The Unraveling of Cassidy Holmes Read online

  Dedication

  For Walt

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Part I: Self-Titled (2000–2001)

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Soleil

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Part II: Prime (2002)

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  Please know that this book has some triggering elements. Its contents include suicide, descriptions of depression and disordered eating, on-page physical assault, off-page sexual assault, body shaming, and body dysmorphia. If you are in a vulnerable mind space, please be gentle with yourself before you continue to read this book.

  I know how hard it is to reach out when you feel like you’re drowning. If you cannot talk to a trusted adult or friend about how you’re feeling, here is an international resource to begin looking for help: https://suicideprevention.wikia.org. If you’re in the U.S., you can call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.

  Prologue

  Wednesday

  Yumi

  The day that Cassidy died, the rest of us were in London.

  The three of us were good-naturedly receiving some ribbing from DJ “Dashing Jed” on the U.K.’s third-tier radio spot. Earlier in the day, Emily had made sure that the typical ground rules were laid out: Don’t talk about Merry’s family. Don’t talk about Rose’s most recent visit to rehab. Don’t pry into my failed marriage. And, most of all, don’t mention Cassidy, our vacant fourth.

  The cubby we sat in was well worn, with yellow carpet up the walls, and a sharp scent of dampness or mold, like someone had trod into the room with wet rain boots and shut the door without letting it air out. The deejay sat next to Merry, who was drawing hearts on the table with the eraser end of a pencil.

  “So, ladies, you appear in the new Stan Harold movie, Lunch at Midnight. Tell me, how was your experience on set with Stan?”

  Rose leapt to take the lead, as she always did. “It was wonderful working with Stan. I’ve seen all of his films since the mid-nineties, so it was an honor having a part in his new movie.” She was smiling like she knew there was a camera secretly recording somewhere in the rows of equipment, but I’d stipulated that we not be videotaped before agreeing to do the radio show. I didn’t feel like having my weight discussed in the comments section of YouTube. I sat with Dashing Jed opposite me, elbows on the edge of the table and hands cradling my face.

  “He’s a really funny guy,” I said, injecting pep into my voice. “And so kind.”

  Rose began talking about a funny moment that happened behind the scenes on set, but I tuned her out. The truth was, our part was only a quick cameo in a comedy movie, not worth mentioning or even promoting. It was supposed to be a nod to the adults bringing their kids to a PG-13 movie, a nostalgic “aha!” that kept us looped into the current social discourse. I hadn’t wanted to take part at all, but Rose insisted on keeping her name out front and she was worth more in the Gloss ensemble. Doing the cameo was easier than agreeing to a reunion tour—a recurring idea that she’d floated once a year for the past decade. So there we were, in dreary old London, where we’d once headlined sold-out shows, sitting instead in a dingy office giggling into microphones and pretending to be relevant.

  “We’re only in the movie for, like, fifteen seconds,” said Merry. “Blink and you’ll miss us! But if this pushes a new generation of kids to buy our old albums, more power to us.”

  “What, you don’t think being certified Triple Platinum is enough?” asked Jed.

  “I’ve always preferred diamonds,” she said, laughing.

  I forced myself to laugh too, falling right back into our usual dynamic: Merry saying something stupid and me smoothing it over. “Merry, hon, you sound way too intense.”

  Dashing Jed fielded a few on-air calls as Merry ignored Rose’s reproachful glare. Merry had decided long ago not to concern herself with Rose’s rules of propriety and instead just spoke her mind. It had led to some arguments fifteen years ago.

  “Caller, you’re on the air!” said Dashing Jed enthusiastically. His voice was a magnificent, melodic baritone; one could imagine that if he hadn’t picked radio as his profession, he might have made it as an opera singer.

  A rasping voice, lilting with a Scottish accent, came out of the speaker. “Am I on with Gloss?”

  “Yes, you are!” enthused Jed.

  “I just want to say how much I love you ladies,” the female voice continued. “My name’s Kelly and I listened to you all through high school. Tell me, since the gang is all back together, would you ever consider touring again?”

  Even though there were no cameras, I arranged my face to stay completely neutral. Why were people always asking for a tour?

  Rose answered that one too. “You’re so sweet, Kelly,” she teased, “and never say never. Yumi and Merry and I have been discussing it, but we have no solid plans yet.” No mention of Cassidy.

  “Okay, well, I know it would sell out in five seconds flat! Regardless, I’m really looking forward to seeing your parts in Lunch at Midnight.”

  This sort of praise used to fulfill me; a feast of goodwill and self-esteem. Cheering voices in the arenas, reporters with imploring tones, soda commercials with our photos on the cans. Now they were soft, touching glances that barely felt like anything. We had peaked; we drifted into almost normal.

  “Thanks so much, Kelly,” hollered Jed. “We’re on to the next caller!”

  “Yes, hello, I was wondering,” said the next voice, low and masculine. “Could you play ‘Wake Up Morning’? I feel like I haven’t heard that song in years.”

