Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway (9 page)

 

Vickie was beaming when I got in the car with my suit and tie on. “Whoa!” she said. “Cherie—you look radical! Man, you look just like a female David Bowie!”

 

If there was any compliment in the world that was guaranteed to make me feel amazing when I was fifteen years old, that was it. I looked out of the window, grinning. Yeah, I thought to myself, I AM the female David Bowie. After all, I could move like him, and I could sing along to all of his records perfectly.

 

“Dammit, I AM David Bowie!” I announced.

 

Marie tutted and rolled her eyes. “You’re a weirdo, Cherie, I swear to God.”

 

“Fuck off,” I told her, wrinkling my nose. She folded her arms and looked out of the window. I could feel the anger bubbling in my chest. It hurt because I knew that she really did think I was a weirdo; this wasn’t just some sisterly teasing. This was the Marie I had to put up with when she was hanging out with her stupid “popular” friends. Well, FUCK THEM, I thought, tonight I was going to have fun. Nobody was going to ruin that for me—not even Marie.

 

Vickie lived with her mom in a modest home in Sherman Oaks. But this weekend her mom was away, so Vickie decided it was good opportunity to throw a blowout party.

 

“So, who’s coming tonight?” Marie asked as we arrived at Vickie’s place.

 

“Ah . . . a lot of people. Danny, Paul, Gail . . . A few others . . .”

 

I knew Gail through Marie. She was a strange one, and no doubt about it. She was on this 1930s kick, and wore her hair real short with these loose curls pressed against her head. She had narrow shoulders and wide hips, and was kind of gangly and awkward. Like me, she caused people to do double takes when she walked into a room.

 

We got out of the car, and Marie said, “You know, Gail and I went shopping the other day, down on Hollywood Boulevard. Man, she knows all of the cool shops. She’s a pretty hip chick, you know? But she’s tough, too! We were walking down the street and some asshole pulled up beside us hooting and hollering out of the window, screaming ‘LEZBOS!’ You know what Gail did? Man, she chased that moron down the street screaming ‘FUCK YOU, you fucking FAGGOT!’ You shoulda seen the guy! He looked like he was gonna crap his pants or something. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It was so cool!”

 

Vickie shrugged. “What’s the problem? Gail is a lesbian!”

 

“I know!” Marie laughed. “But she said she didn’t think it was fair to me . . .”

 

Inside, I was putting out bowls of potato chips when Vickie pulled me aside and whispered, “I have something for you.” She put something into my hand. I looked at it. It was a round white pill, a pill that was somewhat the craze at parties in those days—a quaalude. Without hesitation, I popped it into my mouth and washed it down with a mouthful of rum and Coke. “Luding out” was becoming one of my favorite highs in those days—when the mix of booze and pills was just right, it felt as though you were wading through warm, viscous liquid when you walked, and each gooey step sent little shivers of ecstasy erupting down your spine like firecrackers.

 

“Thanks, sweetie,” I said. “This party is gonna be a blast!”

 

By ten o’clock, the party was in full swing, and I was feeling real good. Relaxed, happy, and my head was swimming pleasantly. Every time someone talked to me, it was as if their words were floating over to my ears, coming to me in telepathic waves. The lude was strong, and for a moment I almost panicked . . . was it too strong? I had seen kids pass out—I mean, literally just keel right over—when they couldn’t handle their ludes. Their eyes would go unfocused and then they’d just fall flat on their faces, busting noses or cracking teeth in the process. Or, they’d crawl off into a corner and pass out, and kids would draw mustaches on their faces as they lay there drooling.

 

But no, not me. I was David Bowie, right? I could handle it. I could handle anything. The lights were low, and the air was hot, and the living room was crammed with young people. I saw Paul and Gail sitting together on the couch. I watched them, with sleepy, heavy eyes. Gail was staring at me. I stopped and took her in dreamily. People walked between us, but she never took her eyes off me. The way she stared at me made me shiver. She smiled at me, and I felt my lips turning upward, too, as if we were connected in some weird way. I felt a little removed from my own body, like I was floating above myself, observing my own movements with the detached interest of an observer. A familiar piano refrain began to play, and I realized that it was Elton John’s “Candle in the Wind.” As I noticed this, I began to dreamily sway with the music. I saw Gail coming toward me, ignoring everyone around her, walking straight over to me, putting her hand on mine, and saying, “Would you like to dance?”

