Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway (12 page)

 

I stared at the stars. I knew that I would not be able to sleep tonight. I remembered the joint I had in the bottom of my purse. It had literally been sitting there for a month; it had been shoved into my hand at some party, and I’d never bothered to smoke it. I found that I never really reacted well to grass in the past; it made me feel strange, a little paranoid. But I’d sometimes buy a half lid of marijuana, mostly so I could share it with the older kids in the neighborhood who smoked. They always wanted to hang out with me because I had grass: when you’re a teenager, drugs can be an important bonding tool.

 

I pulled the joint out. It was battered and bent out of shape from lying in the bottom of my purse for so long.

 

I lit it up and took a deep toke, holding in the harsh gray smoke just like the older kids did. I could feel it burning my lungs—it felt much harsher than tobacco. The almost unbearable urge to cough came over me, but I swallowed it down. When I finally exhaled the plume of pungent smoke into the night air, I felt pretty light-headed.

 

The sky was beautiful. Suddenly the world seemed vast and infused with possibilities. After gazing at the heavens for a few moments, I took another toke, and managed to hold the smoke in easier. When I exhaled, I started to think about just how big everything was. I sat back, taking in that vast, inky blackness, those million tiny points of silver shimmering up there in space like twinkling, undulating Christmas lights . . .

 

Finally I felt myself relaxing, as I slowly began to get wonderfully, wonderfully stoned.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

Cherry Bomb

 

 

 

 

When Saturday rolled around, I was just about ready to faint, puke, or pee my pants. I had never felt anxiety like that before. I suddenly felt like the old Cherie again: little, innocent, scared Cherie. Why the hell did I agree to this? I was sitting in the car with Sandie, cruising over to the audition, and my nails were bitten down to the quick already. I checked the car’s a/c again, but it was still off. I was freezing, though, and my fingertips felt like icicles. I checked my reflection again in the passenger-seat visor, and immediately wished that I hadn’t bothered. I looked like shit, pure and simple. I looked terrified, just some little scared kid. Not for the first time that day, it crossed my mind that the Runaways might take one look at me and say, “Get the fuck out of here!”

 

Sandie gave me a sideways glance and noticed the expression of dread on my face. “You’ll be fine!” she said again. “Don’t sweat it. You’re gonna knock ’em dead!”

 

I tried to tell myself that Sandie was right. I’d been practicing like hell ever since that first meeting with Joan and Kim.

 

I tried to get away from my toxic thoughts by mentally running through the song that I had picked for my audition. I went for a slow, sultry number called “Fever” from Suzi’s latest album, Your Mama Won’t Like Me. I had been in my bedroom for the past three days singing this song obsessively. Marie helped me to choose it, and she’d agreed that this one was the best choice. It was a cover version, of some old Peggy Lee song, but Suzi’s version was real cool . . . It has this brooding quality that I liked, and I could really emote when I sang the words. Just reciting the lyrics to myself calmed me a little. They are gonna be blown away when they hear this, I told myself. I did just what Mr. Fowley said: “Get yourself a good Suzi Quatro song.” And here I was, prepared, ready. Confident. I started to feel a little mellow again. A little more like myself. That was, until we pulled over and Sandie said: “We’re here!”

 

I was immediately freaking out again, and a part of me wanted to tell Sandie to forget about it, to just take me home. I thought about Marie, holding her hands over her ears and saying, “If I hear you sing that fucking song one more time, Cherie, I swear my head’s gonna explode. Knock it off!”

 

Miming along to David Bowie at the school talent show, or singing along to records in my bedroom, was one thing . . . but standing up in front of a group of strangers, singing in my own voice, all of them looking at me, judging me, and evaluating me . . . that was a whole other ball game. I started to feel nauseous.

 

I looked out of the window, expecting to see some high-tech recording studio or gleaming office building. I was naive enough to think it would be something eye-catching and grand like the Capitol Records building on Vine. Instead we were sitting outside of a small, unimpressive suburban house, somewhere in Canoga Park—a residential neighborhood out in the San Fernando Valley.