  “Is it because you didn’t buy our album when it came out the first time?” Merry said in a mocking tone. “Or the second, when it went Platinum and we released it with a special liner? Or the third, when we did a best-of hits album? You could listen to it anytime you like if you go to Big Disc’s internet channel. But hey, Dashing Jed, it’s one of my favorites too. Put it on. We can have a little background music while we keep chatting.”

  Jed had turned to the glass partition and gestured to a station worker to find the record. His body swiveled toward the microphone, but then he paused; swiveled back. Someone outside was trying to get his attention. Merry, next to Jed, had snapped to attention and was gazing through the glass.

  Someone was pressing a piece of paper against it. From where I sat, I could see only an illegible scribble of block writing. Merry’s hand leapt to her mouth in surprise.

  Rose must have kicked her under the table, because Merry’s eyes turned toward us. They were usually so bright and icy blue that even in dark stadiums, before the lights came up, I would be able to see her eyes glowing. But now—they were so cloudy, the pupils distended in distress, that I shrank back. Jed lea
ned into his microphone. “Listeners, I’m afraid I just learned some terrible news. While three of the members of Gloss are here with me in studio, the fourth, I’m sad to report, just passed away.”

  SILENCE.

  Dashing Jed could not have been surprised by our collective inward shock. Who knows why he dropped this bomb on us, on the air, during a casual radio spot. Perhaps he thought that it was his duty to let us know as soon as it happened, since the media could easily find out where we were. They would have time to gather outside as we finished up on his show. Paparazzi feed off misery; they’d be overjoyed to break the news to us as we walked out of the station. A photo of us breaking down on the sidewalk in the middle of London would net some lucky photographers enough money to send their kids to a year at a good private school. As we were ensconced in a padded cell with no way of getting any other outside information, the first opportunity to hear about Cassidy’s death would have been through Emily, if she were quick enough.

  Or maybe Dashing Jed had his own sadistic streak and wanted to see how we’d react. Perhaps he thought that this flat little promo piece would turn into a juicy, hard-hitting interview, where our voices would quaver as we reminisced about our fallen friend. His shitty radio station would have a bump in listeners and the airplay would be repeated on countless tabloid shows, fan videos, and transcribed for magazines and blog articles. Dashing Jed would be popular; he’d be trotted out onto late-night talk shows to converse with the hosts that, yes, he had been there when the Gloss girls all broke down to mourn Cassidy, the sweetest Glossie of them all . . .

  But none of that was forthcoming, and as the silence stretched on and on, he hastened to fill the space with something other than dead air. Merry, Rose, and I shared swift, passing eye contact with one another. Then we each quietly ruminated on this piece of news, lost in our own thoughts. “What a tragedy,” Jed said. “She was still so young. I’m hoping that this song will ease some of the pain in our hearts.” He waggled his fingers toward the window again, likely imploring that same employee to load up our album.

  To be honest, I expected Merry to say something. Anything. Merry’s big mouth was infamous. The tabloids enjoyed twisting any of her statements around to make her sound more wild, more belligerent, more extreme than she already was. For the first time in fifteen years, it seemed that Merry had nothing to say. Her lips were pressed firmly together into a dark pink line.

  I could sense, rather than see, Rose deflating next to me. Rose and Cassidy didn’t get along very well when we were all together, but it was big news anyway. I’d been the closest to Cassidy, but I felt numb.

  The music began, slow and low, and I slipped the headphones off.

  I worked my jaw back and forth to ease the tension and found my voice. “How?” I asked. I couldn’t even recognize myself. The noise that came out was low, husky, almost a growl.

  Jed flicked a look at me.

  “How? How did she die?” This question was picked up, recorded, transmitted live in a fifty-mile radius. It would be played back for days on gossip shows with a picture of Cassidy’s face tucked up in the top left corner.

  “I’m sorry, love,” said Jed. “I don’t know.”

  THE SIDEWALK WAS crowded with cameras as we shoved out of the double doors to the car. Paparazzi in England aren’t as ruthless as those in L.A. or New York, but they’ve had enough practice with Hollywood starlets making waves and stirring up publicity that a few bloodhounds were up to the task. Emily had the driver pull up to the curb and we held our purses in front of our faces as we wrestled our way through the throng of bodies, tumbling into the cabin and sealing the doors with automatic locks.

  Rose sank into the leather seats and gave a quick look of disbelief to the tinted windows. “Lord,” she said, as lenses were hastily ground up against the glass. “I’d forgotten what that was like.”

  Merry tugged a lock of her white-blond hair tight against her fingers, flicking the end furiously, a habit that had always annoyed me. “Shit. I can’t believe this. Em,” she called to the front, “what is going on?”

  Emily had already started directing our driver toward a McDonald’s close by. She was Merry’s assistant now, but when we were together she reverted back to taking care of us all. She turned around in her seat and gazed at us steadily. “News says she was found only a few hours ago. A housekeeper found her around seven A.M. The ambulance and then the morgue guys showed up, and the paps were camped out on her lawn the entire time, snapping photos of the body bag. There was nothing they could do—she was already gone, probably died sometime last night. But everything is still very new and her parents have been notified, and they want to keep the details hush-hush.”