 

Her eyes . . . her eyes were like saucers, big pools of inky blackness . . . and I felt the sudden lurch of vertigo, as if I could have toppled into those cavernous holes. “Sure . . .” I heard myself slur. Pull it together, Cherie . . . some distant part of my brain was demanding. You can handle one quaalude!

 

She guided my hand, placing it on her waist. She put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me in close. I could smell her perfume, feel the heat radiating off her body. We started swaying to the music. I felt her hot breath against the nape of my neck, and it sent a delicious shiver down my spine. The room was dark, so dark I could hardly see. I felt her mouth against my ear, the soft wetness of her tongue touching my skin. Then, almost without knowing how it happened, we were kissing. Our lips crushed together and I could taste her, I could feel her tongue in my mouth. I felt as if I were on another planet, the combination of the booze, the quaalude, the music, and Gail was giving me something of an out-of-body experience. A shudder of recognition traveled through my body: I was the alien—a chameleon, androgynous, not like the others with their rigidly defined roles . . . I could change my sex as easily as I could change my hair color. I imagined that this was how Bowie must have felt when he was with a woman.

 

“Come with me,” Gail whispered. She took my hand and led me off the dance floor. We walked past the other shadowy figures in the room as the song ended, and Lou Reed’s “Vicious” started up. We walked down the hallway, past necking couples, and long-haired stoner kids passing around a joint, laughing hysterically to themselves . . . toward the fluorescent glow of the bathroom. We walked in, and Gail closed the door behind us.

 

“Now I have you all to myself,” she muttered.

 

In the harsh light of the bathroom, suddenly everything was thrown into sharp focus. I looked at Gail and smiled softly.

 

Hell, what’s the big deal? Bisexuality is cool. Everybody’s bi these days. I swore I would never be afraid, didn’t I?

 

I grabbed hold of Gail and pulled her toward me, and then we were kissing with frenzied abandon. I pushed her up against the wall and ran my hands under her clothes, feeling the smooth contours of her body, our breath hot and fast, and in time with one another . . . I didn’t even hear the bathroom door open; I didn’t notice Vickie standing there as Gail and I made out furiously. Vickie stood there with her mouth hanging open, and I finally noticed her when she blurted, “Jesus Christ, Gail! What the FUCK are you DOING?”

 

I froze, and we pulled apart. Gail turned and sneered at Vickie. “What the fuck does it LOOK like we’re doing?”

 

I was standing there, with my back against the cool tiles, dazed by everything that was happening. I looked at Vickie through heavy-lidded eyes, but she was bumming me out. She looked like she was about to cry or something. “Cherie?” she said softly.

 

I didn’t say a word. It was if the words got lost on the way from my brain to my mouth. I was shocked by how upset she seemed. Vickie scowled at me, and then focused her ire on Gail.

 

“I don’t want you doing this!” she spat. “Not with Cherie! She’s wasted, goddammit!”

 

Gail ran a finger across my bottom lip and said, “Well . . . she looks fiiiine to me, Vickie. She looks perfect.”

 

Gail put her arms around me again, and pressed those soft lips against mine. As we kissed, I could hear Vickie crying.

 

“Gail, you need to get out of here. RIGHT NOW. I’m serious—I want you to LEAVE!”

 

We broke apart. Gail stared at me and said, “You wanna come with me?”

 

Vickie marched over, and begged me, “Cherie, no! Please don’t!”

 

I looked at Vickie, and then at Gail. “I’ll see you around, Vick,” I said, before heading to the door, with Gail’s hand in mine.

 

We pushed past the kids in the hallway. I was totally intrigued by Gail. Unfortunately, Vickie, poor Vickie, well, she just didn’t understand. Not the way I did. I thought of Bowie, and Elton, and Lou Reed. If they could all come out about being bi, then I wanted to know what it’s all about. Jesus, I was fifteen years old—I wasn’t a baby anymore. I wanted to experience this. I wanted to experience her.

