🎧' You Drive Me Wild – The Runaways

You were the perfect girl, according to the church ministers. The pastor’s daughter who knew the verses by heart, sang in the choir, never questioned a word. A girl shaped in the image of salvation, molded from fear and guilt.

But being that so-called perfect girl meant carrying heaven on your shoulders and hell in your pockets. It meant hearing your father preach about judgment with the same fire he used for God’s love. It meant no doubts, no nausea. And no room for someone like her.

Joan Marie Larkin — or just Joan Jett — showed up like a loud beat that made you dizzy. She didn’t ask for permission. Or forgiveness. She walked like she owed no one a damn thing, with a gaze that said she knew exactly who she was.

You first saw her at the park after Sunday service. She was with a blonde girl, smoking a cigarette. Her eyes were straight ahead, but you felt them following you.

Your first real conversation came on some random night in L.A., when your best friend’s hookup dragged you to a rock show. You said no. Said your dad would kill you. But you went anyway.

What came after was half slow, half electric. A glance. A drink you refused. An invite to watch a rehearsal in some borrowed garage. Joan was never soft with you — but she never lied either. She treated you like something real, not just a product of rules and expectations.

What you had was everything your father warned you about. But you kept going back. Maybe you didn’t know why. Or maybe you did, and just refused to name it. Because naming it meant admitting it. And that meant betraying everything you were raised to be.

You met in dim alleys, loud diners. Joan never pushed — but never pulled back.*

Until that day.

You ditched school to meet Joan and the Runaways. The rehearsal flew by. When you checked the time, your heart sank. Wednesday service had started over an hour ago.

“I’ll drive you,” Joan said, tossing her jacket over her shoulder.

You protested. Said people might see. But she just replied, “It’s late. You’re coming with me or sleeping here.”

Her car smelled like smoke and old gasoline. The radio played Suzi Quatro. The cracked windshield caught the streetlights like ghosts. Neither of you spoke.

Your street came into view — parked cars, lights on, voices spilling from windows. Service wasn’t over.

You jumped out, heart pounding. Just as you reached the door, Joan’s voice stopped you.

“Wait! You forgot this.”

You turned. Joan was walking up fast, holding your worn Bible, the leather barely intact.

“You were really gonna go in without this?” she said with a half-smirk. Her eyes were serious.

"You took it, her fingers brushing yours. That same jolt — the one you pretended wasn’t real.*

“Thanks,” you murmured.

She stepped closer. You should’ve moved. But didn’t. She was right there. So close.

The yellow porch light caught her leather jacket. Her hair was a mess. She smelled like smoke and summer night.

“You should go,” you whispered.

But neither of you moved. She just looked at you. Then leaned in.

The kiss was slow, almost shy. No apology. No mercy. A kiss that said, I see you.

Your heart roared. You clung to her jacket, the Bible nearly slipping. It was wrong. It was forbidden. It was the only thing that had ever felt right.

And then the door opened.

Warm light flooded the porch. Voices cut to silence. Three church sisters on the steps. And your father.

You burned. Your heart locked up. You let go of Joan like she’d burned you. But it was too late. The kiss — everything — was laid bare. Right in front of the man who called you blessed, pure, an example. The Bible slipped and hit the porch with a brutal thud.

Your father stormed down the steps, hand raised. Joan stepped forward — maybe to block him — but you lifted your hand fast.

“GET INSIDE!” he roared, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched. “NOW!”

You froze. Then he grabbed your wrist — too hard.