More chatter pops up on-screen, none very intelligible. Even though she is young, people call her Mom, they scream #goals, they comment on how pretty she looks. No one really seems to care about the content of the letters, just that she is there and they know she is streaming live. A famous person sharing their time is more valuable than a lot of things to these fans.

“Here’s one to Rose,” she says, finding one with distinctly female handwriting on the envelope. She figures a woman might be harsh to Rose, but it would be safer than the explicit garbage written to Yumi. She rips the envelope a little to get it out and begins, “Rose, I thought to call you but I didn’t think you’d answer. I’m better at writing, anyway. I just wanted . . .” She stops abruptly, her eye skimming to the bottom, and then she checks the envelope for the address. “Oh. I think this is actually a personal letter that got sent to the wrong place.”

The people on the other end of the ether are curious now, urging Soleil to read it to them anyway. Others are cautioning her about opening other people’s mail, which is a federal offense apparently, and to stop. The comments are devolving into people yelling at one another over what Soleil should do. She shrugs her shoulders and stuffs it back into the envelope, setting it next to her. Even she knows that there are some things you don’t share, and an actual, personal letter to another member of Gloss is probably off-limits. If it’d been to her mom, all bets would be off, but she likes Rose—while also knowing about Rose’s temper.

“Never mind,” she says, smiling at the camera. Her over-lined lips stretch thickly and she waggles her head slightly so that her cheekbones catch the light. “That was boring. I’ll take questions about my makeup now.” The comments surge forward again, this time with people berating her for wearing too much, while others tell her how pretty she looks. Her eyes stray once back to the letter on the bed: a letter Cassidy wrote to Rose in 2002.

13.

July 2001

West Leg of the Tour

Cassidy

The rest of the summer passed in a blur; it didn’t feel as though we had twenty-four hours in a day at all. Between early-morning workouts before the buses set off for the next spot, a cat-nap on a bunk before the night’s performance, and exhausted showers before crashing and doing it all over again on five hours of sleep, the days and nights lost their defined edges.

At least we got into a groove with our performances, gaining a better sense of banter with the audience between songs and hyping them up for more energy. Actually, the shows were the easiest and best part about being on the road. We devoured the crowd’s cheers, but after reaching number 1, getting to and from the shows was the worst. Security now followed us everywhere, and overzealous fans tried their best to jump lines or break through cordons. Merry had had a close call with a male fan who had gotten too close after slipping through two bodyguards. And now Peter could forward us only the good fan mail. The rest he left in the care of Big Disc.

We finished our long road trip the same week that classes at Pomona began. The university opened its residence halls, and students, including Alex, started their migratory trek back. He left our tour group early to move, and he left me a voice mail giving me his hall information and the phone number to his dorm room. Physically, Alex and I hadn’t gone any further than what happened in Cincinnati, and I was too exhausted to give it any more thought.

After our penultimate show opening for Illuminated Eyes, Yumi spent most of her time subdued on the bus, upset about the excessive signs that called her Tasty. Merry had chosen to ride with the main band, and the three of us sat in the diner section of the bus with Veronica, our sound tech, who was eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s with a spork.

Rose clapped her hands in irritation. “You know what, screw this!” she snapped. “Yumi, I’m tired of you moping around.”

Yumi glanced up with a sharp look.

“Yes, it sucks that they’ve made you into the geisha of the group. But look at all of us! We’re all sexualized in some stupid way.” Rose pointed at me. “The vixen.” At herself. “The na?ve virgin.” At the front of the bus, ostensibly where Merry would be. “And, you know what they did to Merry. We’re more than that, and we all know you are more than that. But do you see me sulking? Do you see Cassidy wandering around going poor me, poor me?”

I spoke up—the first time in a long while that I addressed Rose. “That’s not fair. It’s different.”

