Growing up in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles in the ‘50s and early 60s was exciting. Being so near Hollywood, everybody was always working on some scheme that was going to shoot them to stardom and all their big talk made anything seem possible. Meanwhile, my mother was a widow raising four children on her own, so her feet were planted firmly on the ground. I had a lot of responsibility helping look after two younger brothers, but also a lot of freedom. Because money was tight, when I learned to sew at school I pursued the craft, quickly learning to whip out a reasonable copy of the clothes I saw in Vogue and in movies. My big achievement in early 1963 was a beige linen suit that I thought made me look super sophisticated, with heels and gloves, and a French Twist hair-do, of course.

1962 posing in my satin dress after a school play

My friend Jeanie had turned 16 and been given her own car when we saw the advertisement for an all-star dance at a local high school (not the one we attended). A number of pop stars were going to be there, but the headliner was the Chris Montez/Kathy Young duo. Kathy was known for her hit song, “A Thousand Stars”, but the real draw was Chris Montez who had a mega-hit with, “Let’s Dance.” I had money for my ticket that I’d earned at my part-time job and Mom gave me permission to go, as long as Jeanie and I behaved sensibly. “Of course we will, Mom,” I had replied in my most earnest tone of voice.Jeanie and I immediately set out to secure a bottle of Sloe Gin (a disgustingly sweet pink drink) for the concert. We used our wiles to find someone to buy it for us, and just having it made us feel ultra-cool. Neither of us was accustomed to drinking alcohol, but we were going all out for this event.

The night of the dance finally arrived. I wore my sophisticated beige suit, lots of eye make-up, and my hair in a French Twist, of course. I thought I looked older than 15—more like 18, at least. Apparently I did.

15, & Trying to look 18

Chris Montez and Kathy Young performed their hit songs and also some duos, including a song I loved, the Micky and Sylvia hit, “Love Is Strange.” Even back then I was a lyricist in the making and I knew the words to all the songs. There is a line in that song that was rather risqué back in 1963. As Chris and Kathy sang the lines, “Many people don’t understand, they think loving is money in the hand…” I saw them exchange an intimate, amused glance, and I laughed out loud. Well, I have a rather hearty laugh (to say the least), and it went sailing over the heads of the crowd and right up onto that stage. Chris looked out over the crowd and caught my eye, so I winked at him in what I imagined was a conspiratorial way—as in “we both understand the raciness of those lyrics”…and that was the end of that, except that it wasn’t.

On the way to the dance, we sipped at our Sloe Gin furtively, and then locked it in the car trunk when we got there. I slipped into my above-it-all “sophisticated” mannerisms and stood at the back of the large auditorium, refusing to dance with any of the “young” boys who asked me. I eyed all the “youngsters” screaming and yelling with a benevolent, detached expression.

After the set, people (including Jeanie) flocked around the entertainers to get their autographs. I was much too grown-up to do that (the fifteen year-old trying to mimick Audrey Hepburn), so I stood at a distance from the flurry and watched it all in a detached manner. I remember just standing there, and then watching as the crowd parted and Chris Montez walked directly over to me. He introduced himself (yeah, like I didn’t know who he was), made small talk, asked me if I went to school there. Of course I lied to him. “Oh no, I graduated last year—just came to see the show.” I worked it into the conversation that I was 18…and he asked if he could be so presumptuous as to ask for my phone number. I acted as if things like that happened to me on a daily basis, but I condescended to give him my number. Then he went back to his admirers and I thought that was the last I’d ever see of him…but it was exciting that he had noticed me.

Jeanie couldn’t believe what had happened. (My popularity at school would suddenly soar into the stratosphere due to Jeanie spreading the word that Chris had asked for my number.)

Posing with my two most cherished belongings: my record player (on left) and my stuffed animals

But back to that night…Jeanie and I got in the car and started home, then pulled over on a deserted road to get out our bottle and have a celebratory drink. We were hooting and hollering and splitting our sides, laughing with joy that the pop star had apparently believed I was 18…but in the midst of our fun, we saw headlights coming straight toward us. Paranoia hit instantly. We slammed down the trunk and jumped back into the car to face the police.

But it wasn’t a police car—just a motorist who went right on by us. Waves of relief washed over us for about a minute, followed immediately by horror. When we had slammed the trunk shut, the keys were in it—right beside the Sloe gin!

After much crying and mulling over our options, we decided to ask a passing motorist to call a locksmith for us—no cell phones in those days! We waited for hours, praying that no policemen or serial killers would come by before the locksmith arrived. We were also sweating it out about what the locksmith might do when he saw the gin. Our fears were groundless—the old guy just did his job, took his pay, and never asked how old we were or about THE BOTTLE.