 

“I think we’re at the wrong place,” I said.

 

Sandie shook her head. “Nope, this is definitely the address.”

 

I grabbed the paper from her hand and looked at it. I glanced back at the little house we were parked outside of and made a face. I guess this was it. I opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The afternoon sun did nothing to help warm me up.

 

Sandie called after me, “Call me when you’re done. And relax! Have fun . . . and good luck!”

 

“Thanks . . .”

 

And with that, my big sister was gone. A part of me wanted her to stay, but she’d given me some spiel earlier about not wanting to “crowd my creative space” that made perfect sense at the time, but the logic of it was lost on me now as I approached the house alone. I walked up the driveway, knocked on the front door. No reply. I gave the door a little push and it swung open.

 

“Hello?”

 

I stepped inside, and found myself in a regular-looking suburban house. I could hear the chatter of voices coming from a door to the right. I followed this sound and pushed open the door that led into a big garage. There were instruments all over the place and a raggedy-looking couch over on one end. On the couch was a young girl, around my age, I’d guess. She was sitting there, slapping drumsticks on her knees and then twirling them artfully in her hands. Her hair was dirty blond, and she had muscles literally bursting from her tight, sleeveless T-shirt. Man, talk about being able to beat up a truck driver! She looked up, and the drumsticks suddenly froze in her fingers.

 

“Hey!” she said. I walked over to her, and she put out her hand for me to shake. I took it, and she had a grip like iron.

 

“Sandy,” she said. “Sandy West. I’m the drummer . . . in case you couldn’t tell. You must be Cherie, right?” She grinned when she said this, and her smile was infectious.

 

“Yeah. I’m Cherie.” I smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

 

I looked around the garage, and saw two other girls. Neither of them was Joan Jett. The taller girl approached me first. She had long brown hair and wore black, high-heeled leather boots. There was a guitar casually slung around her shoulders. She had a real sour look on her face. “Hey, I’m Lita. Lita Ford.”

 

“Hi, Lita,” I said, reaching out a hand. “Cherie.”

 

She took my hand and scowled. “Damn, your hands are fuckin’ cold!”

 

I laughed nervously at that, and was rewarded with a humorless stare. Then Lita turned her back to me and walked off, leaving me standing there like a doofus.

 

Sandy got up and stood next to me. She put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t sweat it! It’ll be fun.”

 

Off in the corner, the third girl was fiddling with an amplifier. She was blond, thin, and pretty frail-looking. I figured she couldn’t be more than fourteen years old. Suddenly her amp erupted in a squeal of earsplitting feedback, and she shouted, “Fuckin’ SHIT!” She clicked it off and came over to check me out instead.

 

“Kari Krome,” she said. “I don’t play an instrument. I just write the words. Nice to meet you.” She smiled, revealing a row of buckteeth. “You’re Cheryl, right?”

 

“Cherie.”

 

All three of them went to the couch so they could stare at me some more. I stood there awkwardly. I felt like I was facing some kind of schoolgirl jury.

 

“Cherie’s a pretty name,” said Kari finally.

 

“So is Kari . . .”

 

“Is it real?” Sandy asked. “We all have stage names. Well, besides Lita, that is.”

 

“Yeah, that’s my real name—Cherie Currie.” I shrugged. I immediately clammed up again. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest and my mind racing to find something witty, cool, or intelligent to say.

 

Lita threw her long hair back with a shake of her head. “It doesn’t sound real,” she sniffed.

 

I just stared at her, not sure how to respond. Then Sandy punched her on the arm. “Shut up!” She laughed, and then she turned to me. “Ignore her. It’s a great name . . .”

 

“Thanks . . . I think.”

 

They laughed, breaking the tension a little. Thankfully, that’s when Joan Jett and Kim Fowley entered the room. I didn’t really know them either, but a familiar face—any familiar face—made me feel a little better. I smiled at them expectantly, and noticed that Kim Fowley was still dressed in that raggedy-looking orange suit from the other night. Right away he was all business.

