The roar of the crowd was just as loud as I remembered. I waved genially to fans and photographers straining against velvet ropes and stepped out onto the red carpet, trying to ignore the ever-present pain in my back. Fifteen years ago, doctors said it was a bruise, but I swear to god that I cracked something.

Another holler, and there were the other Gloss girls following not too far behind me. I was surprised to see Soleil so tall—she was just a kid the last time I saw her—but now she had grown willowy and straight, all angles, with a pointy chin and sharp elbows. Her face was a reflection of Merry’s if it had gone through a slightly distorted mirror: a little longer, with a narrower mouth and a higher forehead. She’d drawn her lips and eyebrows on darkly, giving herself a bolder look, while Merry stuck to her signature berry colors. Merry and Sunny had apparently invited Yumi to walk with them, because all three posed for photos together. We gathered on the other side of the publicity backdrop where I said, “No Raul or Emily tonight?”

Merry shrugged. “Just wanted to see a movie with my best gal.” She wrapped her arm around her gangly daughter. Soleil scowled and tried to remove herself from the hug.

The decibel level rose, if that was possible, and I whirled around to see who could command more attention. The girls of Joyride, a young pop trio, sauntered down the carpet like goddesses. I’d never met them in person, but I hated them on sight: they were a branding company’s wet dream, comprising an East Asian–European woman with full lips and blue hair, a Latina with a tiny waist and burgundy hair, and a black woman with a straight lavender weave. Not only were all three devastatingly beautiful, tall, and looked like models, I’d heard one of their singles too—it was catchy and what I expected Gloss to have created if we were still in the game.

Joyride went through the camera grinder after us, and before we were herded into our seats for the showing, the Joyrider with the burgundy hair, who was the spokeswoman for the group, stopped me by gently reaching out her arm. Her fingernails wore long stilettos with jewels on the tips, making any utilitarian use for her hands impossible. “We are so pleased to meet you,” she said warmly, “and are excited to be in this movie with you. As small as our parts were.” She gave a tinkling little laugh.

“That’s very sweet,” Yumi said, smiling lightly. She shook hands with all three women.

“Don’t let the press fool you,” said the Joyrider. “We are supposedly rivals with everyone and clap back at everybody, but we’re actually normal, happy people.”

“That’s nice,” I said, glancing toward the doorway as if something more interesting was over there.

Soleil shrieked a breathless “Omigod,” her coolness melted away by youthful exuberance. “I have to get a picture with you!”

The Joyrider took Soleil’s phone and flipped it to selfie mode, then began filming. “Hiii. It’s Luna”; “Cherie,” said the blue-haired woman; “Magenta,” said the third; all together, rehearsed, they chorused, “and we’re Joyride.” Luna continued, “And we’re here with Soleil on the red carpet for Lunch at Midnight.” Soleil waved at her own followers, grinning like a kid who just had her first celebrity encounter.

“We’re being ushered to our seats,” I said, prodding them forward.

We’d gone through our part in the film during the dailies—I’d insisted on that—but the rest of the film was a surprise. Soleil was the buffer between the other two Glossies and myself, and though I was thirsty I didn’t order anything. Soleil noisily slurped from a box of Sour Patch Kids next to me, spitting the gummy candy into a separate wrapper after she’d eaten off the sour crystals. I could hear Merry admonishing her for such a disgusting exercise, to which Soleil muttered a teenager’s reply.

The movie wasn’t much of a departure from Stan Harold’s usual films—part romantic comedy, part slapstick. There was an increase in audience rustling when our cameo came up, as people recognized us: Rosy, Cherry, and Tasty, sitting in a diner booth in the middle of nowhere (it was supposed to be Arizona, though we shot it on a soundstage), blithely ignoring the shenanigans the main character dealt with outside the restaurant. We were supposed to converse among ourselves as the actor was pushed, pulled, and wiped across the plate-glass window, a real ha-ha scene for the viewers. Finally, the character was pulled inside and slid across the just-waxed floor as we got up in our perfect heels and stepped over him to go outside. “Watch yourself,” I said on-screen to the dazed boy, “you’ll mess up the gloss.” Proverbial wink.