  “Is there any idea of how it happened?” Merry asked.

  Emily shook her head. “No details yet.”

  “Was she sick? No one has talked to her in years, right?” She turned her head to Rose and me.

  Rose continued to gaze out the window. “She already said that no one knows what happened.”

  “Yeah, but if any of you have spoken to her recently . . .”

  Em faced the front of the car and repeated, “No details yet.”

  We pulled up at the drive-through and Emily put our regular order in, rapid-fire, via our driver. Rose accepted a Diet Coke and watched me unwrap my burger. Some things never change. I sighed. “Don’t give me that look, Rose. I know what you’re thinking, and now is not the time.”

  “I wasn’t judging. Maybe you’re projecting your emotions onto me.”

  Already the stress was melting along my jawbone and rippling down my throat. Bite after bite, I ate until I felt the clench in my stomach softening.

  * * *

  November 16, 1999

  Cassidy

  The finale is tonight. I’m sitting backstage in a room with a million other people, trying to collect my thoughts, jiggling my legs nervously and biting the skin off my thumb. Somewhere in the audience, my mother is waiting to see her little girl win this competition. And at home, my siblings are going to watch me on TV.

  Stephen St. James is nearby. We’ve been vying for the crown the past few rounds on Sing It, America! On the stage, we look out into the audience, eyes sparkling, mouths wide, encouraging our fledgling fans to cheer louder, clap harder. But backstage, we don’t talk; we barely look at each other. After each episode wraps, we’re congratulated by members of the crew as we pack up our bags and leave. I’ve never loathed someone I’ve wanted to hold before.

  But I can’t be distracted. Not when it’s the finale.

  Anna sidles up to me. She’s one of the last three contestants and a little vain. Sixteen, with dyed red hair and a number of crop tops, she’s a wild card. When she performs well, she kills it, but she’s had a few lackluster moments as well. “Hey, Cass,” she says, as if we’re friends. “You ready?”

  I take my thumbnail out from between my teeth and rub it on my skirt. “Yeah,” I reply. “Are you excited?”

  “For that record contract? I can almost taste it.”

  “We all can.”

  “But who’s actually gonna take a big bite?” she says in a singsongy voice.

  Anna is so petite, thin all over with slender arms and shins, a pearlescent white smile permanently pasted on her face, that I feel that my tight-lipped smile looks tired in comparison. Anna is so conventionally beautiful that I have to remind myself that she’s a competitor, same as Stephen, and I need to focus on winning. If I were a member of the American public voting in Sing It, America!, I would pick Anna just because she’s looks like a star already. I know it’s a knock against myself, but I feel that I look so . . . mediocre.

  The coaches have tried to help me with my image. I auditioned in Houston with my long hair pulled back into a ponytail, a tank top and denim skirt, and a pair of cowboy boots. I figured that, with so many people auditioning, I wouldn’t stand out anyway, but my friends Edie and Joanna told me to write my name in rhinestones on my shirt. Sassy Cassid
y, I painstakingly hot-glued the night before. I don’t know if it worked, but I did get a call back, and an invitation to film in L.A., and made it through the initial elimination rounds, wearing my own clothes and doing my own makeup. But as soon as I was one of the final twelve chosen for the competition, the show produced Nikki and Gary, stylists who tried to help all contestants find a “look.”

  Anna was already beautiful and fierce, so she was encouraged to brighten her burgundy hair to a fiery lava red. Her hemlines got shorter, her wedges got taller, and her eye shadow became dark and glittery.

  Stephen, with his long, lean lines and wholesome-boy charm, was outfitted in dark designer jeans with tight tees and oversize, unbuttoned collared shirts. They lightened his hair slightly for a just-spent-a-summer-in-a-pool look, spiked it tastefully with gel, and made sure that the makeup artist contoured his jawline to maximum effect.

  Me, I was a Texan with really great hair, and the first thing they did was chop it off into a shoulder-length bob. They said they wanted me to look “edgier,” presumably because I didn’t know how to dress myself. They advised a diet—which I promptly ignored—encouraged fishnets, and liked putting me in animal-print cocktail dresses. Every night we filmed an episode, Nikki and Gary sat me down in a makeup chair and lined my eyes with dark kohl and lips in dark plum. Tonight, I’m wearing a hot-pink-and-white zebra-print dress, dark tights, and combat boots. I don’t feel like me, but they assure me I look great.

  Anna wants to continue chatting, but I can feel my throat squeezing shut. “I’m going to . . . ,” I mutter and then duck away to breathe in a corner.

  While I’m humming my warm-up, a hand touches my shoulder. I turn and it’s Stephen St. James. I can never take in Stephen all at once. Sometimes it’s his long, angular nose. Sometimes I can focus only on his smell—freshly laundered clothes and a touch of cologne. Today it’s his hand; his well-manicured nails and pink-knuckled fingers that are now pulling away from my arm. “Good luck,” he says. It’s the second time he’s spoken to me directly and not in a group—the first being “hello” when we were introduced in the big room as the final twelve.