But none of that was forthcoming, and as the silence stretched on and on, he hastened to fill the space with something other than dead air. Merry, Rose, and I shared swift, passing eye contact with one another. Then we each quietly ruminated on this piece of news, lost in our own thoughts. “What a tragedy,” Jed said. “She was still so young. I’m hoping that this song will ease some of the pain in our hearts.” He waggled his fingers toward the window again, likely imploring that same employee to load up our album.

To be honest, I expected Merry to say something. Anything. Merry’s big mouth was infamous. The tabloids enjoyed twisting any of her statements around to make her sound more wild, more belligerent, more extreme than she already was. For the first time in fifteen years, it seemed that Merry had nothing to say. Her lips were pressed firmly together into a dark pink line.

I could sense, rather than see, Rose deflating next to me. Rose and Cassidy didn’t get along very well when we were all together, but it was big news anyway. I’d been the closest to Cassidy, but I felt numb.

The music began, slow and low, and I slipped the headphones off.

I worked my jaw back and forth to ease the tension and found my voice. “How?” I asked. I couldn’t even recognize myself. The noise that came out was low, husky, almost a growl.

Jed flicked a look at me.

“How? How did she die?” This question was picked up, recorded, transmitted live in a fifty-mile radius. It would be played back for days on gossip shows with a picture of Cassidy’s face tucked up in the top left corner.

“I’m sorry, love,” said Jed. “I don’t know.”

THE SIDEWALK WAS crowded with cameras as we shoved out of the double doors to the car. Paparazzi in England aren’t as ruthless as those in L.A. or New York, but they’ve had enough practice with Hollywood starlets making waves and stirring up publicity that a few bloodhounds were up to the task. Emily had the driver pull up to the curb and we held our purses in front of our faces as we wrestled our way through the throng of bodies, tumbling into the cabin and sealing the doors with automatic locks.

Rose sank into the leather seats and gave a quick look of disbelief to the tinted windows. “Lord,” she said, as lenses were hastily ground up against the glass. “I’d forgotten what that was like.”

Merry tugged a lock of her white-blond hair tight against her fingers, flicking the end furiously, a habit that had always annoyed me. “Shit. I can’t believe this. Em,” she called to the front, “what is going on?”

Emily had already started directing our driver toward a McDonald’s close by. She was Merry’s assistant now, but when we were together she reverted back to taking care of us all. She turned around in her seat and gazed at us steadily. “News says she was found only a few hours ago. A housekeeper found her around seven A.M. The ambulance and then the morgue guys showed up, and the paps were camped out on her lawn the entire time, snapping photos of the body bag. There was nothing they could do—she was already gone, probably died sometime last night. But everything is still very new and her parents have been notified, and they want to keep the details hush-hush.”

“Is there any idea of how it happened?” Merry asked.

Emily shook her head. “No details yet.”

“Was she sick? No one has talked to her in years, right?” She turned her head to Rose and me.

Rose continued to gaze out the window. “She already said that no one knows what happened.”

“Yeah, but if any of you have spoken to her recently . . .”

Em faced the front of the car and repeated, “No details yet.”

We pulled up at the drive-through and Emily put our regular order in, rapid-fire, via our driver. Rose accepted a Diet Coke and watched me unwrap my burger. Some things never change. I sighed. “Don’t give me that look, Rose. I know what you’re thinking, and now is not the time.”

“I wasn’t judging. Maybe you’re projecting your emotions onto me.”

Already the stress was melting along my jawbone and rippling down my throat. Bite after bite, I ate until I felt the clench in my stomach softening.

*

November 16, 1999

Cassidy

The finale is tonight. I’m sitting backstage in a room with a million other people, trying to collect my thoughts, jiggling my legs nervously and biting the skin off my thumb. Somewhere in the audience, my mother is waiting to see her little girl win this competition. And at home, my siblings are going to watch me on TV.

