Every nerve ending in my body lit up like the Fourth of July, and every hormone in my body went insane. I felt like someone had hit me in the face with a two-by-four.

I thought, Girl, you have just seen the father of your children. (Did I mention that I was not looking for a boyfriend?)

When Neil finally turned around, I honestly felt like time slowed down. It’s corny. It’s a cliché. But that’s exactly how I felt, like he was walking toward me in slow motion.

“Hi, I’m Neil Giraldo.”

At that point I finally noticed that he didn’t have a guitar. Here was a musician who was looking for a new gig until Rick Derringer went back out on tour, and though he wasn’t auditioning, he hadn’t even brought his instrument along. That endeared him to me all the more. I gave him the snappiest greeting I could think of:

“Hi.”

I couldn’t say anything else, so finally Neil sat down at the piano.

“What’s the hell is the matter with you, Pat?” Newman asked. “You barely spoke to this guy.”

I shrugged. My brain was going gong, gong, gong!

I finally whispered. “Newman, I don’t care if this guy can’t play a note. We’ll get him lessons. He’s in the band.”

Newman looked a little sick.

When the gonging quieted down enough for me to hear the piano, I snapped out of it, then felt a bit let down. My hormones might have been roaring, but I am, after all, a Capricorn, and capable of getting down to business. As much as I wanted this to be perfect, the piano wasn’t getting to me. He played brilliantly, but I just couldn’t feel it. Was it possible that this guy was the love of my life but not the music partner I wanted? What a drag. He finished playing the piece, and then he turned to the group of guys waiting to audition.

“Man, could I borrow your guitar?”

One of the musicians handed him a guitar. He turned around, leaned over, and fastened the strap. Then he turned back, fiddling with the tuning, his hair still down over his face. I wish I had that moment on film. When he hit the first chord, I nearly fell to my knees. It was amazing—the very thing I’d had in my head and never once heard anybody play. His playing was so passionate, so intense. Of course he had the gig.

CHAPTER ONE

THE LITTLE ANDRZEJEWSKI GIRL WHO COULD SING

I WAS NEVER JUST a girl’s girl. I grew up wanting to do boy things. Nail polish and baby dolls weren’t enough for me. I wanted to be making a fort or climbing a tree. Boys seemed to have all the fun. They got to use a hammer and nails. They got to sneak into abandoned houses and go exploring. They were out riding in go-karts. All that was right up my alley.

And the boys I hung around made me tough. At first they were merciless—they never cut me any slack. You want to be on the baseball team? Use this thin mitt that hurts your hands so badly you have to bite your cheek not to cry. You want to hang out in our clubhouse? Get ready to have earthworms squished onto your bare legs. It was trial by fire, but in the end, I wouldn’t have been caught dead crying over a skinned knee. All this made me fierce, and soon they realized that I was “okay for a girl,” which was just fine with me, because I had a plan. I just needed them to let me in, which, of course, they did.

My plan was this: I also loved being a girl. Loved it. There wasn’t enough makeup on the planet for me to play with and I lived in the pages of fashion magazines. But I was absolutely boy-crazy, and that’s where my plan came in. I wouldn’t be a typical tomboy; I would push the envelope in my neighborhood and bridge the gap between “girl stuff” and “boy stuff.” I didn’t want to be a boy, I wanted to be a girl who could do everything boys could. I thought the whole thing out: If I played boy-type games and did boy-type things, I could run around with the boys plus have all the fun they did. I got to both be them and be near them. It was the best of all possible worlds.

And that particular world started out in Greenpoint, Brooklyn—an ethnic area first populated by