The Unraveling of Cassidy Holmes Page 2

  I nod as warmth starts creeping into my cheeks. “You too.”

  He gives a thousand-watt smile and moves on. I close my eyes and hum.

  SING IT, AMERICA! is a revolution in television. Oh, sure, reality TV competitions have been around for a while—Star Search, for one—but for some reason the public is primed for this type of show right now. Game show contestants have too much luck for the audience to feel truly invested, and scripted shows seem too contrived. Some executive somewhere decided that talented members of America’s public needed to be showcased and then bumped off week by week, with a record-deal contract and a shot at fame dangling in front of their noses at the finish line, and a million people leapt for the chance.

  Every week, we sing. Every week, a panel of five judges gives their critique or praise. Every week, the judges, with input from the call-in audience, eliminate one of the contestants. And every week, the live studio audience and the people at home glued to their television sets have something to discuss for the next few days. And tonight our fates will be decided.

  I want this so bad that my teeth ache. I tell myself to relax my jaw and I breathe slowly and deliberately through parted lips. I’m blinking perspiration off my eyelashes, blurring the row of televisions where we can see the broadcast backstage, and I’m not even under the hot stage lights yet. There’s a few seconds’ delay, but it’s almost live.

  “Find your places, please,” says a PA, sweeping through the room.

  Our host, Matilda Gottfried, walks her fingers over her lapels, adjusting every pleat on her outfit. She strides out of view and a few moments later, she’s on the screens. As the applause dies down, she clasps the microphone in her hands and shares a giant grin. “Welcome to the finale of Sing It, America! It’s been a long, wild ride with our three very talented contestants. Tonight, one of them will be chosen, by you, to be our next national pop star. They’ve been dreaming and hoping for this moment for all of their young lives. Will it be Anna Williams, a classically trained dancer who can also hit a high note? Will it be Stephen St. James, who has stolen the hearts of all American women since day one? Or will you choose Cassidy Holmes, our sassy sweetheart? Tonight’s the night when one of their lives will change forever. This entire time, you in the audience and you watching at home have been in charge of their fates. We’ve had to let some really talented people go over the past few weeks, but now we have three wonderful, dedicated hopefuls here tonight.

  “Tonight, we’re going to hear three different songs from each of our contestants. We’ll hear a ballad, a pop hit, and one of their own picks. When we give the go-ahead, call in to vote for your favorite.

  “But first, let’s meet our judges . . .” The screen cuts to the five people sitting genially in the first row. “Music producer Jenna Kaulfield.” A blonde with gray eyes and a thin mouth, she waves her acknowledgment. “Talent agent of some of the world’s greatest bands, Jonah Stern.” A man with so much bronzer on his face, his arms look like bone in comparison. “Emma Jake, eighties pop icon.” She still looks youthful, with a furry edge of false eyelashes shadowing her eye sockets and high cheekbones emphasized further with rosy blush. “Thomas Reilly, voice coach who has been working tirelessly with these contestants on honing their craft.” A man in tweed who smiles at the audience. “And finally, tonight’s guest judge, Marsha Campbell, from Big Disc Records, who will personally offer a record contract to our lucky winner. Hello, judges!”

  “Great to be here,” offers Marsha into the microphone. Her hair is a tossed salad of brown and red and gold. She looks young, maybe in her mid-thirties, and is wearing a pair of glasses with bright red frames.

  “It’s wonderful to have you all here again for this momentous occasion,” Matilda says, smiling. “But first, let’s recap our contestants’ stories.” She turns toward a large screen on the side of the stage as the prerecorded medley begins.

  It’s our journeys from the audition to this night—five months of our hearts in our throats, of not sleeping enough, of being crammed into hotels, of eating craft services. Of Nikki and Gary controlling my hair and fashion choices. Of waking up early for our lessons with Thomas Reilly—at first all of us together, then whittled down to individual sessions.