The next day (or maybe it was a few days later) Chris called and invited me to go to a party with him. My mother gave her consent; as Chris was only nineteen, she didn’t see any harm in it. Of course, she didn’t know I had lied to him about my age, and I don’t think it occurred to either of us that dating a fifteen year-old could be damaging to his career. He told me to “dress casual” and I interpreted that as spending two hours on hair and make-up, then donning my best dress. I wasn’t wrong. He showed up in slacks and a sports jacket, his hair combed neatly, looking like a movie star. My mother met him at the door, but I quickly ushered us out of the house before she could go digging around and uncover my lie.

The party—wow! The Righteous Brothers were there and God knows who else from the music scene…but I stayed cool and took it all in stride. Because I was with Chris, many people assumed I was Kathy Young. Chris and I exchanged eye rolls and laughed off their fawning questions. I was “in character.” It was my childhood role-playing taken to a new, exhilarating level.

When he brought me home, we sat in his car for a long time, talking and to use a term of the pre-sexual revolution days: “making out”—which meant prolonged kissing—lips, face, and neck—that’s it. Back then, it wasn’t expected that a “good” girl would allow any further intimacies, and certainly not on a first date. Chris didn’t try to overstep the boundaries. I was safer with him than I’d been with many a high-school boy. My husband, Pete (a former pop star himself–still a working rock musician) laughed at this part when I told him about dating Chris. He found it hard to believe that a pop star didn’t push the matter of sex. But he backed off when I reminded him that we’re talking early 1963. The mores were very different back then. He had to admit that even in merry old England (his homeland), where the girls were chasing down the cars of boy bands, free love had not yet put in an appearance there either. Even here in the “warm California sun”, neither my sister nor I were having sex during our high-school days…you could get pregnant, abortion was illegal, and besides, it gave the guy the upper hand…everybody knew that women who “put out” were whores and the guys they gave it up to were heroes, big men on campus. My sister and I have since discussed the matter and concluded that while neither of us had any particular ambition toward virtue, neither of us were willing to hand over the reins of our lives to some sweaty guy out for a good time…nor did we want to be bound to someone who loved us before we had a chance to find out who we were.

But back to making out with Chris after the date…he was a good guy—not pushy or entitled. He didn’t try to get me to go against my morals, and honestly, I think the guy had morals himself. I think he really was a good guy. Or maybe he had a sixth sense that warned him of my youthfulness. Or maybe both.

There were more dates over the next two months, and then came Easter. Chris invited me to go to the Easter Sunrise Service at The Hollywood Bowl. It was exciting on so many levels, not the least of which was that you had to get up in the middle of the night to get there before dawn. Mom agreed to let me go because it was a religious service.

Chris picked me up at around 3a.m. He was exhausted because he’d had an out of town gig the night before, but we drank coffee (a first for me) all snuggled up on the bleachers. I was in heaven with the coolness of it all, but things were about to change—fast!

After the service, after hiking forever to find the car, Chris asked me to drive…said he was just too tired to drive safely.

Busted!

You see, everyone in Los Angeles gets their driver’s license the minute they turn sixteen (including me, a year later). I couldn’t tell him I didn’t know how to drive, so I simply refused, saying that I was tired, too. He got behind the wheel, but he was mad at me. (I’m paraphrasing, but I’ll present it as dialogue because it reads better.) “I don’t think it’s fair, Jeannette. I was up all night—you weren’t.” I can’t remember my sheepish reply, but I remember it didn’t pacify him. He went on at me about how selfish I was being, until I finally admitted to him that I didn’t have my license yet. I could literally see the wheels in his head grind to a halt. We were on some endless freeway when he glanced over at me out of the side of his eyes. His voice sounded suspicious. He began hitting me with a string of questions like, “Tell me, what is your job like?” And, “Will you be going to college soon? Why do you still live at home?” ETC, etc. I was trying to field his questions plausibly, but the guy wasn’t stupid, and his sleepiness seemed to have vanished. My explanations only seemed to make him more curious about what I hadn’t told him. He just couldn’t get past me not having a license.

When the million-mile drive home finally skidded to a halt in front of my house, Chris switched off the car and turned his full attention to me. All these years later, I can’t really remember his exact words, but the gist of it was, “Have you been lying to me all along, Jeannette? Nothing you’ve been saying adds up. How old are you? If you have any conscience at all, tell me the truth.”

Age 16. In still another attempt to look older, I bleached my hair.

I said something like, “I’ve told you the absolute truth about almost everything…except my age. I was afraid that if you knew I was fifteen, you’d think I was too young for you…and I’m not too young. We get along really well. And I’ll be sixteen in October. What does age matter?”

Chris’ hands were on the steering wheel and he gripped it so tightly that his arms turned white. He stared straight ahead for what felt like eternity, then turned to look at me. There was pure recrimination in his gaze, but he said nothing. Abruptly, he jumped out of the car and ever the gentleman, came around and opened the car door for me. He walked me to my front door, then turned on his heels and stalked back to his car. I watched him drive off, wondering why he was so mad about a little white lie.

I never saw him again.