Free Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway by Cherie Currie

cheeks, and it occurred to me that I looked like some kind of space-age version of Baby Jane.
     
    “You look like shit, Cherie!”
     
    Marie’s voice made me jump. I didn’t even realize she was standing behind me. Even though it was first thing in the morning, Marie looked totally together.
     
    I wrinkled up my nose and summoned my most sarcastic voice. “Oh REALLY, Marie? Well, thanks for pointing that out.”
     
    She laughed a little. Although we both ragged on each other all of the time, there was no genuine animosity between us, really. Sure, there was a part of me back then that resented how well adjusted Marie was, and how easily she fit in with the popular kids in school. There was something effortless about her; I never caught her looking the slightest bit out of whack. It was more of a friendly rivalry than anything else. She was still my twin sister, and that is a bond that runs so deep that it would surely be unfathomable to most people.
     
    Marie started making her bed, and as she did this she casually said, “Oh yeah . . . uh, Paul just called.”
     
    “And . . . ?”
     
    “And, uh, he said he had the Bowie album and he’ll be here in, like, fifteen minutes.”
     
    “Oh SHIT!” I screamed, and I hustled out of the bedroom to lock myself in the bathroom. When I emerged half an hour later, I was a totally new Cherie. I had transformed myself: my hair was fixed, perfect, just like Bowie’s on the cover of Aladdin Sane, only platinum blond. Last night’s makeup had been scrubbed off, and in its place was baby-blue eye shadow, black eyeliner, and reddish-pink rouge. On my lips I had applied shiny pink lip-gloss. Of course, I didn’t wear lipstick—primarily because Bowie didn’t wear lipstick.
     
    I walked into the den. Marie and Paul were hanging out. I ran over and threw my arms around Paul, squealing, “Let me see it!” Paul pulled the LP out of a paper bag and handed it to me. He muttered, “Here you go . . .” through his clenched teeth. I held the album breathlessly, running my thumbs over the gatefold sleeve. “Oh my God.” I sighed. “It’s wonderful . . .”
     
    Marie looked at me with that familiar mix of pity and indulgence. She liked Bowie, too, but regarded my obsession with the Thin White Duke as bordering on the unhealthy. The cover image was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen: Bowie, dressed in that slick zoot suit he’d worn at the show, striking a pose. He looked incredible. The picture had a blue cast over it, bathing him in a futuristic neon glow.
     
    David Bowie is the most beautiful man on the planet, I thought as I stared transfixed at the image.
     
    Paul started laughing that strange laugh of his, but I knew he was just as excited as I was. Paul was the only guy I knew whose obsession with all things David Bowie could even come close to mine. “Wait till you hear it,” he said. “It’s INCREDIBLE.”
     
    “Come on!” I grabbed Paul’s arm and tried to lead him to my bedroom. “Let’s go to my room and listen!” He shook his head, and jingled his car keys.
     
    “No can do. I have some stuff to do before the party tonight. Do you two need a ride?”
     
    Marie shook her head. “No, Vickie is picking us up. We’re helping her to set up . . .”
     
    I was already heading to my bedroom, so I called back to them, “Okay, thanks, Paul! See ya later!”
     
    I ran into my room and pulled the record out of its sleeve. Holding the shiny black disk in my hands, I examined it carefully for imperfections. Then, gently, I placed it on the turntable. I put the needle on the groove, put my headphones on, and flopped back onto my beanbag chair. I could hear the screams of the audience filling my head, making my stomach flutter in anticipation. I closed my eyes, and it was almost as if I were really there again. As the music began, I got the strange sensation I was floating . . . altered . . . transported.
     
    Before the party, I decided that a change