“It’s a nostalgic song,” I agreed, pushing my empty plate toward the centerpiece.

“He was in middle school when this came out,” Ian said. “He loved it. Remember how you all signed one of the album liners for him? He kept it on display on his dresser for years.” He gave me a look then. “I hope you know how important your music was to these kids. It may have felt like fame to you, or you may have bad memories after Sassy left, but these were formative songs to the youth of America.”

I chuckled. “The words are so silly. They don’t even make sense!”

“It’s still history, Yumi.”

The song ended and flowed into a ballad. The dance floor emptied as the youngsters took a breather and parent-age couples swayed demurely back and forth. Sensing that our conversation had tapered to its natural finish, Ian excused himself from our table and approached his son across the room. Jordan accepted his flourished hand and they rotated slowly by the head table.

It was still early, by wedding standards. I guessed that more hours of dancing and merriment awaited the more dedicated of the wedding-goers. But I was suddenly exhausted. My eyes felt prickly and my legs hurt, like I’d been cramped into a chair too hard for my body. Families with smaller children cleared off after the cake cutting and I didn’t think anyone would miss an ex–Gloss girl fading into the night. I gathered my purse, licked the last of the cake from the fork tines, and found my way to the exit.

September 10, 2001. JMC magazine. Column: “Hookups and Breakups”

Tongues are wagging and divorce papers are being drawn up between actress Marisa Marcheesa, 24, and musician Grant Kidd, 25. The Illuminated Eyes drummer has reportedly been stepping out on his famous wife, who was best known for her turn as Jane Eyre in the 1997 adaptation of the Charlotte Brontë novel. The two were seen sparring at a Manhattan club after the MVC MVAs on September 6. Contributing to the breakup? Pop’s newest heartbreaker and home-wrecker, Meredith Warner, 19, aka “Cherry” from Gloss. The two were photographed canoodling while on tour last month, and rumors are flying.

16.

September 2001

California

Cassidy

How soon is too soon to move in with someone?” mused Merry, picking through real estate listings. “Grant’s Malibu place is just so beautiful.”

“I like this one. Oh, but the fixtures in that house are terrible,” Yumi said.

“Fixtures? You can buy new fixtures, Yumi.” Merry peered at the listing with her. “Oh, you’re right, those are ugly.”

“This one would be perfect if the driveway wasn’t positioned like that,” Yumi continued.

We were eager to move out of our current apartment, which we’d long outgrown. To look at the swathes of listings, we had to move a pallet of soda off the kitchen table.

It was almost peaceful with Rose missing from the apartment. She was already out seeing a house and didn’t invite us along. I hadn’t realized how tense I was when she was around. We hadn’t discussed how close we’d gotten while dancing at the after-party, and I chalked up any lingering feelings as inebriation on that night. But lately I had the feeling that she was sizing me up even more than usual, and the added scrutiny made my cheeks hot and my stomach twist.

“What’s this?” Merry said suddenly, plucking an envelope that was mixed into the real estate listings.

“It’s addressed to you, Cass.” Merry passed it over to me. “But it doesn’t have a postmark.”

The envelope wasn’t sealed, either. I slipped a piece of paper out while looking at Yumi’s rejected house with the imperfectly positioned driveway. “I like that one,” I said, and then began to read the note.

Dear Cassidy,

Let me show you what love really is. Don’t hang around with that Stephen St. James anymore, he’s bad for you. I’ll prove to you that I’m the best for you. I’ll be watching you.

Yours,

Jerry Dalson

“What the fuck,” I screamed, letting go of the paper. It had clearly been placed in our mailbox with the real estate pages or—I shuddered to think—had been set inside the apartment while we were out. No one guarded the apartment door while we were gone, and the lone sentry driving his golf cart around the complex would have probably missed Jerry if he’d timed his entrance correctly.

Yumi read it and shrieked, “Omigod!”

Merry called Peter, and Peter called the police. It wasn’t obvious how the letter had appeared in the apartment, but since Jerry had signed his name, the police would use that as evidence in a court order. By the time they were done, my skin was crawling and I didn’t want to be in that apartment any longer than I had to.

The Jet-Setters had just finished shooting a scene that required the main cast to be in Moldova, and Lucy’s return meant an intimate bash at a rented beach house. When my car pulled up to the gate, I recognized it as the “friend’s” house where we had parked the day Yumi confided in me about Viv.

Although Lucy had told me it would just be a few industry girls and some close friends, it was strange to find her entire team there, along with one of the biggest A-list celebrities in Hollywood. Lucy hadn’t warned me in advance about Sterling Royce, who greeted me shirtless while slathering sunscreen on his washboard abs. A wired stereo system piped some R & B to the outdoor speakers as Lucy sashayed about in a microscopic bikini.

Sterling caught my gaze and gave me a haughty smile. I flicked my eyes away toward the pool and said hurriedly to the group, “How was Moldova? Did the scene work out okay?”

“The food was weird,” said one of Lucy’s assistants, and the conversation stalled there. Lucy had brought along her personal makeup artist and her stylist, without whom apparently she could not exist, and another soap coworker, Amanda Tate. I didn’t see either of her parents around, but maybe our adult supervision was supposed to be Sterling Royce.

While I filled a cup with a skinny margarita, I whispered to Amanda, “What’s going on? How does Lucy know him?”

Amanda cut her eyes toward me. “No one is supposed to talk about it. He’s into her. You know.”

“But he’s, like, forty.”

“Thirty-two. Girl, you think he’s forty?”

“What’s all that whispering!” Lucy chided from her deck chair. “Manda, will you find the help and ask where the food is, already?”

I settled in a lounge chair, tilted my wide-brimmed sunhat so that it covered most of my face, and tried to relax my shoulders and hands. The rhythmic sound of crashing waves hushed any other conversations and I willed myself to breathe in and out at the same tempo as the music. I reminded myself that I was in a yard full of people, and that security had followed me here. A guard was parked in the kitchen, watching everything.

“Hi, everyone,” said a voice, as another person stooped through the patio door. Shirtless, already tan, towel in hand.

“Stephen!” Lucy said, waving him over. “You made it. Please, eat our fruit. Drink our alcohol. Enjoy our view.”

Sterling said, “Baby, you’re the perfect hostess.”

I could see Stephen out of the corner of my eye, framed by the black-and-white-striped edge of my oversize hat and the tops of my giant sunglasses, as he accepted a drink from the server and settled into a chair next to me. He creaked back and forth a few times as he applied a dash of sunscreen to the bridge of his nose, capping the bottle and placing it on a nearby table next to his cup. Then he stretched out and gave a warm, heavy sigh of contentment, as if settling in for a nap.