 

“Good afternoon, Cherie. Glad you could make it. Just to get everything out in the open: if you pass the audition, you will be replacing a girl named Micki Steele.”

 

“Only she doesn’t know it yet!” interjected Joan.

 

“Yes. Well, poor Micki doesn’t quite fit in with the group . . .”

 

“Yeah.” Lita sneered. “Kim doesn’t feel that she’s good-looking enough, isn’t that right?”

 

“She lacks rock-and-roll authority. This is a rock-and-roll band,” Kim said. “Nothing against her, but she’s just not pretty enough. That’s important. Anything less than total world domination is not an option . . .”

 

“And she’s too old!” Joan laughed.

 

“Yeah,” Sandy said. “Anyway, there’s tons of good bass players around.”

 

I kind of froze up when she said this. “Bass? I don’t play bass! How can I replace her?”

 

Kim frowned at me. “Calm down, dear. All you have to do is sing. Sing and look pretty. We’re going to be looking for a fifth girl to play bass, all right?”

 

I nodded my head, feigning understanding. All of this had happened so fast, and they all were talking over each other so much, I was feeling like a deer caught in headlights. Kim clapped his hands and turned to the girls, yelling, “Okay, dogs! Jump to it! Time is money!”

 

The girls hopped up from the couch and picked up their instruments like professionals. Joan slung her guitar casually around her neck and strummed a few chords. The way she held that thing, you’d have sworn she’d been born with it around her neck. It was weird because back at the club, there had been something so shy and withdrawn about her. But, man, when she put that guitar around her neck, you couldn’t take your eyes off her. She oozed attitude and charisma. I was very, very intimidated by her and totally drawn to her at the same time.

 

Sandy took her place behind the drum kit and started bashing away. The noise was shocking, reverberating around the small concrete garage. They all seemed so comfortable, so natural, and yet again I started wondering just what the hell I was doing there. Then I noticed the lone microphone standing front and center. Fear flashed through my body. I mean, they looked like a band. And then there was me . . .

 

Slowly the noise died down to a hush, and all eyes turned to me. I could feel myself sweating. I felt the moistness spreading out from my underarms, and I started to panic that there was going to be a great big damp patch in the armpits of my T-shirt. How fucking gross! I thought. They’re gonna laugh me out of here if that happens . . .

 

“So, uh, what song did you learn?” Joan asked. “ ‘Your Mama Won’t Like Me’?”

 

When she said this, she began playing the grimy, funky guitar riff that opened the track. I stood there, watching her. Her hands moved around the frets like it was second nature. She stopped after a few bars, and seeing me shaking my head, she suggested, “ ‘Can the Can’?”

 

With that, Sandy let loose with the stomping, glam-rock beat that kicked off that track. I felt the sweat beginning to drip down my back. Drip—drip—drip . . . When I didn’t jump on the mike and start singing, they stopped playing one by one, the music clattering to a messy finish. The three of them looked at me questioningly. I cleared my throat and said, “Uh . . . no. What about ‘Fever’?”

 

“ ‘Fever’?” screamed Lita, in this disgusted voice. Everybody just stood there staring, as if I had said the dumbest thing in the world.

 

“Do any of you guys know ‘Fever’?” mumbled Joan. Slowly everybody began shaking their heads and shrugging.

 

Holy shit! I’d spent three days perfecting my performance of “Fever,” and nobody could play the fucking song. I felt my heart sink through my boots and my face became prickly with heat as I blushed neon red. I looked over to Kim, with this pleading look in my eyes. “You told me to learn any Suzi Quatro song, didn’t you?”

 

But Kim was no help whatsoever. He just rolled his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. “Jesus Christ, why am I surrounded by amateur, teenage dog dirt?” Kari sat next to him on the couch, sniggering to herself.

 

Lita looked totally turned off by me now. “ ‘Fever’ is too SLOW, man!” she said. “We don’t play slow stuff like that!”