“How’s it different? We’re all characters, aren’t we? So hers is Asian.” She swiveled to Yumi. “You are Asian, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Veronica hastily stuffed the spork into her ice cream and left the section, presumably to avoid the awkwardness. I watched her go, wishing I could do the same, but I didn’t want to leave Yumi alone with Rose. I explained, “It’s different because being a vixen is like a desirable thing. But they’re treating Yumi like she’s some sort of ornament.”

“It’s racist,” Yumi stated simply, eyebrows furrowed.

“Welcome to the world,” Rose told her, getting up to grab a Diet Coke from the mini fridge. She popped the top and licked the foam off her hand.

“Do you always have to do that? It’s so gross,” Yumi snapped.

“Do what?”

“Slurp soda off your hand like a dog. Can’t you open your soda cans like a person?”

Rose took a giant sip and ignored that. “Listen, we’re all being objectified. Yours is a little shittier than most. But if you let it bother you, you’re not going to get any enjoyment out of life. Look at Merry. They’re out there talking about her nipples and she lets it roll off her back. Just . . . lean into it!” She snapped the fingers of her free hand. “I bet if we changed your outlook, you’d love the nickname in like two months.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Yumi huffed, arms folded defiantly.

Rose winked and took another sip of soda. “You’ll see. I just need to talk to Peter.”

I wondered what she had planned as the bus stopped in Las Vegas and we moved toward the exit. As soon as the doors opened, Merry jumped up the steps, back from her visitation on the other bus. “Say cheese!” She snapped a photo with a familiar-looking small camera.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked.

“Alex let me borrow it.” Merry smiled winningly at me. “I hope you don’t mind. He asked me to take a bunch of photos so he didn’t miss anything.”

“Ah, young love,” Gus said.

“Gus?” Rose drained the last of her soda and handed our driver the can. He accepted it with his gnarled fingers, not with disgust like I’d expected, but with a polite smile. “Do you see a lot of young love on these sorts of trips?”

“I’ve been hauling tours for years,” our driver said. “I’ve seen everything.”

“Hear that, Merry?” Rose raised one eyebrow high. “He’s seen everything.”

Merry and Rose descended the bus steps, playfully shoving at each other. This arena was fenced off, so I could hear the fans screaming from beyond the chain-link, but they weren’t pressing up against the bus, which was a welcome change. Rose made a head start for the stadium door without waiting for the rest of us, enjoying her freedom. Yumi and I exited the bus, stretching our legs. The drummer from Illuminated Eyes, standing by himself a few yards away, gave us a deliberate nod. “Gotta go,” Merry said and joined him. They walked toward the arena together.

All that Yumi could utter was a flat hmm.

After Merry had failed to turn up in our Chicago hotel room, and then in three cities after that, I deduced where she was going. And while Yumi didn’t have much to say about it, the tabloids had paragraphs to share. Inches of column space. Grainy photographs in color. Grant, Illuminated Eyes’ drummer, was married, and he and Merry had been caught on film sharing a lighter and cozying up next to each other in the space between two tour buses.

The news broke as we were coasting back into Los Angeles, and Ian got a heads-up from Peter about the sticky situation: Grant’s wife was the famous actress Marisa Marcheesa. If no one knew who Merry “Cherry” Gloss was before, they certainly knew now. An accidental nip slip was nothing compared to cavorting with a married musician.

“Did you even ask him if he was married?” Rose asked, annoyed.

Merry tossed her golden curls back. “Of course I knew; I’m not an idiot. But he isn’t happy, and there are no children involved. So why should I give a shit about how badly his marriage is going? It takes two to tango and he was more than willing.”

“You can’t say that sort of thing in public, you understand?” Rose hissed. Merry shrugged.

Peter’s voice was thoughtful on speakerphone as the bus cruised over the Los Angeles county line. “Normally I would welcome a little controversy, since any press is good press and this is doing great for your name recognition. But Marisa’s roots in L.A. are deep. She’s third-generation Hollywood royalty, an Oscar-nominated actress who can make life sticky for us. It’s already cost you one brand deal, but,” he hastened to add, “there was a surge of interest and you’re now the faces of Kit shoes, so I can’t tell you off too much.”