March 2001
L.A.
The Gloss that appeared at their single release party was not the same ragtag group of girls that had congregated at Big Disc headquarters eight months ago. Before leaving the apartment I checked myself over, and reflected back at me was someone who could pass as a star. When I flipped through fashion magazines, the women on the covers looked a lot like I did at this moment: draped in fine fabric, groomed, and polished. Hair not grown out or in a weird stage, nail color applied evenly, legs smooth from recent waxing. What the celebrities and music journalists at the party couldn’t see were the insides of my cheeks, bitten raw; my spasming stomach, empty as always. And it wasn’t just my stomach that felt hollow. As I followed Yumiko through the doors of the industrial building, I told myself that I should be happy, because I looked good in this dress and our single was being released, finally, after months of buildup in suburban malls.
Marsha Campbell spotted us and broke away from a conversation. She waved us over and gave a smiling, appraising up-and-down look to take in our ensembles. “You ladies look amazing,” she said, reaching out with tentative arms to give us each the briefest and lightest of hugs. Her embrace barely touched my shoulders, and I had the feeling she kept her touch light so as to not disturb any delicate fabrics or hairstyles. “Socialize. Mingle. Don’t get stuck in one place for too long,” she instructed, and smiled again before plucking something from a passed appetizer tray.
We dispersed, each wandering to a different area of the room. I sauntered to the bar, feeling daring as I did so, but asked for sparkling water in a champagne flute.
My feet already ached and my stomach was so shriveled that it had stopped hurting. The only sense I had of my malnourishment was a soft buzzing in the back of my head, which amplified if I stood too still. So I took a turn about the room, sipping my fake champagne, and found Meredith entertaining a little group of people with a wild anecdote about our recent music video for our single.
“I can’t say much,” she said loudly, “but we wear the most ridiculous outfits. Trust me, this video is going to make a big splash.” She smiled conspiratorially.
Someone in the group said, “So they’re quite revealing, then?”
Meredith gave a theatrical wink. “We were very wet.”
Yumi, who had sidled up next to me, laughed giddily at Meredith’s comment. “Omigod, Merry, you can’t give it all away!” I’d noticed she’d do this often, edge in with a supportive comment that took the jauntiness out of Meredith’s declarations.
The truth was, the music video for “Wake Up Morning,” which took two eighteen-hour days to shoot, did not involve any pool or beach. We wore hot pants and sequined bustiers and Rollerbladed on a flat track. There was a scene with a water hose, a clichéd moment when one girl splashes the rest and then we dance, drenched, on wet concrete. Cue slow-motion shots of hair flinging droplets, trickles of sweat running down an exposed midsection. Combined with the typical music video fodder of girls singing longingly into microphones on stands, wearing leather leggings, the video wasn’t excessively expensive or fancy. Rose had grumbled about that too, but Peter told us that the label wasn’t going to spend a million dollars on a first video.
Yumi and I separated from the rest of the group. “Look who it is,” she said, nodding toward a figure halfway across the room. I recognized that side profile immediately. The face I’d seen for weeks on end the first time I was in L.A., the cheekbone I drew and redrew with my eyes during that finale: Stephen St. James, the crown of his head partially obscured with a decorative cowboy hat, as if to make the space around him larger.
Crushes are strange things; they narrow rooms to corridors, reduce our senses to just the sound of a deep breath. If this were a movie, the entire warehouse would constrict to show just him and just me, the rest of the crowd dissipating into smoke. I took another breath. I hadn’t realized that I still had feelings for him until this moment.
The room regained noise. The piped-in music, pops of champagne bottles relieving pressure, susurrus of voices, snapping of high heels, and occasional bursts of laughter came roaring back into my ears. “The man we can thank for our album getting shifted to the fast track,” Yumi mused. Jake Jamz had told us that Stephen’s new album wouldn’t be ready in time for the mid-season finale of Sing It, which is why our single—and Gloss—got the promotional slot. It would coincide with our wide release the following week. “Who’s that with him?”
He turned as if he’d heard this criticism, spotted our pointed stares, and held up a hand as if to say hello. A tall, lithe brunette, made taller by stilettos, clutched his other elbow. Yumi raised an arm in return, but by the time I could command my limbs, his attention was back on his date.
Meredith removed herself from the group and came over, following our gaze across the room. “He’s cute, I guess. What do you think, Cassidy?” She was smiling at me, but there was a hint of knowing. I twisted so that my back was to Stephen and I was facing her. While it was excruciating to look at Meredith and her arched eyebrow, it felt safer than to continue staring at the cowboy hat bobbing across the room.
I cleared my throat self-consciously.
