd morass of family with joyful wit and brutal honesty. I barreled through this book.”

—Jill Soloway, Showtime's
United States of Tara
and
Six Feet Under;
author of
Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants

WHY GIRLS ARE WEIRD

“Chick lit at its most trenchant and truthful.”

—Jennifer Weiner,
New York Times
bestselling
author of
Best Friends Forever
and
In Her Shoes

“Light and entertaining.”

—
Booklist

“A whole lot of good reading.”

—
Miami Herald

“Irresistible. . . . [L]ike hanging out with your best friend just when you need to most.”

—Melissa Senate, author of
See Jane Date
and
The Secret of Joy

Going in Circles
is also available as an eBook

 

ALSO BY PAMELA RIBON

Why Girls Are Weird

Why Moms Are Weird

Available from Downtown Press

 

PAMELA RIBON

 

Downtown Press A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Pamela Ribon

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address
Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department,
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

First Downtown Press trade paperback edition April 2010

DOWNTOWN PRESS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases,
please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at
1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your
live event. For more information or to book an event contact the
Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit
our website at
www.simonspeakers.com
.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ribon, Pamela.
   Going in circles: a novel / Pamela Ribon.—1st Downtown Press trade pbk., ed.
     p. cm.
    1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Roller skaters—Fiction.
3. Roller derbies—Fiction. 4. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.
    PS3618.I24G65 2010
    813'.6—dc22 2009051281

ISBN 978-1-4165-0386-6
ISBN 978-1-4391-6925-4 (ebook)

 

For my wives:

Anna Beth Chao
Cat Davis
Sara Hess
Allison Lowe-Huff
Dana Meller
Allison Munn

And for the
kick-ass, badass,
superhero rock stars
of the LA Derby Dolls

 

Did my ring burn your finger?
Did my love weigh you down?
Was the promise too much to keep around?

—Solomon Burke
(lyrics by Buddy & Julie Miller)

I've been working on a cocktail
called ‘Grounds for Divorce . . .'

—Elbow

Paranoia may be the most natural response to the feeling
of love, to fully valuing another and hence growing aware
of the ever-present potential for their loss.

—Alain de Botton
The Romantic Movement

 

I
've done the thing where I'm awake but I haven't yet opened my eyes. I'm in that twilight haze where I know I'm not asleep but I can't move a muscle. I've only got a second or two left before the panic will set in that I've somehow slept myself into becoming a paraplegic, that during the night I wrestled in some kind of nightmare that caused me to twist in horror, snapping my own neck, dooming me to an eternity of immobility.

Naturally, this will then trigger a second wave of fear. If I have separated my head from the rest of my body there's no real way that I can let anyone know this has happened. I will have to remain useless and numb, stuck in this position until someone figures out I've gone missing. I fear that it won't be a matter of hours, but perhaps days or weeks before anyone truly notices. My office mate, Jonathan, will eventually get bored with this unexpected man-holiday and will finally ask someone if I died.

But first, there's this special just-up time, when I can't move and I can barely think, when everything is perfect. I'm half in the real world but still able to clutch on to whatever dream I'm reluctant to depart. That makes this person I
am—this Charlotte Goodman, age thirty, a skinny brunette with absolutely no singing voice and a deep aversion to paper cuts—nothing more than a concept. I'm not a real person and I don't have to be. Yet.

The dream I just fell from was gloriously mundane. I was sitting in seat 16A of a Continental flight somehow headed to a Starbucks, where I was to pick up a DVD for Sandra Bullock. This was supposed to be important. I was sitting next to a college frat boy who was singing the words to . . .

No, wait. I was sitting next to a sorority girl who was talking about her boyfriend who was the lead singer for . . .

No.

Damn. Nothing. It's gone.

Eyes open.

Morning, Sunshine.

Matthew used to say that every morning. It was a sarcastic dig at how terrible I am for the first hour before I get three good cups of coffee into me. It's not new—back in high school my parents would sometimes find an excuse to leave the house rather than wake me up early. They became avid churchgoers just to avoid my morning wrath. I know it's not right to hate everything before nine in the morning, but I don't understand how everybody acts like it's okay to be up at that hour. If we all got together and took a stand, we could all sleep in and force mornings to become a time for sleep and sleep only.

An early riser, Matthew would be well into his day, coffee brewed, having sometimes already gone for a run, taken a shower, and eaten breakfast before I waddled into the room, half-asleep, half-dressed, usually with only one eye open.

“Shh,” he'd say, cradling my face with one hand. “Half of Charlotte is still asleep. Right Eye needs more dreaming.”

And he'd whisper, pretending to tiptoe around the right side of me, the one that could wake up with a roar. “Shh. Right Eye is such an angel when she's sleeping.”

This was before we were married, when there wasn't a question as to whether we were supposed to be together. Now I hear Matthew say, “Morning, Sunshine,” even though he isn't here to say the words.

I've had to come to accept the fact that every morning my eyes will eventually open. I will wake up, and then I will have to get out of this bed. I'll brush my teeth, take a shower, put on clothes, and do all of the things almost everybody else seems to be able to do every single day no matter what is happening to them. I used to be one of those people, the normal ones who would make coffee and go to their jobs and joke with their friends and be productive members of society. Not anymore. At least not now.

Now I've had to develop a few defense mechanisms, tricks to accomplish a real-life calendar day without too many setbacks. Since I began employing these tactics, I have a 75 percent chance of making it to the next time I'm in this glorious bed without a full-on breakdown. Yes, there are still crying jags and the occasional panic attack. And sure, one time I kind of lost my shit at a Ruby Tuesday. But in my defense, that waitress knew what she had done.

Defense Mechanism Number 1 is crucial and happens every morning without fail, right here in this bed. Before I leave the safety of my crisp, white sheets and the soft, warm comfort of my purple flannel duvet, before I head out into that harsh, cruel society known as Los Angeles, California—home of the beautiful and the clinical—I make a plan.

This plan is important. It is the plan of the day. It doesn't take long, but I have found without The Plan, horrible things
can happen. I'm likely to end up sitting on a curb beside a taco truck on Sunset Boulevard, crying over a carne asada burrito, wondering where my marriage went. It doesn't matter how much pain I'm in, I still have an awareness that people can see me, and I couldn't take knowing that to someone I'd just become the Weeping Burrito Girl.