“I thought you didn’t read those.”

“I don’t. But Joe already thinks Stephen is into you, and—”

“Joe, your roommate Joe? Joe knows horseshit! Why are you listening to some idiot who doesn’t know anything instead of listening to me, the person who would know?”

“I knew that this would happen someday. You could have at least had the decency to tell me in person. God, this is just like Brittany! You know how much I hate this.”

“How is this like Brittany? How? Explain it to me!”

“We’re on the phone now, aren’t we? You couldn’t do this face-to-face?”

I closed my eyes and let them rest, feeling the soft flutter of eyelashes against the tops of my cheeks. I put a hand to my temple, keeping the light vertigo that swept over me at bay. There is something about hunger, once it passes a certain point, where it doesn’t even hurt anymore. Your body accepts it, doles out comfort, as if soothing the stricken stomach. Your emptiness becomes a new fullness; you are as dense as a collapsing star; your limbs twitch, muscles tremble; but most of all, your mind gets as calm as a pond. So Alex’s outburst seemed to implode in a muffled burst somewhere in the background. “I didn’t want for this phone call to happen this way,” I murmured finally.

I guess it didn’t sound like enough because he hung up on me.

I wiped at my face with two fingers but there were no tears. I was just so tired. Another trill, and the fax machine came alive again. The paper grunted out, long as a palatial scroll. I let it roll out onto the floor.

There was always a fire to put out. I stored the salad in the fridge, made myself a hot cup of tea, and decided that Alex could use the night to cool off. Though it felt like we’d been doing that a lot lately.

THE BUDGET FOR the “Prime” music video was, easily, fifty times that of “Wake Up Morning.” Big Disc shelled out for an enormous studio, a fantastical concept, and a celebrity music video director to bring it all to life. Noah Decker was the visionary behind some of the best music videos in the late nineties and the label was ecstatic to get him on the roster.

He had pulled out all the stops—*NSYNC got a rotating cube? Well, Gloss got underwater tanks and waterproof cameras. Decker’s ideas included flimsy chiffon, extra-long colorful wigs, and glitter. Lots of glitter. The scene-by-scene cards had us dancing underwater, contrasted with futuristic silver outfits as we danced in a white laboratory. There was some sort of story, something about evolution maybe, but the point was that we were going to be ethereal and then hard, dream women and then assassins. Decker had helped musical acts win about half of the last few years’ Music Video Channel MVAs, so it was unspoken that we would go along with whatever he suggested.

Day one was for the silver outfit scenes, which he wanted to nail down because the choreography had to be perfectly synced. We ended the first day with various close-ups. We had to have our faces wiped clean after all the sweating we did, and the makeup applied again. Though the set was bustling, I could see Decker leaning over Merry, giving her close instruction on the part she was about to film. She nodded and studied the cards, but I noticed that his gaze lingered on her neck and slid down, checking out the décolletage that her loosely tied robe laid bare.

Day two was more harrowing. The water tank was ten feet tall, standing erect in the middle of the studio. We were to lower ourselves down into the tank for individual filming. Yumi went first and took direction well; when she emerged, she was smiling. “Why are you so happy?” I asked, as she came dripping out of the tank, down the rolling step-ladder, and was wrapped in a waiting towel. I was in line to go next.

“I love the concept of this video,” she panted, wiping off the bottom of her feet so she wouldn’t track water back to the styling area. “Nothing about being Tasty. Just feeling the music.”

Peter was on set too, and barked, “Sassy! Get in!”

Submerging myself in the water was peaceful, even with all the background lights and bustle; once my head went under, all of that seemed so far away, and I was floating in a muffled room. I trusted the director to get the footage he needed, and just sank and swam and felt. “Prime” was not a sad song, or even a particularly emotional one, but I pretended that it was and hoped that Decker would like it.

“Beautiful,” he said, as I lifted myself onto the lip of the tank and scrambled over the side, once again graceless. Rivulets of water ran down my face, making it hard to see, and I almost slipped on the ladder coming down. “A natural,” he proclaimed.

Then it was Merry’s turn, but she needed more direction. After I changed out of the wet chiffon and into a dry robe, I watched as she made all hard angles, basically vogueing with her palms flat and thumbs tucked in. All those years of swim practice made her involuntarily sharp in the water. Decker tried to coach her through, but even I could tell that he wasn’t completely satisfied with her performance.

She popped her head out of the top and listened as he gave her more notes, but they fell on deaf ears. Her performance didn’t change.

“It’s fine, your turn is over,” Decker said, though it wasn’t kindly.

Merry propped her arms on the edge of the tank and kicked. “If you could just give me better instruction—”

“I’ve tried. You’re just trained to be a fish in water. I need a mermaid.”

“I can do it—”

“We can’t waste all day trying to get something out of you. But we probably can use something. No, no,” he shouted, as she slid back in, trying to make a point. He told an assistant, “Pull her out of there.”

Peter, ever the manager, barked, “Meredith, we’re already behind schedule. Stop wasting time.”

She was annoyed at herself, I could tell. The assistant reached for her arm but she shook him off and climbed out on her own.

Rose was waiting at the base of the ladder. “Don’t,” she warned, as Merry climbed down, ready to argue with Decker. “Go.”

Merry was close to tears, frustrated with her performance, and stalked back to the styling area. Everyone was watching Merry, and thus took their eyes off Rose, who, at that moment, was climbing the ladder for the final turn. Three other girls’ wet footprints had slicked the treads. Three other girls’ palms had greased the handrails. When she got to the top, her feet slid out from underneath her.

We all heard the crash and sucked in a collective breath. Rose had grabbed the rail with one hand when she’d fallen, but that made her back slide along the ladder steps. Merry whirled, diverting her concern from her self-pity to Rose’s safety. She was halfway up the slick ladder, her own feet sliding underneath her, when Rose hissed a breath. “I’m okay,” she gasped, sitting up.

“Do you want to take a minute?” Decker asked.

“Let me just catch my breath.”

She gingerly slipped into the water for a few minutes, but then Rose did the unthinkable: she asked to be excused.

“Are you sure?” Decker said. “We don’t have much footage of you. The video will be unbalanced.”

She was already hauling herself out of the tank with her arms. “I’m going to be honest. I think I need to go to the emergency room.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said automatically, my concern immediate and genuine.