“I won’t lie, this could be bad,” Peter began on speakerphone when we were back on the bus. “Yes, most people are making breakfast or getting ready for work when they are watching Sunrise, but there are a lot of housewives who watch the entire show from start to finish and they would be the ones to complain to the network.”

“It’s not like I could help it,” Merry snapped.

I was worried about her, especially once we caught a glimpse of the controversy on a TV tabloid show called JMC while on our way to a show in Pittsburgh a few nights later. “Pop group Gloss made unexpected headlines when one of their singers accidentally flashed the crowd at The Sunrise Show,” a voice-over narrated. They’d obtained a video copy of the original airing and played the exact moment Merry’s catsuit ripped. There we were, lined up and singing on the Sunrise stage. I could make out the sheen of sweat on all of our faces except for Rose’s, which was starting to match the color of her suit. “During a simple move, singer Merry, here, suddenly lost part of her costume.” JMC slowed the playback and pixelated Merry’s chest. “The Federal Communications Commission is considering suing NBC for indecency in broadcasting. On the plus side, we’ve given Merry the nickname Cherry, for reasons you could probably guess.”

It was absurd.

It was disgusting.

But damn, if it didn’t highlight Gloss. We were already making headway with our single, but there was an increased surge in sales right after the Sunrise fiasco. Peter couldn’t tell if it was something that would’ve happened anyway, or if the sales outperformed the projections, but despite Merry’s repeated objections to her sexualized nickname, he didn’t seem to do anything to discourage its use. He told us that letters were pouring into Big Disc about us—he hadn’t read all of them, but their volume was promising. “Only big acts get the kind of fan mail you’re getting,” he said, pleased.

A few days later, we were dressed and waiting in our dressing room as the arena filled up in Ohio, when an assistant brought a magazine in. We clamored around it and Yumi read the headline out loud, “Gloss: Pop’s Newest Sensation!” We posed among one another, each positioned on a seamless white background. Alongside our figures was a line that emphasized why our personalities were so perfectly suited for our nicknames.

Yumi, with her perfectly symmetrical face straight to the camera, lips parted sensuously, looked like an Asian Barbie. I recoiled when I saw that they called her Tasty. “Oh, that’s rich,” she whispered, staring at the caption. In my photo, my body was swiveled away from hers, with one leg straight and one bent and my chin tucked against my shoulder. I looked smirky, like I had a secret, and my bangs fell over one eye mysteriously. Rose, with one arm folded over her chest and the other hand cupped under her chin, looked like Audrey Hepburn incarnate. Her head was tipped off to the side and she smiled genuinely and warmly, her eyes striking. Merry looked like she was mid-squeal laughter, tugging with both hands at the bottom of her tiny shorts, though in this shot it looked less like she was adjusting the middle seam from her crotch and more excited about showing off her legs.

I read the rest of the blurb:

The polished girls of Gloss are complements to one another, in looks and in sync. In their debut album, GLOSS, in stores June 3, the foursome deliver pop hits and power beats sure to make you dance in the car as well as at the club. With their soulful harmonies and immaculate production thanks to producers Xavier X and Jake Jamz, we can overlook some of the blander lyrics in favor of what Cherry, Rosy, Sassy, and Tasty can deliver: surefire hits that will just keep coming.

Alex, who joined us after we were dressed (in sequins, not catsuits), read over our shoulders as well. His hand held the small of my exposed back, a light touch reminding me that he was there.

“God, I can’t believe they called you Tasty,” Merry said. “That’s disgusting.”

“How hard is it to pronounce Yumiko, really,” Rose agreed.

I squeezed Yumi’s hand. She squeezed back.

“And Cherry is now in print,” Merry groaned.

“It’s just one magazine,” Alex said, trying to sound positive. “I bet no one else will say it again.”

But the magazine’s reach was long. When we took the stage in Cincinnati, there were already fan signs in the audience for the Glossies: Rosy, Sassy, Cherry, and Tasty. As we continued through our winding tour with Illuminated Eyes, Yumi’s energy seemed to flag, as the multiplication of Yummy and Tasty signs dimmed her spirits even more.

We’d had a few long days in the bus traveling through the northeast, so to appease us, Ian finagled an overnight stay at a decent hotel in Ohio, which was a welcome change from showering at the venue and hopping back on the road. I was ready to get the greasy show makeup off my face and soak in a bath. Meredith dropped off her overnight bag and skipped out the door: “Later!”

I barely acknowledged her leaving and started filling up the tub with hot water. I was wiping cold cream off my face when a knuckle rapped on the room door.

Presuming it to be Merry without her room key, I pulled it open with one eye closed, tissue in hand, distractedly rubbing off mascara.

But it was Alex.

Alex, who had seen me barefaced for years; Alex, who had gone swimming with me while I was heavier and his only comment on my appearance was the way my wet hair dried into beachy ringlets instead of straight wisps. Here in this hotel room, the sound of the water galumphing into the tub behind me and wearing only a robe thrown over sweaty underwear—“Oh!” I said, stumbling backward a step.

“Hi,” he said, assuming permission to enter. He clicked the door shut behind him. “Your roomie in here?” he asked.

“She stepped out for a few minutes.”

Alex came a little closer and, softly, hesitantly, tried to touch my hand. I was still clutching the damp tissue and swiveled my head to the side to search for a trash can.

“Oh,” he said, embarrassed. “Sorry. I thought . . .” His voice trailed off.

“No!” I was embarrassed too. “I didn’t mean it like . . .”

“So you’re okay with . . .” He was so close now, breath warm with peppermint. I didn’t step back.

Our lips met. I let him kiss me.

I hadn’t been kissed often before this, but even with my limited experience I knew that we weren’t in the most romantic situation to start a make-out session. I was acutely aware that the polyester tour outfits, which were tight and airless, left me with an unpleasant and sharp odor anywhere that my skin had been encased. “Hold on.” I said it softly, but it sounded high-pitched and weird. He pulled back long enough that I could wipe off the rest of the makeup and deposit the tissue in a bin.

I turned back to him and he had gained confidence with my consent; hands still gentle and warm, cupping my robe-wrapped hips. “I’ve been waiting to do this . . . ,” he murmured into my mouth. He pressed the front of his body against mine, and I skirted back a bit, not sure if I wanted to feel anything below the belt just yet. We continued this dance, which shuffled us both toward the bed. My calves hit the bottom of the bed-frame and we teetered for a moment before he guided me to sit on the edge. We were rapidly moving horizontal. I hoped he wouldn’t try to peel off my robe; I could almost imagine him unwrapping the layers like a sandwich and getting a whiff.