Stephen St. James is nearby. We’ve been vying for the crown the past few rounds on Sing It, America! On the stage, we look out into the audience, eyes sparkling, mouths wide, encouraging our fledgling fans to cheer louder, clap harder. But backstage, we don’t talk; we barely look at each other. After each episode wraps, we’re congratulated by members of the crew as we pack up our bags and leave. I’ve never loathed someone I’ve wanted to hold before.

But I can’t be distracted. Not when it’s the finale.

Anna sidles up to me. She’s one of the last three contestants and a little vain. Sixteen, with dyed red hair and a number of crop tops, she’s a wild card. When she performs well, she kills it, but she’s had a few lackluster moments as well. “Hey, Cass,” she says, as if we’re friends. “You ready?”

I take my thumbnail out from between my teeth and rub it on my skirt. “Yeah,” I reply. “Are you excited?”

“For that record contract? I can almost taste it.”

“We all can.”

“But who’s actually gonna take a big bite?” she says in a singsongy voice.

Anna is so petite, thin all over with slender arms and shins, a pearlescent white smile permanently pasted on her face, that I feel that my tight-lipped smile looks tired in comparison. Anna is so conventionally beautiful that I have to remind myself that she’s a competitor, same as Stephen, and I need to focus on winning. If I were a member of the American public voting in Sing It, America!, I would pick Anna just because she’s looks like a star already. I know it’s a knock against myself, but I feel that I look so . . . mediocre.

The coaches have tried to help me with my image. I auditioned in Houston with my long hair pulled back into a ponytail, a tank top and denim skirt, and a pair of cowboy boots. I figured that, with so many people auditioning, I wouldn’t stand out anyway, but my friends Edie and Joanna told me to write my name in rhinestones on my shirt. Sassy Cassidy, I painstakingly hot-glued the night before. I don’t know if it worked, but I did get a call back, and an invitation to film in L.A., and made it through the initial elimination rounds, wearing my own clothes and doing my own makeup. But as soon as I was one of the final twelve chosen for the competition, the show produced Nikki and Gary, stylists who tried to help all contestants find a “look.”

Anna was already beautiful and fierce, so she was encouraged to brighten her burgundy hair to a fiery lava red. Her hemlines got shorter, her wedges got taller, and her eye shadow became dark and glittery.

Stephen, with his long, lean lines and wholesome-boy charm, was outfitted in dark designer jeans with tight tees and oversize, unbuttoned collared shirts. They lightened his hair slightly for a just-spent-a-summer-in-a-pool look, spiked it tastefully with gel, and made sure that the makeup artist contoured his jawline to maximum effect.

Me, I was a Texan with really great hair, and the first thing they did was chop it off into a shoulder-length bob. They said they wanted me to look “edgier,” presumably because I didn’t know how to dress myself. They advised a diet—which I promptly ignored—encouraged fishnets, and liked putting me in animal-print cocktail dresses. Every night we filmed an episode, Nikki and Gary sat me down in a makeup chair and lined my eyes with dark kohl and lips in dark plum. Tonight, I’m wearing a hot-pink-and-white zebra-print dress, dark tights, and combat boots. I don’t feel like me, but they assure me I look great.

Anna wants to continue chatting, but I can feel my throat squeezing shut. “I’m going to . . . ,” I mutter and then duck away to breathe in a corner.

While I’m humming my warm-up, a hand touches my shoulder. I turn and it’s Stephen St. James. I can never take in Stephen all at once. Sometimes it’s his long, angular nose. Sometimes I can focus only on his smell—freshly laundered clothes and a touch of cologne. Today it’s his hand; his well-manicured nails and pink-knuckled fingers that are now pulling away from my arm. “Good luck,” he says. It’s the second time he’s spoken to me directly and not in a group—the first being “hello” when we were introduced in the big room as the final twelve.

I nod as warmth starts creeping into my cheeks. “You too.”

He gives a thousand-watt smile and moves on. I close my eyes and hum.