He had been a gentleman, though, I thought, turning the hot water tap on again to heat up the cooled bath. Hadn’t we been dancing around for the past couple of weeks in our new situation, getting closer to this moment? I had to know that he liked me, to volunteer as a bodyguard. And I liked Alex. I liked him with me. I liked that he was going to be close when we returned to L.A. I would know somebody who knew me before I was Sassy Gloss. And as far as make-outs go, this had been chaste too: all clothes had stayed on and he hadn’t even tried to put his hands anywhere besides my waist. We were still firmly on first base. The logic was sound, but then again, I was very tired.

I wondered if Alex thought that this brief, passionate exploration of each other’s mouths was supposed to inspire something in me; that he left me with a wink because he assumed I was so riled up that I’d touch myself in the bath. But I was bone-weary. I popped the drain with my foot and listened to the gargle of water down the pipe, toweled off, and went to bed with wet hair splayed out over the hotel pillow.

12.

June 2001

Midwest Leg of the Tour

Cassidy

Coming off the stage, you’re aware of only a few things before the rest of the world starts returning. The bright lights have blinded you, and as the green cast fades from your vision, you see the ropes and pulleys, the unevenness in the floors, the crew members hiding in all-black outfits as they do their jobs. Moreover, your body feels as though it’s been infused with starlight, and the light leaks from your limbs and hands and eyes and mouth in little pinpricks, so if someone were looking directly at you, they’d see a constellation coming out of a silhouette. Slowly, you realize that the heat emanating from your body is the heat of the stage lights that has been absorbed into your hair and the dampness between your skin and your polyester outfit; the sharp pain in your pinky toes as your feet pitch downward in those uncomfortable stage shoes. Scent returns last; the air suddenly, inexplicably, creates a singed taste in the back of your throat, and everything smells a little bit like cardboard and melted plastic. You become aware of your face, contorted in a giant smile, so tense that it’s not just your mouth that is spread wide, but your eyebrows and ears are tensed too.

This was the state I was in when we discovered Stephen St. James outside our dressing room door in Chicago. Giggling, we whooped down the corridor, our shoes clacking on the linoleum. The gangling figure was not a surprise, since crew members were always on the move, but his stillness was. The hat was. The person was. Our new security detail had let him through.

“Hi there,” said Stephen St. James, and we slowed, wondering who he was addressing.

“Hi,” Merry said after a beat.

“I hope this is all right,” he said, waving his backstage pass. “Grant gave it to me.” Grant was the drummer of Illuminated Eyes.

“Yeah, sure,” Yumi said. “I need to get out of these shoes.” She hobbled forward, pushing the door open.

“Want to hang with us?” Merry added. He didn’t say anything, just followed her in. We took seats at a long set of mirrors and in unison slipped off our heavy stage boots with a collective sigh. Our gym bags of supplies were where we’d left them on the floor, strewn with plastic bags of ponytail holders, extra socks, makeup brushes, nylon shorts. Flip-flops and laceless sneakers were aligned next to the base of each of our vanity mirrors, even though we’d kicked them off before the show. It was always a little unsettling when you knew someone had been in to clean up after you, make the edges neater.

I hadn’t seen Stephen since the launch party, when that enviously skeletal brunette was hanging off his arm. I began removing bobby pins from my hair, all the while glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He was seated on a spare stool by the door, slightly out of range of the bulbs glowing from our mirrors.

Stephen St. James looked the same—but not. His face was a little more angular, his cheekbones in high relief. His teeth looked bigger and whiter, possibly veneers. And though he was dressed in his signature paisley collared shirt and a pair of blue jeans, they were fitted so closely to his body that they had to be tailored.

The other girls were conversing lightly, easy stuff that Stephen could jump into if he wanted. My silence could have been interpreted as fatigue, but it was possible to be seen as rude.

“So Cassy, what were you doing earlier?” Merry asked, fluffing her hair out in a halo.

“Nothing really,” I said, my voice sounding unnaturally loud. I was punishing my thumb with a bobby pin, the little bubble at the end dragging repeatedly under the nail. “Just a little sightseeing.”