The next shot was supposed to be a wide zoom-out of the restaurant as we drove away in a convertible with its top down, but Stan Harold had changed his mind. Instead, the camera focused on the perfect pouts of three young women in the diner sipping milkshakes from paper straws. The girls got up—the shot focused on their rear ends and short-shorts—and were revealed as Joyride, whipping out sunglasses and looking hot as hell. They struck a pose and Luna broke the fourth wall by saying to the camera seductively, “Oof, that’s such a tired line, don’t you think?” The girls left the diner and the zoom-out scene happened with them in the convertible.

“What?” I murmured. There were some whispers around us.

That was our role? To be ridiculed for being old and out of touch? I fumed in my seat until the screening was over, and as soon as the credits began to roll, I shoved myself out from between the rows and stalked away.

Luna caught up to me. “Rose, Rose, I’m so sorry,” she said, whispering urgently.

“Don’t call me Rose like you know me,” I snapped.

“Fine, uh, Ms. McGill. I—”

“That’s not any better!”

She slowed me down by standing in my path. “I had no idea they were going to use that footage like that. It was written to make fun of the guy! I swear.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I declared, but I tried not to stomp away since there were still cameras around. “It’s done, you look cool and are the look of a new generation; we’re old has-beens.”

The rest of the group had caught up to us by then. “Oh please, stop being so ridiculous, Rose.” Merry scowled. “It’s a joke! The movie is for kids. No one Sunny’s age cares about Gloss.”

“No one cares,” Soleil agreed, nodding sagely. I itched to slap her.

“This isn’t on you or on Joyride,” said Yumi, “but on Stan and the producers, really. He thought it’d be funny.”

“Personally, I thought it worked better without our bit,” said Cherie. “It was overkill adding us in there.”

A few straggling cameras were closing in on us having our serious-faced discussion. Magenta winced. “Uh, you know, press is here.”

“Whatever, I’m tired of being a joke.” I jabbed my finger at her. “I want my career back. I’m going to get it back. Watch me.”

Magenta caught my hand and shoved it down. “First of all,” she said, “you get that finger outta my face. Second, I don’t give a shit about your career. I grew up watching you on MVC. Fuck, I even wanted to be you in the ‘Prime’ video. Now I couldn’t care less about Gloss. Come on, girls.” And the rest of Joyride passed by us, tall, leggy, beautiful, and the visual winners by virtue of being broadcast.

“That went well,” Merry said sarcastically. “Why would you go and antagonize them? You played right into Stan’s caricature of us. We’re angry ‘old’ women. They’re young, fiery bitches.” She sighed. “Yumi, drink?” They pulled away, looking toward the after-party next door.

“Just a minute,” Soleil said to them before glancing back at me. “It’s understandable,” she said in a bored-sounding voice now that everyone else had left. “You’re in mourning. They might make an excuse for you because you’re stressed.”

I glanced around at the crowd and decided I didn’t want to be there anymore. I’d been photographed, gotten into a tiff, would probably make some gossip channels as the relic who had tangled with a pop trio. I was done.

“I am not being analyzed by a fourteen-year-old,” I groused, beginning my walk past the wall of paparazzi to the quiet street.

Soleil followed me, her long legs taking short strides to match mine, as she dug into her sparkly bag. “I have a proposition,” she said.

“With you? Go back to your mom.”

She produced a letter from an inside pocket of her clutch. The handwriting was familiar, the text purple gel pen. I stopped so suddenly, I nearly tripped. “You tell me who my dad is, and I won’t show this to anyone.”

I had a moment to regroup. “Your dad?” I sneered. “Why would I know who your dad is? Your mom fucked so many people. It could be anybody.” That handwriting. Cassidy’s? “What is that, anyway?”

“It’s a letter from Cassidy to you, talking about how you two were in love.” She waggled her eyebrows.

I tried to snatch it from her hand but she was taller and held it aloft. It was so unfair, being shorter than someone less than half your age.