The Unraveling of Cassidy Holmes
Prologue
Wednesday
Yumi
The day that Cassidy died, the rest of us were in London.
The three of us were good-naturedly receiving some ribbing from DJ “Dashing Jed” on the U.K.’s third-tier radio spot. Earlier in the day, Emily had made sure that the typical ground rules were laid out: Don’t talk about Merry’s family. Don’t talk about Rose’s most recent visit to rehab. Don’t pry into my failed marriage. And, most of all, don’t mention Cassidy, our vacant fourth.
The cubby we sat in was well worn, with yellow carpet up the walls, and a sharp scent of dampness or mold, like someone had trod into the room with wet rain boots and shut the door without letting it air out. The deejay sat next to Merry, who was drawing hearts on the table with the eraser end of a pencil.
“So, ladies, you appear in the new Stan Harold movie, Lunch at Midnight. Tell me, how was your experience on set with Stan?”
Rose leapt to take the lead, as she always did. “It was wonderful working with Stan. I’ve seen all of his films since the mid-nineties, so it was an honor having a part in his new movie.” She was smiling like she knew there was a camera secretly recording somewhere in the rows of equipment, but I’d stipulated that we not be videotaped before agreeing to do the radio show. I didn’t feel like having my weight discussed in the comments section of YouTube. I sat with Dashing Jed opposite me, elbows on the edge of the table and hands cradling my face.
“He’s a really funny guy,” I said, injecting pep into my voice. “And so kind.”
Rose began talking about a funny moment that happened behind the scenes on set, but I tuned her out. The truth was, our part was only a quick cameo in a comedy movie, not worth mentioning or even promoting. It was supposed to be a nod to the adults bringing their kids to a PG-13 movie, a nostalgic “aha!” that kept us looped into the current social discourse. I hadn’t wanted to take part at all, but Rose insisted on keeping her name out front and she was worth more in the Gloss ensemble. Doing the cameo was easier than agreeing to a reunion tour—a recurring idea that she’d floated once a year for the past decade. So there we were, in dreary old London, where we’d once headlined sold-out shows, sitting instead in a dingy office giggling into microphones and pretending to be relevant.
“We’re only in the movie for, like, fifteen seconds,” said Merry. “Blink and you’ll miss us! But if this pushes a new generation of kids to buy our old albums, more power to us.”
“What, you don’t think being certified Triple Platinum is enough?” asked Jed.
“I’ve always preferred diamonds,” she said, laughing.
I forced myself to laugh too, falling right back into our usual dynamic: Merry saying something stupid and me smoothing it over. “Merry, hon, you sound way too intense.”
Dashing Jed fielded a few on-air calls as Merry ignored Rose’s reproachful glare. Merry had decided long ago not to concern herself with Rose’s rules of propriety and instead just spoke her mind. It had led to some arguments fifteen years ago.
“Caller, you’re on the air!” said Dashing Jed enthusiastically. His voice was a magnificent, melodic baritone; one could imagine that if he hadn’t picked radio as his profession, he might have made it as an opera singer.
A rasping voice, lilting with a Scottish accent, came out of the speaker. “Am I on with Gloss?”
“Yes, you are!” enthused Jed.
“I just want to say how much I love you ladies,” the female voice continued. “My name’s Kelly and I listened to you all through high school. Tell me, since the gang is all back together, would you ever consider touring again?”
Even though there were no cameras, I arranged my face to stay completely neutral. Why were people always asking for a tour?
Rose answered that one too. “You’re so sweet, Kelly,” she teased, “and never say never. Yumi and Merry and I have been discussing it, but we have no solid plans yet.” No mention of Cassidy.
“Okay, well, I know it would sell out in five seconds flat! Regardless, I’m really looking forward to seeing your parts in Lunch at Midnight.”
This sort of praise used to fulfill me; a feast of goodwill and self-esteem. Cheering voices in the arenas, reporters with imploring tones, soda commercials with our photos on the cans. Now they were soft, touching glances that barely felt like anything. We had peaked; we drifted into almost normal.
“Thanks so much, Kelly,” hollered Jed. “We’re on to the next caller!”
“Yes, hello, I was wondering,” said the next voice, low and masculine. “Could you play ‘Wake Up Morning’? I feel like I haven’t heard that song in years.”
“Is it because you didn’t buy our album when it came out the first time?” Merry said in a mocking tone. “Or the second, when it went Platinum and we released it with a special liner? Or the third, when we did a best-of hits album? You could listen to it anytime you like if you go to Big Disc’s internet channel. But hey, Dashing Jed, it’s one of my favorites too. Put it on. We can have a little background music while we keep chatting.”
Jed had turned to the glass partition and gestured to a station worker to find the record. His body swiveled toward the microphone, but then he paused; swiveled back. Someone outside was trying to get his attention. Merry, next to Jed, had snapped to attention and was gazing through the glass.
Someone was pressing a piece of paper against it. From where I sat, I could see only an illegible scribble of block writing. Merry’s hand leapt to her mouth in surprise.
Rose must have kicked her under the table, because Merry’s eyes turned toward us. They were usually so bright and icy blue that even in dark stadiums, before the lights came up, I would be able to see her eyes glowing. But now—they were so cloudy, the pupils distended in distress, that I shrank back. Jed leaned into his microphone. “Listeners, I’m afraid I just learned some terrible news. While three of the members of Gloss are here with me in studio, the fourth, I’m sad to report, just passed away.”
SILENCE.
Dashing Jed could not have been surprised by our collective inward shock. Who knows why he dropped this bomb on us, on the air, during a casual radio spot. Perhaps he thought that it was his duty to let us know as soon as it happened, since the media could easily find out where we were. They would have time to gather outside as we finished up on his show. Paparazzi feed off misery; they’d be overjoyed to break the news to us as we walked out of the station. A photo of us breaking down on the sidewalk in the middle of London would net some lucky photographers enough money to send their kids to a year at a good private school. As we were ensconced in a padded cell with no way of getting any other outside information, the first opportunity to hear about Cassidy’s death would have been through Emily, if she were quick enough.
Or maybe Dashing Jed had his own sadistic streak and wanted to see how we’d react. Perhaps he thought that this flat little promo piece would turn into a juicy, hard-hitting interview, where our voices would quaver as we reminisced about our fallen friend. His shitty radio station would have a bump in listeners and the airplay would be repeated on countless tabloid shows, fan videos, and transcribed for magazines and blog articles. Dashing Jed would be popular; he’d be trotted out onto late-night talk shows to converse with the hosts that, yes, he had been there when the Gloss girls all broke down to mourn Cassidy, the sweetest Glossie of them all . . .