My Ziggy Summer

As Lennart slinked toward me in his Lycra leopard jumpsuit at the airport, I wondered what had become of the wholesome fifteen-year old Swedish boy I’d been mooning over for the past year. Gone were the platinum curls, now darkened and fluffed into a velvety shag. His well-worn wooden clogs had been traded in for shiny red platform shoes. Smudges of ebony eyeliner dulled his bright blue eyes; specks of glitter danced on his forehead. When he pulled me in for a kiss, I noticed a faded orange lightning bolt painted across one of his delicate cheekbones. This came as some surprise. I’d been expecting another David—Cassidy—but clearly Mr. Bowie had touched down at John F. Kennedy Airport.

I glanced over at Mom and Dad, noting the pained expressions on their faces. It was going to be a long five weeks.