Our mother, while interested in the bus, pulled me aside as the twins picked through my show costumes. “Are they feeding you enough?” she whispered in a concerned tone, plucking at my forearm. “You’ve lost so much weight.”
“We’re fine, Mom,” I said placatingly. “Touring is just very energy-consuming. We dance a lot and have rehearsals on top of that.” When she didn’t look convinced, I lied and said, “We even have a nutritionist on call. Seriously, don’t worry.”
The truth was, over the weeks, not eating had become easier than actually eating. The more praise Peter heaped on me for losing weight, the better I felt about the diet. This was one thing I could do well, one thing I could control.
Because the rest was out of my hands. Peter planned everything: he had us following a crooked line across the southern United States, touring malls every day of the week. It was low-budget but respectable, with a small stage set up like a kiosk near the food court, and we’d perform four songs from the album, dance a choreographed routine, sign photos, break everything down, and move on to the next mall. We’d shuffle the Midwest a little bit, then hop back to California to shoot our first music video for “Wake Up Morning,” and debut our single on the radio.
Even though we knew the tour, the bus, the small entourage, and the managers were taking precious dollars out of Gloss’s record deal, everything felt very inexpensive. Peter was in talks with a director for the music video, who described his vision as “charming”—which probably meant we’d be wearing ten-dollar sundresses from Walmart while we lip-synced.
“We’ll take a second tour out to New York if the first is successful,” Peter had promised. “Likely with nicer buses.”
“Or a plane,” Rose had muttered.
The bus didn’t bother me too much, but tensions were running high while we were confined for hours at a time. At the apartment, we could at least retreat to our own bedrooms; here, we could only duck into our bunks for semi-solitude. Rigid privacy curtains closed off the triple-bunked beds from passersby in the aisle and blocked out light, but not sound. Anything that could be flung around in a sharp turn was belted down with Velcro or in a pocket attached to the walls. This is where I kept my cell phone, which had become my lifeline to the outside world. Meredith showed me how to send text messages—since real conversations were often drowned out by both road noise and loud conversation—by pressing numbers multiple times until the correct letter appeared on the screen.
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 . . .”