“Of course, ma’am.”

“Thank you. And if you could call me Yumi, instead of ma’am, I’d appreciate it.”

He reached out for a handshake. I grasped his palm firmly.

Outside the station, I pulled on my oversize Dolce sunglasses and walked quickly to my car, parked in the nearby covered lot. I began dialing before I could forget, asking Emily to drop the letters off. “All of them?” she said, sounding disbelieving. “That’d take at least two trips, even in Merry’s Land Rover stuffed to the brim.”

“Maybe you could sort through them and pick out only what was sent to Cass.”

“That’d take even longer.”

“You’re right. I’m sure they have an army of people to do that sort of grunt work at the police station. I guess you’re stuck.” I unlocked the door and climbed in, turning the engine on to get the air-conditioning going, but made no move to start driving.

She heaved a huge sigh in my ear. “I’ll get it done.”

“Thanks, Em. What would Merry do without you.” I said it as a statement.

“She’d be doing a hell of a lot more by herself, that’s for sure.”

“Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Emily sounded confused.

“Jordan’s wedding. Ian’s son?”

“Ah, yeah, no. She has a schedule conflict and can’t make it. But she did send along a beautiful set of Waterford crystal wineglasses.”

“Oh.” I chewed the inside of my cheek. It was just like Merry to bow out of attendance even after saying she’d go. Like the tour extension; she’d signed up for it like the rest of us, but when Cassidy left she supported Peter’s suggestion to let it go, citing her pregnancy as a reason to halt. Rose was livid; she demanded that Merry pay restitution for the amount she’d lose not touring. I was outwardly neutral, but silently agreed we’d needed a break. Cassidy had left, we were a mess, and my relationship with Kevin was just getting serious. I didn’t want to be on tour, either.

Before I could say anything else, I heard a beep from call waiting. “I have to run, but thanks for dealing with the letters.” I clicked over without recognizing the number. “Hello?”

“Hi, Ms. Otsuka,” said a male voice. “My name is Mike Parsons. I’m calling on behalf of the FPZ Network. We would normally contact your agent about this sort of thing, but seeing as how you dismissed your agent—”

I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat. “What is this regarding?”

“You’re on our short list to be a judge on Sing It, America! We’re hoping to narrow it down by the end of the month.”

“Is this a joke? Sing It was never on FPZ, and it ended five years ago.”

Mike’s voice on the line was saccharine and upbeat. “Both of those things are true, but FPZ acquired rights to the show and we’re heading a revival.”

“I’m retired.”

“We’re aware you’re retired from, ah, singing. But this is being a celebrity judge. Listen, if you’re just the slightest bit interested, would you consider coming to our offices on Tuesday for a quick chat? Bring whomever you need to—new agent, lawyer, whatever. We’re very eager to talk to you.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, weariness creeping over me. “Although I’m a little busy next week, accounting for, you know, my friend dying.”

“Our condolences.” Mike’s voice did not change an iota. “If you could make it to our offices at three o’clock, we’ll be expecting you.”

Hell if I’ll be doing anything in the public eye again. My big mouth had done so much damage already. Sometimes I woke up in my quiet, lonely house and remembered what I’d done. The lush carpet, the king-size memory-foam bed—I didn’t deserve any of it.

8.

March 2001

L.A.

Cassidy

The Gloss that appeared at their single release party was not the same ragtag group of girls that had congregated at Big Disc headquarters eight months ago. Before leaving the apartment I checked myself over, and reflected back at me was someone who could pass as a star. When I flipped through fashion magazines, the women on the covers looked a lot like I did at this moment: draped in fine fabric, groomed, and polished. Hair not grown out or in a weird stage, nail color applied evenly, legs smooth from recent waxing. What the celebrities and music journalists at the party couldn’t see were the insides of my cheeks, bitten raw; my spasming stomach, empty as always. And it wasn’t just my stomach that felt hollow. As I followed Yumiko through the doors of the industrial building, I told myself that I should be happy, because I looked good in this dress and our single was being released, finally, after months of buildup in suburban malls.

Marsha Campbell spotted us and broke away from a conversation. She waved us over and gave a smiling, appraising up-and-down look to take in our ensembles. “You ladies look amazing,” she said, reaching out with tentative arms to give us each the briefest and lightest of hugs. Her embrace barely touched my shoulders, and I had the feeling she kept her touch light so as to not disturb any delicate fabrics or hairstyles. “Socialize. Mingle. Don’t get stuck in one place for too long,” she instructed, and smiled again before plucking something from a passed appetizer tray.

We dispersed, each wandering to a different area of the room. I sauntered to the bar, feeling daring as I did so, but asked for sparkling water in a champagne flute.

My feet already ached and my stomach was so shriveled that it had stopped hurting. The only sense I had of my malnourishment was a soft buzzing in the back of my head, which amplified if I stood too still. So I took a turn about the room, sipping my fake champagne, and found Meredith entertaining a little group of people with a wild anecdote about our recent music video for our single.

“I can’t say much,” she said loudly, “but we wear the most ridiculous outfits. Trust me, this video is going to make a big splash.” She smiled conspiratorially.

Someone in the group said, “So they’re quite revealing, then?”

Meredith gave a theatrical wink. “We were very wet.”

Yumi, who had sidled up next to me, laughed giddily at Meredith’s comment. “Omigod, Merry, you can’t give it all away!” I’d noticed she’d do this often, edge in with a supportive comment that took the jauntiness out of Meredith’s declarations.

The truth was, the music video for “Wake Up Morning,” which took two eighteen-hour days to shoot, did not involve any pool or beach. We wore hot pants and sequined bustiers and Rollerbladed on a flat track. There was a scene with a water hose, a clichéd moment when one girl splashes the rest and then we dance, drenched, on wet concrete. Cue slow-motion shots of hair flinging droplets, trickles of sweat running down an exposed midsection. Combined with the typical music video fodder of girls singing longingly into microphones on stands, wearing leather leggings, the video wasn’t excessively expensive or fancy. Rose had grumbled about that too, but Peter told us that the label wasn’t going to spend a million dollars on a first video.

Yumi and I separated from the rest of the group. “Look who it is,” she said, nodding toward a figure halfway across the room. I recognized that side profile immediately. The face I’d seen for weeks on end the first time I was in L.A., the cheekbone I drew and redrew with my eyes during that finale: Stephen St. James, the crown of his head partially obscured with a decorative cowboy hat, as if to make the space around him larger.