right?”
Joan nodded. Word of mouth about the Runaways had been spreading around the scene for the past few months. Nobody seemed to know too much about them, except that they were supposed to be the new hot thing. Everybody already had an opinion on them, yet nobody seemed to have seen them play yet.
Now that I had admitted to knowing who the Runaways were, Kim went into his full salesman spiel.
“They’re only the hottest band of the decade!” he informed me with a satisfied grin. “The Runaways are a teenage all-girl rock-and-roll band. The Runaways are going to be the next female Beatles—the girl equivalent of Elvis, or Bowie, or Bo fucking Diddly. I am the magician, the visionary that is going to make it happen. They are going to change the world! Joan here is the rhythm guitarist . . .”
The way he said it made me feel that he had given this speech many times before. Still, I couldn’t help but be sucked in by his enthusiasm. What I couldn’t figure out was why on earth he was giving this speech to me.
“So, uh . . . what do you want with me?”
“Read my lips,” Kim told me. “We—like—your—look. Yes? You can sing, can’t you?”
When he said this, a few things flashed across my mind. The first was my music teacher Ms. Davenport refusing to let me into the choir the first time I tried out, on the grounds that she thought my voice sucked. She didn’t use those exact words, but she didn’t have to—her face had said it all. I did get in on the second attempt, though, so maybe old Davenport was having her period that day, or something. The next thing I thought of was the school talent show, where I’d recently won first prize by lip-synching to David Bowie. Marie and I had spent hours getting the costumes and the choreography perfect. When the song was over, the auditorium had gone wild. It was the craziest feeling, the most thrilling, goose-bump-inducing sensation, when the final note rang out and the whole place erupted in cheers.
“Yeah, I can sing,” I told him, trying to play it cool.
I almost blurted out that my sister and I used to sing Dean Martin songs with my father at the Kiwanis Club but I stopped myself, feeling like a hopeless square for even thinking about mentioning it. Instead I said, “I came in first at the school talent show, singing David Bowie.”
I decided to leave out the lip-synching part.
“David Bowie, huh?” Kim said to me. Then he points a finger at my chest. “If my instincts are correct . . . and one thing you will learn about me, Cherie, is that my instincts are ALWAYS correct . . . by the time I’m done with you, you are going to be bigger than David Bowie. In fact,” he said with a leer, “you are going to have the likes of David Bowie licking those silver platform boots of yours . . .”
Joan started laughing at this, rolling her eyes. I guess she was well used to the strange way that Fowley spoke, but I was still staring at him like he had two heads. He pulled a notebook and pen out of his pocket, and asked me, “So—when are you free to audition?”
Audition? Suddenly it hit me, with a twist of fear in the bottom of my gut: they were obviously trawling the under-twenty-one clubs, looking for a blond girl in tight pants who looked like she could beat up a truck driver so she could sing in this crazy band they were putting together. And here I was. I placed a trembling hand on my glass of soda and tried my best to look nonchalant.
“Um, audition?” I repeated dumbly.
“Yes—audition. What is a good time for you?”
A new song started up, and a cheer went up from the crowd when the first downbeat rocked the floor, because everyone knew what was coming already. “Benny and the Jets” by Elton John. That song was a favorite of mine in those days; it always put me in a trancelike, relaxed state. But not tonight. Not now . . .
“Gee, Mr. Fowley . . .” I stammered.
Joan nodded. Word of mouth about the Runaways had been spreading around the scene for the past few months. Nobody seemed to know too much about them, except that they were supposed to be the new hot thing. Everybody already had an opinion on them, yet nobody seemed to have seen them play yet.
Now that I had admitted to knowing who the Runaways were, Kim went into his full salesman spiel.
“They’re only the hottest band of the decade!” he informed me with a satisfied grin. “The Runaways are a teenage all-girl rock-and-roll band. The Runaways are going to be the next female Beatles—the girl equivalent of Elvis, or Bowie, or Bo fucking Diddly. I am the magician, the visionary that is going to make it happen. They are going to change the world! Joan here is the rhythm guitarist . . .”
The way he said it made me feel that he had given this speech many times before. Still, I couldn’t help but be sucked in by his enthusiasm. What I couldn’t figure out was why on earth he was giving this speech to me.
“So, uh . . . what do you want with me?”
“Read my lips,” Kim told me. “We—like—your—look. Yes? You can sing, can’t you?”
When he said this, a few things flashed across my mind. The first was my music teacher Ms. Davenport refusing to let me into the choir the first time I tried out, on the grounds that she thought my voice sucked. She didn’t use those exact words, but she didn’t have to—her face had said it all. I did get in on the second attempt, though, so maybe old Davenport was having her period that day, or something. The next thing I thought of was the school talent show, where I’d recently won first prize by lip-synching to David Bowie. Marie and I had spent hours getting the costumes and the choreography perfect. When the song was over, the auditorium had gone wild. It was the craziest feeling, the most thrilling, goose-bump-inducing sensation, when the final note rang out and the whole place erupted in cheers.
“Yeah, I can sing,” I told him, trying to play it cool.
I almost blurted out that my sister and I used to sing Dean Martin songs with my father at the Kiwanis Club but I stopped myself, feeling like a hopeless square for even thinking about mentioning it. Instead I said, “I came in first at the school talent show, singing David Bowie.”
I decided to leave out the lip-synching part.
“David Bowie, huh?” Kim said to me. Then he points a finger at my chest. “If my instincts are correct . . . and one thing you will learn about me, Cherie, is that my instincts are ALWAYS correct . . . by the time I’m done with you, you are going to be bigger than David Bowie. In fact,” he said with a leer, “you are going to have the likes of David Bowie licking those silver platform boots of yours . . .”
Joan started laughing at this, rolling her eyes. I guess she was well used to the strange way that Fowley spoke, but I was still staring at him like he had two heads. He pulled a notebook and pen out of his pocket, and asked me, “So—when are you free to audition?”
Audition? Suddenly it hit me, with a twist of fear in the bottom of my gut: they were obviously trawling the under-twenty-one clubs, looking for a blond girl in tight pants who looked like she could beat up a truck driver so she could sing in this crazy band they were putting together. And here I was. I placed a trembling hand on my glass of soda and tried my best to look nonchalant.
“Um, audition?” I repeated dumbly.
“Yes—audition. What is a good time for you?”
A new song started up, and a cheer went up from the crowd when the first downbeat rocked the floor, because everyone knew what was coming already. “Benny and the Jets” by Elton John. That song was a favorite of mine in those days; it always put me in a trancelike, relaxed state. But not tonight. Not now . . .
“Gee, Mr. Fowley . . .” I stammered.
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