  Anna’s is first. From her audition in Minneapolis, where she showed up giggling and wearing a clear plastic rain parka over her clothes, to the warm-up lessons with Thomas in crop tops and bootleg jeans (an impressive scatting session with Thomas on the piano, her standing next to him emoting with her eyes closed, hands in the air, was used for this clip), to a smattering of her best performances so far on the show; glittery dress after glittery mini-dress; her five months with Sing It, America! summarized into a few minutes of visual poetry. After a particularly beautiful clip of her last week’s performance, the medley shows Anna at her audition again: her hair is a less radiant burgundy, her lips are pale pink instead of fuchsia, but she’s giggling and laughing as the judges ask: “Why do you want to win this competition, Anna Williams?”

  “Because,” she said, “I’m young; I’m passionate; I’m driven.” Every word is punctuated with her clapping her small hands together. “I have the chops and I’m gonna blow you all away!” And there’s no doubt in my mind that she is all of those things. I glance over at Anna, who is standing off to my side. Her hands are on her hips, her eyes are closed, and instead of preoccupying herself with her screen time, she’s warming up.

  The screen transitions and it’s Stephen’s turn. He had attended the call in Atlanta, Georgia. He’d worn cowboy boots to his audition and the judges poked fun at him. “You ride?” Jonah Stern had asked.

  “If you count my sixty-five Mustang,” Stephen had replied with a suave smirk.

  The clips continue: Stephen guffawing in disbelief when he was asked to move on to the next round. Stephen with a few of the now-axed contestants he’d become friends with, sharing laughs over a card game. A homemade video that he’d submitted at some point: a grade-school Stephen singing the national anthem at a local baseball game.

  He is amazing. In all the weeks leading up to this competition finale, I’ve never seen him misstep.

  Stephen’s video ends with his performance from the first airing, when he blew the doors off with “Unchained Melody.” The clip shows Emma Jake’s wide-open mouth at the judge’s table, and Thomas Reilly pumping his fist in the air. Quick cut: “That was magnificent,” says the prerecorded Jenna Kaulfield. “America is going to have to look out for you.”

  Fade.

  My medley is the final one. Here comes Sassy Cassidy, rhinestone shirt and all, at the Houston audition. The line had wormed its way through the convention center parking lot in the middle of a Texas June; the hair I’d painstakingly blow-dried fluffed out to a horrible mess due to the humidity. At the last minute I pulled it back into a simple ponytail and skittered up to the stage with the number 1438 pinned to my shoulder.

  Suddenly, a fluffy black makeup brush obscures the screen. Nikki is whisking dry powder on my skin; “I could see you sweating from all the way over there,” she says, jerking her head to the side. “Get it together, girl.”

  She is spraying a cloud of hairspray now, shellacking my head. As the mist settles, Matilda is back on the screen, smiling her wide smile and offering us a moment to enjoy these ads from our sponsors.

  “Two minutes,” a PA announces. We’re brought into a smaller room to wait for our respective turns. A small, lit television is on the wall, and a table in the middle holds several bottles of water. I perch on the edge of an orange sofa with my damp hands lightly touching my knees. The waistband of my tights is cutting into my belly button. Stephen, on my left, is so close that his knee is inches from one of mine. I slide my gaze from my lap to his, and I see that he’s clasped his hands tightly there: pink fingers, white knuckles, crescent-moon nail beds.

  The television is muted, but Stephen half-stands, finds the remote, turns the sound on low, and sinks back down into the couch. A waft of warm cologne and oranges trails across my body. An advertisement for a truck, shampoo, and a sitcom flicker across the screen. Then Sing It, America!’s logo appears again, and the camera pans across the hundreds of viewers in darkened auditorium seats. The judge’s panel is illuminated in the very front, and the camera cuts to Matilda once again.

  A head pokes into the room. “St. James,” the PA says, not looking at any of us. I feel the couch shift as Stephen gets to his feet. The back of his neck looks flushed and I can tell that he’s perspiring too.

  “Hey,” says Anna, a specter in the chair to my right. Her voice is small and her body seems to take up no space at all. “Break a leg, Stephen.”

  His eyelashes flick toward her once, and he smiles with his lips closed—I’d never seen him smile that grimly before—and he walks out the door.

