Most of my texts were with Alex, who was my long-distance cheerleader. We sent messages back and forth throughout the day, as he kept me abreast of any news happening in Chicago or with Edie and Joanna, who did not have text plans on their phones. The information was few and far between, but it kept me occupied.
I’d gotten to know Meredith a little better over the past few months. She continued to act as a buffer between everyone in the group, adjusting attitudes when Rose grew headstrong or Yumi was too reluctant. When Peter insinuated that Yumi wasn’t losing weight fast enough and that he was concerned she was slipping on her diet, Meredith gave him an earful. After he’d left, she murmured to Yumi, “You gotta cut down on the secret Mickey D’s.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yumi had said.
“Oh please. I can smell a chicken nugget from a mile away.”
If Meredith was the casual enforcer of the group, Rose was the dominant head. She had the last word on everything, even if it meant a few of us were dissatisfied. We had looked through the photo proofs for the single cover and narrowed it down to five; in the one Yumi liked, Rose self-criticized she was hunched over; in the shot Meredith liked, my smile was halfway to a grimace. Rose picked the shot where she presented well and convinced the rest of us that it was the best look for every member. And because Rose had that infamous temper, only Meredith pushed back for a moment before we let it go.
Now, somewhere between Dallas and Tulsa, I sat chewing on a thumbnail and gazing at the glossy print that we’d be autographing postperformance. Rose’s phone rang; she glanced at the caller ID and gestured to the other girls. “It’s Viv.” They scooted closer to Rose on the padded benches at the front of the bus. I still hadn’t met or talked to Viv, and one look from Rose told me that I was not privy to this conversation. Even at night, speaking across the aisle in our shared room about her disapproving parents or my sisters, I didn’t dare ask Yumi about the original fourth; Viv was an ethereal other, existing in a plane that I could never cross.
Their moods were subdued after, and I followed them at a distance into the mall, the last one on the stage, feeling weary. I knew well enough that I had to smile as soon as I entered through the doorway and until we could get back on the bus. By the end of the performance, as we sat at the edge of the stage for the meet-and-greet, my mouth felt like it was held up by twine.
For a split second, as my marker hovered over a glossy print of our four faces and I asked a high-school-aged boy his name, I existed outside my body and viewed the scene in the food court from a bird’s-eye perspective. These kids were excited about us, because they were told to be excited about us. Hyped by radio stations. Endorsed by ICEE stands. We were shaped to fit into the little cubby hole that these teens were hoping to see filled.
“Nick. I’m so pumped to be here,” said the teen.
“Nice to meet you, Nick.” I signed “Cass” as the marker bled ever so slightly at the edges of my name. Since I was at the end of the table and the first Gloss girl that the fans met, I had the responsibility of writing the fans’ names on the top of the photo too. Yumi buffered me from a chatty Merry, and Rose was happy to urge people along at the far end.
I could feel the dampness in my armpits and a slow trickle of sweat was moving from the back of my neck into the waistband of my pants. I could smell the warm, moist breath of every person facing in our direction—a cloud of burgers and pizza, spearmint gum and sour apple gummy candy, Starbucks Frappuccinos and Jamba Juice smoothies. I practiced breathing with my mouth. As I watched a local news station take a few sweeping shots with a giant video camcorder, I wondered if my grin was looking more like a grimace.
“Hi, beautiful,” said a voice, and another 8 x 10 print slid into view. I snapped my gaze upward to see the speaker’s face, but I couldn’t place him. He was older than most of the others who had come through the line; there were crinkles around his eyes, skin as soft as crepe paper. He wore rimless glasses and had day-old stubble on his upper lip. He held out a bundle of tissue-wrapped flowers—expensive-looking, not the cellophane packet type sold at a grocery store.
“Thank you,” I said, feeling flattered. I glanced at his hands, which were at my eye level, to see if he’d brought flowers for any of the other girls, but apparently he’d brought a gift only for me. “What’s your name?” I asked, still smiling.
“It’s Jerry! Don’t you remember?”