“I knew it!” she crowed. “Your face can’t keep a secret. You got to know each other on the set of Sing It, right? Maybe you can make a love connection. I bet Big Disc would love that—keep it in the family, twice the publicity, like Nickelodeon stars do. Or maybe they’d hate it—you know, ‘don’t shit where you eat,’ that sort of thing. Oops, he’s coming this way.”
“Please don’t say anything embarrassing.” I tried to remember what a normal facial expression felt like.
“Ladies,” said Stephen St. James. I hazarded a glance at his face and was relieved that it was mostly in the shadow of his hat brim. The leggy woman trailed behind him, as if in afterthought.
I murmured out a weak hello as Meredith said, “Hi there!”
“Stephen St. James,” he replied, extending his hand.
“I’m Yumi.” Yumi briefly accepted his hand before he held it out to me.
His hand was warm, large. Even though it was dim in the room, I could imagine his perfect, crescent-moon nail beds. I felt a callus on his palm.
He tried to shake off his double-take, but I saw it. “Cassidy! It’s good to see you again.”
“Yeah.” My lips stuttered and then stopped. I tried to think of something else to say, but my throat constricted. The brunette filled in the gap by pushing past the wide brim of Stephen’s hat and extending a delicate hand. “Jeannette.”
“She’s a model, was just in Milan.” Stephen regained our attention and stepped closer to our circle, edging Jeannette out. “By myself, I only get to see below the Mason-Dixon line, but maybe Jeannette will take me international one of these days.”
Meredith took that opening. “How’s the tour been?”
“Oh, it’s been wild. I’ve still been promoting my first album everywhere while recording the second. Been all over, lately. Atlanta, Nashville, Dallas. You know how it is.”
“We’re about to open for Illuminated Eyes, which should be cool!” Meredith said, as she reached out and held my arm. “I’m excited to not dance in a mall again, and move on to real stadiums and stuff. Are you touring mostly in the South?”
“Ha, I defy genres, but I’m still a Southern boy at heart.” He grinned, cratering a deep dimple in one cheek. “Though I think our label would like to list me as R&B with a hint of country. Hence the”—he tapped his hat.
“And Jeannette, what were you doing in Milan?” Yumi asked politely.
“Well I—”
“Oh, will you excuse me,” Stephen interrupted, and brushed past us, breaking our circle. I watched as Jeannette smiled apologetically and followed. Stephen grabbing at Jeannette’s delicate hand as they left our group was all I could see before they both melted into the crowd.
“Rude,” Meredith remarked.
“She barely spoke. How can that be rude?” Yumi said.
Meredith glanced at me. “I meant St. James. He didn’t let her get a word in at all. It was just about him, him, him.” She grabbed my shoulders with both hands, turning me toward her. “Never mind either of them,” she said emphatically, but the back of Jeannette’s dress plunging low, showing an intricate mandala tattooed between the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, was now carved into my mind. “Look! We’re at this amazing party that’s being held in our honor and we’re awesome, right? Let’s have fun.”
Rose sidled up and rested her fingertips on my arm, as if in warning. “I hope you’re not just hanging out with one another here; we can do that anytime at the apartment. We’re here to do a job.”
A face in the crowd turned toward me just then, and though it was dark, there was no mistaking that fringe of false eyelashes, thick as a moth’s wings. Her cheekbones, razor sharp, emphasized the hollow of her jaw. I marveled at her face, wishing my own bones would protrude like hers did. Suddenly, my own newfound slimness wasn’t enough.
The woman glided over, gesturing widely with one undulating arm, like she was directing an orchestra. “Ladies,” she murmured.
“Miss Jake,” I said reflexively, gazing at one of the women who had judged me from afar during Sing It.
Emma Jake was in head-to-toe tangerine orange. She wore a crepe muumuu with slick orange pants underneath, glasses with tiny oval orange-tinted lenses, and orange ballet slippers. It was an outfit for an eccentric old woman—or an aged pop star. I supposed that once you made enough money and built up your name, you could wear whatever you felt like without your industry peers judging you.
“Congratulations,” said Emma Jake, her voice lilting slightly, as if she were imitating a British accent. “I persuaded Marsha to let me have an early listen of your album. It’s pure pop magic.”
We chorused our thanks.
Emma waved her hand at us quickly, fluttering it like an energetic bird. “Oh, don’t be sycophants. You are all very lovely.” Here she paused, dipping her orange-tinted sunglasses down the length of her nose. She looked us up and down, taking our image in with calculated interest, before dropping the glasses on the ground and grasping at our arms. “Ladies,” she said in a stage whisper. “You’re going to be big. I have a sense about these things. I knew that that St. James fellow was going to win even before he actually won it. Pardon me, dear,” she added swiftly, tugging on my forearm a little tighter. Her breath smelled like the beach, coconutty—not what I expected. “I liked you, but St. James was going to be the solo star. You see already.”
