“Cassidy,” Matilda says. “It’s the last song. Of the last show you’ll do with us. On Sing It, America! Are you ready?”
“I am.” I breathe in deeply. I embody the song. I part my lips and exhale.
Stephen sang of lust and yearning, I sing of loss and love. We’re yin and yang.
* * *
THE NIGHT THE votes are counted is excruciating. The finale is a two-parter and we’re sent back to the hotel for the tallying. I find myself tucking my knees to my chest and thinking too much. What will I do once I win? Because I can’t imagine myself not winning. I was so good. So strong.
The night of the crowning, the three of us are one mass, holding hands as we enter the stage, clinging to one another in support. No matter how annoying I find Anna, I can’t let go of her, and no matter how much I want to beat Stephen, I find myself gripping his palm. Matilda draws this moment out long enough that the crowd is fiery with anticipation.
We’re squeezing, we’re squeezing, we’re squeezing.
“And the audience voted . . . and the winner of Sing It, America! is . . .”
The crowd’s screams drown out the sudden hum in my ears. It’s like someone turned the sound off in the room. There’s a shimmer of shiny confetti floating continually down onto the stage like snow, as if we are on a daytime game show. I see Matilda in her tottering heels, backlit by stage lights, as she hugs Stephen St. James. The auditorium is an electric blue, reflecting the cool light off all the shining surfaces. Anna is crying and hugging me. I realize that my eyes are wet too, and I’m hugging her back. This, this isn’t happening. This can’t be real life.
It wasn’t my name.
Part I
Self-Titled (2000–2001)
The Los Angeles Times. November 18, 1999. Arts & Entertainment.
“Sing It, America!,” the singing competition that has taken the television world by storm, ended Wednesday after Tuesday’s two-hour, heart-stopping voting finale. Anna Williams, 16; Cassidy Holmes, 17; and Stephen St. James, 20, were the three chosen finalists. Mr. St. James, of Atlanta, Georgia, won the audience’s hearts—and hands, as they dialed in overwhelming numbers to vote for him at the end of Tuesday night’s performances.
The show creators are happy with the outcome and are planning a “bigger and better” “Sing It” season two. “It was an amazing experience,” said Mr. St. James. “I feel incredibly blessed.” Mr. St. James’s grand prize includes a three-album contract with Big Disc Records and a spokesperson role with sponsor Mountain Cola.
The Houston Chronicle. November 18, 1999. Entertainment. Page N2 (blurb).
Houston’s own Cassidy Holmes, 17, failed to win her coveted “Sing It, America!” crown on Wednesday evening’s show finale. The Meyer Park High School student was one of three finalists in the competition, but was voted as a runner-up instead of the grand-prize winner.
Stephen St. James of Atlanta, GA, was the champion of the night, beating out Ms. Holmes and fellow contestant Anna Williams, of St. Paul, MN.
The series’ premiere season was one of the most popular on its network, with more than 20 million viewers watching Tuesday’s performances and Wednesday’s winner reveal.
1.
December 27, 1999
Houston
Cassidy
Clouds of white blew off the top of the beaters as I dusted more powdered sugar over the running mixer. Finely milled fluff settled on Katie’s head, giving her eyelashes and her hair a gray cast. Melanie sneezed.
“Not into the mixing bowl!” Katie exclaimed, shoving her body between the cookie dough and Melanie, who wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
Mom was relaxing after our frenzied Christmas, watching reruns of The Jet-Setters while sitting on the overstuffed living room couch. During a commercial break she muted the TV and glanced over the tops of her glasses. “We already have enough Christmas cookies to last us until Valentine’s.”
Katie snorted. “Patrick and Robbie will eat all those before supper.” From our spot at the counter, covered in baking trays, measuring cups, and spoons, we could hear the intermittent slap-pop of a basketball in the driveway. Every now and then there was a shout of indignation that carried into the house.
Mel washed her hands and picked up a wax-wrapped stick of butter to grease a baking tray. She was the quieter of the two, and—I suspected—the late bloomer. Until this year, the twins had been happy to dress alike and do everything together, as a pair. Now, as they were entering their teen years, they were growing more into themselves and branching away from each other. Katie had cut her hair short while Melanie kept hers long. While Katie was starting to get a little attitude, Mel was still wide-eyed and sweet. I hoped she’d stay that way.
The front door slammed and Patrick appeared, stretching over us to reach into a cupboard for a glass.
“You smell like armpits,” I complained. “Your stink will get in the batter.”
“You mean, it’ll improve it,” he said, filling the glass with water from the sink.
“Shut up,” I grumbled. I was a little put out that I had to give up my room—which had been Patrick’s room—during Christmas vacation, but such is life when you have four siblings, three of whom still live at home and one who comes back for the major holidays. I knew Patrick was stinking up my mattress with his smelly feet and displacing my stuff with his.
“Don’t be so sensitive, sis,” he said, gulping the water down and heading back out to his game. I deflated a bit.
When I lost the contest, I’d cried on national television—live. The entire time I had been in that Los Angeles hotel, dreaming, scheming, and singing, I’d thought ahead to the point where I’d won. Of all the doors the record company would open, of singing for a living and having my voice heard around the world. The possibility of losing was always there, of course, but I’d refused to acknowledge it, for fear of bringing that outcome to fruition. The more positive I was, the more positive the results would be.
Perhaps I should have thought of the alternatives, so I could be better equipped to handle the disappointment. As it turned out, my blotchy face was transmitted to over twenty million viewers.
My mother found me in the yellow room after the airing was complete, when the industrious bees that worked for the show started sweeping away the confetti mess. I was on the same orange couch, fighting to breathe through my stuffed-up nose. She’d sat down next to me and touched my back with one hand. This tiny gesture made me dissolve into tears again. She let me cry for a few minutes, rubbing the spot between my shoulder blades, then said, “Let’s go home.”
Mortification turned me into a recluse. I didn’t want the outside world to see me after that loss and had hidden myself away ever since. I’d begged for time off from school, and, having never been embarrassed on television before, my parents conferred among themselves about what to do. In the end, we sat down at the kitchen table and they agreed I could skip school until after winter break, when I would be responsible for making up all the assignments I’d missed.
Christmas had been a welcome respite, even though I had to bunk with Mel and Katie. Gifts were always sparse on Christmas; we preferred quality over quantity. The twins had the great idea to pool our money and get the entire family tickets to a Rockets game, even though only our brothers cared about basketball. The smiles never left their faces. Now, two days after Christmas, the glow from the day was starting to fade and my thoughts strayed back to the competition; the wound was still so fresh that it filled my eyes with tears when I touched upon it.