I felt my cheeks warm, and tried to jostle my memory. “Umm . . .” I fumbled with the marker.
“We met in L.A.,” he continued, speaking softly yet firmly, like we were the only two people in the world. “At Sing It.”
“I’m sorry, I meet so many people . . .”
“I’ve been following your success since the show.”
Something about this man was unsettling. He looked at me like he knew me well. Like we were acquainted, had a history.
We had never discussed what we would do if someone creepy came to one of these tour stops. I wished there was a code word I could pass down the line, so that mall security could materialize out of thin air and whisk Jerry away. Instead, I signed “Cass,” slid the photo away from me, and looked at him dumbly. He pointed at my flowers. Still in a soft voice, one now laced with rage, he said, “I used my miles just to see you again. You inconsiderate bitch.”
Had he shouted, or spoken harshly, I’m sure the other girls or people in the line would have snapped to attention, but his voice was so low that it probably seemed like Jerry and I were having a normal conversation. Someone next in line jostled him, and Jerry ignored the other Gloss girls, almost running into the news cameraman in his rush to leave. I wondered how else that could have played out when I heard a shriek nearby.
Merry was standing and ripping up a photo in front of the teenager who’d preceded Jerry. Tiny pieces rained down onto the table like confetti. “Get out of my face,” she said, loud enough that I could hear her in the din.
Rose was trying to shush her while Yumi hastily scraped the confetti pieces into a pile with her hands, away from any curious eyes. In the crowd, the cameraman squinted into the eyepiece, aiming the lens. Merry shook out her hands, smoothed her clothes, and sat down again. Baffled, I followed suit, and soon the easy chatter resumed in the food court.
I flicked my smile back on as the next fan demanded my attention. The Sharpie felt greasy in my fingers. “What’s your name?” I asked.
When we got back to the bus, my body was shaking so hard our driver, Gus, had to help me climb the steep steps. “You okay, dear?” he asked, dark eyes warm with concern. I gave a half-smile and nod, but rather than congregate in the back with the other girls to discuss what had happened with Merry, I lay down in my narrow bed, took off my shoes, and covered my eyes with the pillow. I listened to my heart beating in my ears and breathed in and out slowly.
I hid in my bunk until my hands stopped quaking; the bus quieted down as people dropped off to sleep. I cracked the blackout curtain on the window, and the night scene rotated a repeat of the same visual: streak of a street lamp, painted white lines on the black road, dark clumps of trees on the other side of the divider. We were going to zip through the night on a seven-hour cruise and get to the next stop.
The tiny reading light clipped to my bunk illuminated a circle about as wide as a coffee cup. I slipped my journal out of the Velcro pouch on the wall and uncapped a ballpoint pen. No sooner had I written one sentence than my phone buzzed: Alex.
“Where next?” St. Louis.
“So close 2me!” Chicago isn’t close.
“Closer than L.A.” That was true, I conceded in my head.
I realized then that I really needed to talk to him about the signing today. I was still so shaken up, and a friendly voice would soothe me.
He answered on the first ring. “Cass? You okay? You never call.” There was tinny laughter in the background, but it cut out when he waited for me to speak.
“It’s been a weird day. I thought I could use some friend therapy. Are you busy?”
“Nah, just watching Leno.”
“Thinking about L.A.?” I teased.
“Imagining the beach and sunny weather. It’s kind of cold and damp today.”
“Oh.” I dragged a thumbnail across the page I’d been writing on.
“What’s up?”
“Just . . . weirdness. I know I should be grateful for what’s going on right now—for me, for the group—but it just boggles my mind how people can be so in-your-face, you know? I feel a little bit like a zoo animal. People expecting so much from me, people I’ve never met. Some guy today told me that he followed me since Sing It.”
A guffaw on the other end of the line: “Well, that’s good, right?”
“No, Alex. Listen to me. Like, he was acting so focused and so intense. I’d never even seen the guy before.” Deep breath. “It genuinely scared me.”
“You tell anyone?”
“I’m telling you.”