“Of course, Miss Jake,” I stammered.
We were interrupted by a squeaky male voice ringing out over the speakers. Peter had an awful speaking voice, but he was our manager. Since he was standing on the stage holding a microphone, people stopped chatting to turn toward him. Peter smoothed his suit lapels and straightened and said, “Welcome to the launch party for Gloss! Everyone having fun?” The crowd whooped.
Emma patted at us again, giving her parting words: “I’ll see you this week for the season finale? There’s so much I need to tell you before you dive headfirst into this pageantry.” She shifted away, leaving Meredith and me looking at each other.
“You’ve heard them on the radio already with their single ‘Wake Up Morning.’ And now, maybe we could persuade the beautiful ladies of Gloss to sing it for us live?” The cheers intensified. “Yes! Come up here, ladies! I’d like to introduce some very special friends of mine . . . Rose, Meredith, Yumiko, and Cassidy! The girls of Gloss!” The thunderous applause didn’t stop, even after we’d climbed the stage in designer clothes and stiletto heels.
These weren’t students in a gymnasium, fidgeting during a school talent show. This crowd wasn’t a room full of teenagers brought in by record stores at the mall. These were industry insiders, promoters, journalists, all interested in what was happening in the room. I didn’t care that the lyrics were a little too adolescent, that I didn’t write them, or that I hadn’t really felt any of those feelings keenly before. All I cared about was delivering them with emotion and conviction. I needed to sell the feeling and make others believe that I believed it. When Meredith, Rose, Yumiko, and I blended the chorus, I took a peek at the glittering eyes closest to the stage. People were smiling. They were clasping their hands together, clenching their fists. They had tension in their shoulders and were biting their lips. I felt my chest do a double-thump—though it could’ve been the percussion reverberating through my back. I thought, We got this.
I wasn’t going to let the doubts creep in this time.
BEING BACK ON the Sing It lot was not as unnerving as I expected, now that I was on the other side of the competition. The stage was just a stage; the little yellow room was just a box with a dingy couch.
I didn’t need Sing It; Sing It needed us. We were Gloss and our single had debuted with half a million copies sold—on its first day. Peter had hummed excitedly about its climbing rank on the Billboard Hot 100. We were walking on air by the time we rehearsed for the show’s season finale.
Emma Jake caught us after soundcheck and smiled benevolently, her thick eyelashes fluttering. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “We could have lunch.” She commandeered a van and had a driver take us to the Ivy, where a waiter led us straight to a table in the back. “Iced tea, Jerome,” she said, her grandiose lilt even more pronounced. “We’ll also be needing another chair. Thank you.”
She tucked her napkin on her lap daintily and smiled around at us. Her face was lit with two bright pink spots of rouge on her cheeks. If she were a normal civilian, I would say she looked clownish, but because she was Emma Jake, I thought she looked only a little ridiculous.
Emma Jake was an icon. According to legend, twenty years ago you couldn’t walk down the street and run into a kid who didn’t have at least one of her albums, or a poster of hers on their bedroom wall. Cyndi, Madonna, Emma. They were uttered in the same reverent breath.
I was born a few years after her peak, as her star was losing momentum. She fell in love with a backup dancer, planned for a short break to have a baby, and then it died at birth. She left the dancer—or maybe he left her—started recording a comeback album, and lost heart halfway through. The delay kept extending until she finally released it two years behind schedule. I’d grown up hearing her new, matured sound; it wasn’t the high-synth pop that her old fans wanted, and Emma Jake faded into the background. And though she’d made albums since, they were rarely in the top charts. Still, she was respected in the industry: she had come back. And she had come back with integrity; she’d penned autobiographical folk songs about the life she’d never have. I wondered if she’d chosen to join Sing It as a judge because it was a way for her to reenter the mainstream conversation.
“Ladies,” she said, raising her glass. “I want you to remember this day. This is the last day where you can walk around L.A. feeling anonymous. It’s the last precious day of your lives.”
It was strange to sip iced tea and leaf through menus while sitting across from a woman whose backstory I knew as well as my own. To think that she had had dreams of where her life would take her, and the world learned as soon as she did that they wouldn’t pan out. If it had happened to me, I would have dropped out of the public eye immediately, crawled into bed, and never wanted to take off the covers.
And yet, she was smiling at us like a benign bird, almost pitying how naive we were. “It’s going to be a doozy,” she told us. “Everything you say will be amplified. If you don’t misstep after this album, the news will report about you as much as they’ll discuss stocks, the weather, and presidential addresses. I’m serious. Ah, Lucille! Yes, you’re late. Sit.”
