Where was I supposed to go from here?

“Ugh, I hate this storyline,” Katie said, bringing my attention back to the kitchen. Her eyes were trained on the TV in the adjoining room, intent on the show. “Madelynn would never have shared her first-class tickets with Yvette! And then Yvette goes and meets Dante and it’s this whole big thing.”

Mel, ever attuned to my feelings, said to me, “You’re okay though?” I gave her a side hug with an elbow bent like a chicken wing, but still got a little bit of powdered sugar on the crown of her head. She shook her hair out like a puppy.

“Let’s not share any cookies with Patrick when they’re done,” I said.

Katie attacked the dough with fervor. “Deal.”

Mom sighed and switched off the screen. “Sugar is not going to help you get over this disappointment.”

I was quiet, pretending that I hadn’t heard her, even though the mixer was off and for once the noise in the house had paused. I worked quietly on the cookies with my head down and shoulders hunched over one of the baking trays, but I knew that the twins would exchange glances and flounce off, a tactic they used any time a parent was about to have a serious talk with one of their siblings. They were courteous enough to hastily plop dough balls down and wash their hands before escaping.

I pressed one of the misshapen cookies on the sheet with my index finger, mashing it. I was wondering when she was going to broach the subject. Maybe she figured that Christmas was over, so she couldn’t ruin the holiday by bringing it up. “I know that.”

“The best thing you can do now is to get your assignments from Joanna, make up your tests, and graduate on time. And we think you should see a therapist.”

“You mean, get psychoanalyzed?”

“Cassidy, you’re a bright girl. And a nice girl. Your father and I were—we are—so proud of you for what you accomplished in L.A. Getting to second place is really amazing. But we can see how badly this devastated you, and we don’t want you to get hurt again. Therapy will at least help you get over this disappointment.”

It was more than a disappointment. The truth was, I was absolutely crushed and had spent the entire winter holiday baking cookies and hoping eating them would hold back the raw feeling of failure.

I put the cookie tray in the oven as an excuse to turn my back to her. Just the thought of not pursuing singing anymore made me feel tired—when you know you can give something up and it’ll be easier, but if you don’t go doggedly on you can already feel the regret. “I can’t not sing anymore, Mom,” I said tersely, choosing the more important battle.

“Right. I’m not saying you should give it up entirely. But you can still sing at home in your room, or school musicals, you know, like you don’t have to keep pursuing this professional thing . . .”

“Mmm. I’ll think about it.”

I already knew I wouldn’t think about it. Yes, I applied to Sing It, America! on a whim, but it wasn’t lack of determination or lack of passion that kept me from applying in earnest. It was a lack of confidence. I surprised myself by getting as far as I did in the competition, but once I was in the game, I didn’t want to leave. And no matter what my mother thought or said, I’d tasted how close I had gotten. I’d proven that I was good enough to be considered near professional. People had rooted for me. People had voted for me. Marsha Campbell had told me I was worth signing. Even though she hadn’t, in the end.

If I were a petulant teenager, this conversation would have me storming off into my bedroom to sulk. Instead, I set the oven timer and walked away like her words had not hurt, and sat down on my bed, which was covered with Patrick’s stinky socks. I closed my eyes as I lifted my new phone—blue, cordless, my Christmas gift from my parents—to call Edie.

Edie was the one who found out about the Sing It, America! competition in the first place and brought the flyer over to Joanna’s. Once we figured it was not a fake contest, Joanna, Edie, and Alex urged me to audition.

“You have the best voice in the entire school,” Joanna had said, exaggerating my talent.

“You have been taking modern dance since the first grade,” Edie pointed out, neglecting to mention that I stopped dancing because my parents couldn’t afford lessons anymore, what with Robbie’s soccer expenses.

“And you’re not totally tragic to look at,” Alex added, his wide face split into a grin.

“That shouldn’t matter, but it does,” Edie said.

It had been Edie and Joanna’s idea to add rhinestones to my shirt. Alex recommended the cowboy boots, to add a touch of “Texan flair.” But Edie was the one who waited with me at the Astrodome for seven hours and suggested all of my song picks. She had always been on the money with trends and taste.

“Yeah?” came the voice on the other line. Edie claimed that people who called her were either her friends, who knew what they were doing when they called, or telemarketers, who didn’t deserve a proper greeting. She had a point.

I blew out a long, exasperated breath. “Guess what? My parents don’t think it’s a good idea for me to try to pursue singing anymore.” I didn’t mention the therapist part. I knew I should take the offer—I was feeling so low—but I didn’t want my friends to know about it.

“Um. That’s bullshit. You’re good at it.”

“Yeah, well.” I sighed, brushing Patrick’s socks onto the floor. “Good isn’t good enough.”

“You’re right, though. I mean, you’re both right.”

“What?”

“Here, listen.” I heard a scuffling as she dug around in the massive piles of junk stashed around her room. Edie was always beautifully put together when you saw her in person—a dyed-black pixie cut, smoky black eye shadow on her delicate pale face, and all-black clothing bought in the children’s department to fit her four-foot-eleven frame—but her organization extended to her makeup drawer and that was about it. “I read this article a few weeks back on this new band Lunatix out of Tucson. You’ve heard of them?”

“No . . .”

“I guess you haven’t been listening to the radio, then. They’re amazing but no one in the industry gave them the time of day until this talent guy from a record label heard his niece playing their tape at a family reunion or something. Dude heard the song and dropped his plate of hot dogs, that’s how amazed he was. Here, let me quote: ‘I thought I knew every band in this genre and with this sound, said Bradley Garner’—that’s the talent guy—‘but I asked my niece where she’d gotten the tape and she pulled out a homemade cassette with the band name inked onto a sticker that they sold for five dollars each at house parties. Their reach was just maybe a one-hundred-mile radius around Tucson, Arizona. I was on the phone five minutes later with my guys convincing them that we needed to bring them in.’ Now Lunatix has a million-dollar contract with these guys and are already talking about touring nationwide.”

I sat digesting this information. “I don’t get it.”

“See, they were so good! They’re probably going to win a Grammy. But they didn’t have publicity. They’d mailed their tape to the same company last year but apparently those record label guys just get flooded with tapes and they can’t keep up. So the band was just trucking away for forever and it’s just this dumb luck that they were recognized. My point is,” Edie summed up hastily, “they were working their asses off but they could have been drudging forever. Your parents are right, there’s a lot of rejection in this business. And you might never make it.”