Since the hotel in Cincinnati a week ago, Alex and I couldn’t find time to be alone, so we just held hands. More often than not, we were on the road at night, in our respective buses, and I was silently thankful that Ian didn’t let Alex spend the night on our bus. I wondered if maybe the boundary between friendship and relationship was just too hard to cross. Alex’s role had always been friend, protector; boyfriend was proving difficult to understand. When I was able to reach Joanna a few days after Ohio and tell her about the kiss, she sounded happy for me.

“Honey, he’s always been a little sweet on you,” Joanna had said, the phone lines crackling between our hotel and her parents’ house in Houston.

“You’re making that up.” In our group of friends, I always considered Edie the delicate and elfin cute girl and Joanna the intelligent beauty. Either of them would’ve been the better pick if I were in Alex’s shoes.

“Never. Still, I’m amazed he’s switching schools for you. What happens when you go on another tour?”

“Mm, don’t know,” I’d said. “He’ll probably stay put. He’s only along with us right now because it’s summer break.”

“And your album? It drops soon?”

“On the third,” I’d said. It was a good thing Big Disc had thrown that incredible party for our first single because we worked without breaks during the album release. The big machine had hummed in the background, pressing discs, printing covers, stocking boxes, and shipping to stores while we were dancing and singing on the road with Illuminated Eyes. And just a week after our conversation, the album had been unleashed in the real world; but in our little bubble on the bus, in hotels, in the bowels of stadiums, we didn’t get to witness its ascension.

“I can’t seem to ever get a hold of Edie,” I had added, before we’d ended the call. “If you reach her, tell her I said hi.”

This morning, in Chicago, Alex took my hand as I got off of the bus and said excitedly, “I asked Ian if I could show you around before tonight’s performance and he’s giving us the afternoon. Come on.”

He and I sat on the Blue Line for a little while, hip to hip, our fingers intertwined. We didn’t talk much, nor did we kiss. I liked this. I liked his reassuring heat against my thigh. I liked his presence. We exited at Grant Park and walked hand in hand toward the lake.

“It’s so beautiful compared to Houston, right?”

I took a deep breath of the air, which was light and honeysuckle scented. Houston in June gives the uncomfortable feeling of breathing hot water into your lungs; this was a refreshing and crisp change, even if it was over ninety degrees out. A breeze swept over the lake and ruffled our hair.

“I might be willing to overlook snowstorms and cold weather if the summers feel this good,” I joked.

“Oh, Cass, don’t even say that,” he said, shaking his head wearily. “Cold weather is the worst. I spent every day last winter huddled up next to my radiator and cursing when I had to go to my microeconomics class. Come on.” He tugged at my hand and guided me toward a looming bronze lion, green with patina, flanking the entry steps of a gorgeous beige building. “The Art Institute,” he said, while pulling out a pocket-size camera. He pulled me in close, large warm hand at my back, and tried to aim the lens so that we’d fit into the shot. Click. The camera advanced to the next frame automatically with a little whirr.

“Your parents will be happy to get some confirmation that you’re not just working all the time,” Alex said, wrapping the camera’s hand strap around his forearm and rubbing my shoulder. “Here, I’ll take one of just you now.” He stepped away and squinted through the viewfinder.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling at him, but feeling oddly hollow.

We continued on our mini tour of Chicago, wandering around Grant Park and seeing the construction of Pritzker Pavilion. A kiosk nearby sold snow cones in paper cups and Alex paid for two.

Hand in hand, slurping our melting ice, we passed a gaggle of teen girls on the sidewalk heading in the opposite direction. One did a double take. In a plain tee and jeans and without the other three girls, I’d been comfortable thinking that I could blend into the crowd, but she’d recognized me.

Alex drank the last of his grape slush while we stood at a crosswalk. “Incoming,” he said, smiling. I glanced back. They had switched course and were following us indiscreetly, whispering and giggling. When they caught me looking, they burst into shrieks and charged forward.

“Omigod, are you Sassy Gloss?!”