Her attention was usurped by a teenager with blond hair and a heart-shaped face who had approached our table. She was wearing metallic jeans and a casual black V-neck that was so dark it had to be new. Lucille gave a quick, breathless hello and slid into the chair in between Emma and Rose, directly across from me.
“Ladies, this is my niece, Lucille.”
The young woman wasn’t wearing much makeup, but her cupid’s bow was so pronounced that I stared at her mouth, certain that I’d seen that uncommon feature somewhere before.
“Oh my god!” Yumi exclaimed. “You’re Lucy Bowen!”
I tried to rein in my surprise, but a noise escaped my lips. Necks were already craning at other white-topped tables nearby. Emma Jake was the kind of presence that people understood, and they quietly let her be, but Lucy Bowen of the hit TV show The Jet-Setters was small-screen royalty.
Lucy smiled politely, used to this sort of reaction. Even though I knew she was younger than us, her mature response made an impression. I would have had my eyes hidden in the menu if this were me. “Yeah! Nice to meet you. Are you a fan of the show?”
“We haven’t been able to watch recently—I mean, we’ve been working so hard—” Yumi chattered excitedly.
“My sisters would scream if they saw me sitting here with you,” I blurted out.
Emma took control of the conversation again. “Yes, well. I invited her here because she’s young like you, but has a lot of experience in the industry. I thought she could be a good influence for you. Luce, these ladies are from the pop group Gloss. They’re about to break out with a hit album and I have a feeling the transition is going to be swift. They are going to need help.” The waiter arrived with Lucy’s iced tea and stayed to take our orders.
“Aunt Emma, I grew up doing commercials. I’ve been on sets my entire life.” Lucy pursed her mouth a little and addressed the table. “Television is different from the music industry, but apparently she thinks that I’m the best person to help you?”
“Oh, hush. Sets, sets. We were just on a set, weren’t we, girls? I asked because you’re the same age and you owe me a favor. Listen, ladies, the money isn’t in the music. I tell all new working chanteuses this because I don’t want them to fail. The money: It’s in you. You are the brand. Become spokespeople. Shoes, perfume, whatever.” She waved her hand as if she were fanning away ephemeral fog.
“Isn’t the album enough work?” Rose said. “We busted our asses getting here. Now isn’t it time for us to be on TRL? Well, we busted our asses. Cassidy here just hopped on at the last minute.”
I took my time spreading my cloth napkin across my lap. I could simultaneously believe and not believe that Rose would say something like this in front of Emma Jake, and our new mentor, Lucy Bowen, who busied herself by tearing Sweet’N Low packets.
“Oh?” Emma Jake said archly. “She hopped in, did she?”
“Well, yeah. We worked so hard to get the attention of the label and finally did. Then they just added her on after she lost Sing It.”
If Emma Jake had a stern face, she didn’t show it. But her voice lost some of its lilt and there was some flint to it. “The label did what was best for the group,” she explained slowly. “Heaven knows I don’t always agree with them on things, but they knew what they were doing. I listened to your record: it would not have worked without Cassidy. Whether you like it or not, and whether you agree with the way that she was brought on or not, the four of you are a team now. You can’t have in-fighting. You can’t act like you resent one another in front of the press. You must get along and you must support one another.” She paused. “You may not be friends after all of this, but you will be like family. And you will have to learn to trust one another, because the rest of the world will love you and hate you and support you and then turn on you. You can rely only on one another. Do you understand?”
Meredith, Yumi, and I nodded. Rose was still, her eyes flickering on the water glasses. She probably wasn’t used to being spoken to like this.
“Rose,” Emma said, and the flowery tone was back. She touched one of Rose’s hands.
Rose jerked her arm a little but not away. “Yeah.”
“I don’t mean to lecture you, especially here. This was supposed to be a celebratory meal.”
As if summoned at the perfect moment, Jerome placed our dishes in front of us. I ate as slowly as I could with half-bites to make the food last longer, and I noticed the rest of the table did the same, picking gently at plates and eating around any oil spots. Only Emma Jake ate with gusto.
When the check arrived, Emma said, “Cassidy, dear, please stay a moment.” The others excused themselves and I waited, wondering what Emma wanted to tell me alone.
“Listen, sweetheart.” She straightened up after signing the check with a flourish. “I can see you’re going to have a little bear of a time with Rose. It’s not easy being the odd one out, but I know you are good for the group. Rose is very headstrong and she’s in it for the long haul. Be careful not to get hurt. I don’t think she means everything she says, but keep your guard up just in case.”
“I know,” I said. “I will.”
Emma Jake walked me to the door, patted my arm like a doting grandmother, then, to my confusion, she meandered back inside. I stepped into the sun, blinking brightly, and rejoined the others.
Lucy smiled as a shiny silver Jag was pulled forward by the valet. “Who wants to sightsee in Malibu?”