 

Gail drove me home. We crept into the rec room and climbed the stairs to the second floor. I put some music on, Bowie crooning, “It was a god-awful small affair . . .” and I fell into bed with Gail. When we kissed this time, there was an urgency to it, a passion that propelled us along with its own momentum. I could smell her skin, her perfume, and I wanted her. I wanted this. The sensation was both alien and familiar in some strange way . . . She raised her hips and slowly slid her pants down . . . I felt her running her fingers through my hair as I kissed her body, moving my mouth down, down her smooth, flat stomach . . . down, down until I reached the soft curls of her hair. . .

 

And then—like some shocking, horror-movie jump cut—I was awake in the bed.

 

It was morning. And I was going to puke.

 

A ray of sun was burning against my face, and my mouth felt rotten, dry. My head hurt, and my body hurt. I looked to my side dreamily and suddenly I jerked fully awake. There was another head on the pillow. Gail was right here next to me, sleeping. Suddenly I felt my guts churn as the floor dropped out from underneath me.

 

OH GOD!

 

It really happened. It wasn’t some kind of drug-induced erotic dream. Gail was sleeping in the bed next to me, and the memories from last night started flooding back to me. What had I done? I got to my unsteady feet and started pulling on my clothes. The movement started to bring Gail around, and I heard her murmur, “Where are you going?” in a sleepy, faraway voice.

 

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. All I could do was climb down the stairs and run into the house. I staggered toward the bedroom, convinced that any moment I was going to begin projectile vomiting. My head was pounding from the booze and the pill. As I staggered over to my bed, I saw Marie sitting on hers, looking at me with open disgust.

 

“Where WERE you, Cherie? Where were you last night?” she demanded. I just stood there, rocking back and forth on my heels like a deer caught in headlights. I felt that if I moved one more muscle, I would vomit for sure. I wanted Marie to take pity on me, to see how pathetic I felt, but she didn’t. She just kept on, pushing home her advantage.

 

“Vickie told me you left with Gail!” she spat, before adding in a shocked murmur, “She told me everything!”

 

I staggered over to my own bed and sat down. I rested my throbbing head in my hands.

 

“What did you DO with her? Cherie, what did you DO?”

 

All I could do was breathe. Breathe. I felt like I was going to faint, or maybe just drop dead right there and then from a mixture of shame and horror. I managed to murmur, “Gail’s in the garage. She’s sleeping upstairs . . .”

 

Marie fixed me with her most withering stare. “Did you sleep with her?”

 

I just looked at my sister, my mouth open slightly. I felt like I’d just been slapped. I’d spent most of my childhood trying to win my twin sister’s approval. I couldn’t bear to hear her talk to me this way. I felt like dirt. I looked away, and put my head back into my hands. I began moaning to myself.

 

“You . . . you . . .” I could hear Marie’s voice cracking as she said this. “You just answered my question!”

 

With that, my sister ran out of the room. I staggered to my feet, because I could feel the tears welling up inside of me, and I followed her out to the living room, trying to grab hold of her, trying to explain. “Wait—Marie! Just listen!”

 

She reeled around, and her face was red. She was incandescent with fury. She held a shaking finger up to my face and hissed, “I don’t even know you anymore, Cherie. I swear to God, I don’t! You’re sick, you know that? SICK!”

 

I stood there, shaking. I could feel the tears about to come. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. But I couldn’t help it. Then, unbelievably, the situation got even worse. Hearing the commotion, Sandie and T.Y. came barging in demanding to know what was going on. Sandie got in between us.

 

“Hey, cool it!” she yelled. “What the hell is going on?”

 

Marie stared at her, her eyes wet with tears. “Why don’t you ask HER?”

 

I looked at Sandie, and then at T.Y. T.Y. looked really worried. I looked back at Sandie and she was staring at me expectantly. I could feel all of their eyes burning into me, staring at me, looking for an explanation. I couldn’t take it anymore. Finally I shouted out, “I slept with a girl last night!”