  * * *

  Wednesday

  Rose

  We arrived at the Savoy, hiding behind our purses again until we were in the lobby. The other girls wanted to stay at a normal hotel, but I talked them into swinging the Savoy. The studio financing Lunch at Midnight had given us a per diem for the promo, but it was pitifully small. I told the others that they should use some of their Cherry Cola money to cover the rest—or, in Merry’s case, to just pull out her black Amex.

  Emily shepherded us into a waiting elevator and we stood silently as we ascended to our floor. Yumi’s and Meredith’s eyes were unfocused and staring off into the distance, and I imagined that their brains were clicking and whirring, measuring up what had happened with Cassidy—plucking thoughts of obscure, bygone days, mentally profiling any number of stalkers, wondering if maybe she’d fallen down a rabbit hole of painkillers. I stared ahead at the double doors, mentally patting down my appearance and taking inventory of what might be published in tonight’s online gossip rags: neat face, no mascara smearing, just a composed countenance. Soft leather jacket, hair in honeyed curls, ring on a necklace hidden under my crew neck, nice designer jeans that flatter my ass, good heels. My purse matched my shoes, but not too obviously so.

  “I’ll change your flights,” Emily said, leaning back into her role as assistant to all of us. “Get packed and meet me back at this elevator in fifteen minutes.”

  The elevator dinged and the golden doors slid open. Merry and Yumi, nearest the doors, slowly emerged from their thoughts and exited. As I made to follow, Emily caught my elbow. Stunned, I snatched my arm back and glared at her.

  We shared eye contact for just a moment, then she dropped her gaze.

  I went left; she moved off to the right, to the opposite end of the hall.

  Upon entering my darkened suite, I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the edge of the mauve bedspread. The entire room was glazed in warm pink, and with the curtains drawn there was only a slice of blue light making a line across the carpet. The bureau had a shadow where the television had been removed, per my usual request the day I checked in. My throat hurt, and I could feel the dry swallow ripple down my curved spine. I let my eyes lose focus on the white sliver on the ground and dabbed a dented toe into the soft nap.

  God. Cass was dead. She was not coming back. And even though we barely heard from her anymore—no one did—we’d been through so much together that it was like feeling a part of my distant family had disappeared.

  A hiccupping sob tore out of my body and I brought a hand to my mouth to stifle it. I could feel the pain of her death shivering upward, from the base of my hip bones toward my neck. Clamping my hand over my mouth, I bit down the tears and stood up, casting my eyes quickly around the room. Pack.

  I was the closest one in the group to Cass. I was allowed to take a moment to mourn.

  I needed to know more, but did I really want to hear it? Could I just imagine that maybe, for a little while, Cass was just fine? I itched to look at my phone but resisted.

  Without any regard for organization, I dumped armfuls of clothes into my suitcase. My hands trembled, and when I touched my face they were ice-cold. I applied pressure to my eyes with my chilled fingertips, checking for wetness and dabbing at my eyelashes to keep any mascara from smearing.

  I needed a drink. But the minibar had been cleared out by strict request. I touched the ring on the chain and said an affirmation: I do not need a drink.

  Taking a deep breath, I slung the suitcase to the floor and sat on it to zip it up. I jammed my sunglasses on, did a once-over of the room, and hauled myself to my feet.

  Emily was waiting with the other two. We wordlessly filed into the elevator, and Em had had the foresight to ask the hotel for additional security as we rolled our bags to the car and headed for Heathrow.

  In the VIP lounge at the airport, I slipped away from the other girls to the bar for a glass of seltzer water, but asked the bartender to throw in a thimbleful of gin. Just a taste, not even a full shot, just enough to warm my sternum when it went down. I didn’t need to get drunk, or even tipsy; I only wanted my insides to stop shivering.

  It was impossible to avoid televisions in airports; but surprisingly, Cassidy’s death wasn’t making a big splash. Her body had been found only hours earlier. Conjecture is always thrown about in these types of cases; I imagined that we’d hear all sorts of nonsense before the truth came out—if it came out at all. One of the screens nearest to the bar shared a snippet of news.

  A talking head spoke. “The body of Cassidy Holmes . . . ex-member of the once-chart-topping girl group Gloss . . . humanitarian . . . found just a few short hours ago . . . other three members of the Gloss girls . . . not reachable for comment . . . they have tweeted that they are . . . by this unexpected loss. There is no word from the Los Angeles medical examiner as to the reason . . . death. We’ll keep you updated, here . . . BBC One.” The scene switched to the London Eye for another story.

  I got off the barstool and rejoined the others, slumping in a lounge chair. Merry put a hand on my arm.

  “Rose, you okay?”

  Had I told the bartender to splash a thimbleful of gin in that glass? Or had he seen past the sunglasses and sympathetically poured a long shot? My neck was loosening, swinging as if on a light hinge. My back felt pleasantly numb, a far cry from its usual twinging. I remembered now why I relied on alcohol so much—all pain, emotional and physical, dulled. I pulled the bridge of my sunglasses down on my nose and squinted at Merry through one eye. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Come on,” said Emily, as she clasped my forearm and hauled me to my feet. “First class is boarding.”

  Yumi tucked me into my seat and then sat down next to me. “Hey, should I be worried?”

  “Chill, I’m fine.” I wanted to snarl that Yumi didn’t know me—all she knew were rumors, and rumors can be wrong. I accepted a glass of champagne from a flight attendant. I’d already slipped a little bit today—but it was not a normal day, and champagne didn’t really count. Yumi didn’t say anything else.

  The tarmac grumbled beneath us as we rolled down the runway. It magnified in my bones as a warm rattle, massaging me from the inside out. I buried my face in a pillow and dozed off. My dreams were nondescript: black, quick, dissipating like incense. At one point I woke up and saw Merry across the aisle watching a free movie on the seat-back screen, and Yumi dozing next to me. I finished the last of my flat champagne before settling back into my recliner.

  Twelve hours later, we touched down in Los Angeles. I didn’t wake until we were at the gate. I could sense the residue of the alcohol on the inside of my mind, like a window fogged with grease. My mouth tasted sour and my eyes felt sticky, like they’d been closed for too long.

  The monitors in front of us were streaming the red CNN banner as the plane rustled with the sounds of disembarkation: the puckering noise of all seat belts releasing, people standing in the aisle to reach for overhead bins.

  I fiddled with the ring on my necklace as I jammed on my shoes. Yumi clutched my arm suddenly, and I flinched away. But she wasn’t looking at my jewelry. “Rose,” she said, pointing at the seat-back screen.

  Though we couldn’t hear the sound, it was obvious that the subject of the news story was Cassidy. A photo of Cass from the shoulders up, taken a decade before, popped up in a box next to the newscaster’s head. Most people, when they are relegated to a photo box on CNN, have the indignity of a driver’s license photo, but this was an old professional picture from the height of Gloss. Head shot. World tour. Short blunt bangs and honeyed highlights, glossy pink lips. The anchorwoman looked very serious as she spoke, but our eyes were drawn to the caption below Cassidy’s photo.

  Cassidy Holmes: suspected suicide.

  * * *

  November 16, 1999

  Cassidy

  I’ve never felt more alive. The crowd is eating out of my hand. My teeth are glittering, my eyes are shining, my voice is strong. Once the initial jitteriness passed and I got out onto that stage, my confidence ballooned up inside me. I can feel the energy quivering off my body; I can almost visualize the rays moving outward and settling like a stupefying mist on the audience.

  I can win this.

  The final notes of Madonna’s “Frozen” linger in the air as I take a flourishing bow. As I unbend, I can see the audience on their feet, clapping and cheering, and the judges look pleased as well.

  Matilda is beaming. “Wow!” she exclaims. “What do you think, Jenna?”

  Jenna Kaulfield says, “It was splendid. You were splendid, dear.”

  Jonah, Emma, Thomas, Marsha: their words are a blur. I can register that my mouth hurts from my ever-widening smile, and Marsha’s last words: “If it were based on this performance alone, I would offer you a contract in a heartbeat. In a heartbeat,” she repeats, as the crowd continues to whoop.

  I am ushered off the stage to find Anna near tears. “You were so good,” she whispers, as she takes the microphone.

  We’ve made it through our ballads, and Anna is finishing up our pop round. We’re more than halfway through this nerve-racking evening, and my insides are slowly untwisting.