“Oh.” I felt gloomy again. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“But I’m also saying this!” she barreled on. “You have contacts now. You did that show and people are aware of your name. Cass! Seize your chance! Call Emma Jake or, like, milk other connections you made while out there. Get cozy with that St. James guy. But, like, don’t put all your eggs in this basket, okay? If none of this stuff pans out, you want to be able to go to college and become, like, a veterinarian or whatever. So don’t flunk out.”
I heard the buzz of the oven timer and padded back out to the kitchen, as Edie repeated, “Don’t sit on your ass. It’s not going to happen just because you’re good. You’re going to have to go after it.”
WHILE I WAITED for the cookies to cool, I mulled over Edie’s words. Before Sing It, I had signed a lot of papers—model releases, confidentiality agreements—without giving it much thought. But I’d inadvertently also signed away many rights to Big Disc, who basically owned my likeness and any potential choices I wanted to make for the next few years. Even if I wanted to eke out a living as a singer after Sing It, I couldn’t do it without Big Disc unless I wanted to violate one of many contracts. And with my parents having five kids—one in college, the rest still living under their roof—I didn’t want to tempt the record company’s ire and risk any kind of lawsuit.
The game over, the boys tromped into the kitchen, Robbie clutching a basketball under one long arm. He snatched a cookie, dribbling powdered sugar on the table. “You should’ve made something chocolatey.”
“A thank-you would be appreciated.”
He disappeared into the depths of the house. Patrick hovered over the tray, grabbing handfuls of cookies, but I was too distracted by what Edie had said to smack his hand away.
I drummed my fingers on the table, thinking. My only options seemed to be to ask Big Disc for a place with them or wait out the option period and finish school before trying to break into the professional music scene again, which I was sure my parents would prefer. But by then, the iron would no longer be hot enough to strike.
I’d call Marsha Campbell, I decided. I would be cool and collected and wouldn’t grovel.
“What time is it?” I asked, realizing that I would have to hustle to catch her.
Patrick consulted a hideous calculator watch on his wrist. “Six thirty.”
That meant it was still before five on the West Coast, and even though it was a few days after Christmas, I figured Marsha would still be working. Adults always seemed to be working. “Pat, can you put these in the cookie jar for me when they’ve cooled down? I have to make a call. And don’t pick up the phone while I’m on it!”
I spun upstairs and hoped my parents wouldn’t mind me calling long-distance. I had to shift through a pile of stuff on my desk—homemade Christmas cards from my sisters, a snow globe from Patrick from his last trip to Boston—to find Marsha’s direct line.
“Oh, um, hi! This is Cassidy Holmes. I was on the show . . .”
“Hello, Cassidy! What can I help you with today?”
I realized I hadn’t rehearsed what I wanted to say. “Um. I was wondering if perhaps your company would be interested in taking me on. You know. As a singer.” It was all coming out wrong. It was as if all the blood was leaving my brain and pooling in my stomach. I could feel a spasm of nerves twitching in my cheek.
“I thought I’d be hearing from you.” Her voice softened and I remembered the enthusiastic and supportive woman who had been in the judges’ stand only a month earlier. “I know how much you wanted this, and you are a wonderful talent, but unfortunately, I can’t offer you anything right now. How bad would it look if you were given a contract right after not winning the competition where the grand prize is a contract? It would undermine the entire contest. And since the producers of the show are already going ahead with a second season, it’d set the wrong precedent for any future nonwinners. I’m sorry, but I can’t. My hands are tied.”
The spasm in my cheek turned into a quivering jaw as I fought back tears. “I understand,” I quavered. “No, that makes perfect sense.”
“You’re a very gifted young woman,” she continued, “and I have no doubt that you will do well for yourself. But maybe, sometime down the line . . . there may be a place for you here at Big Disc.”
“Thank you.”
I hung up, dejected. I walked down the stairs to find the cookies, cold and now hard, right where I’d left them. Sitting down heavily at the table, I picked up the fattest one.
“You’ll ruin your dinner,” Katie said, passing through the dining area with a glass of milk in hand.
“A lot of things are ruined,” I said, taking a big bite.
2.
Thursday
Merry
The light of the digital clock on my nightstand glowed red: 2:22 A.M. My body radiated like a furnace. The arm draped heavily over my bare back was piping; Raul always felt ten degrees hotter than me, no matter what the outside temperature was. Sleep was fitful. I used to be able to sleep through anything—grabbing snatches of shut-eye from hour to hour on tour buses and planes—but I suppose something in my body chemistry changed. As it was now, my body seemed to get too warm too easily.
Using my phone as a flashlight and padding barefoot down the stairs to the kitchen, I listened to the internal tick of the house. Raul and I bought this house a few months ago and I was still learning the noises. Every house has its shifts and creaks. My childhood home rumbled with thunder when it rained, and framed photos would jitter on the walls when a fire truck drove past our street. This Beverly Hills Spanish-style villa had an errant water pipe that whistled when the fridge started making ice cubes. Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether it was Sunny or just another specter.
I tucked my feet under myself in a kitchen chair and flicked on the television, flipping through channels. CNN was covering Cassidy’s death, and this time I watched it entirely, without disruptions, as I gnawed on handfuls of dry marshmallow cereal. They hadn’t discovered anything new since the earlier broadcast, though of course it was still labeled “breaking news.”
After we’d landed, Emily warned all of us to keep off social media, but her eyes were on me, as usual: don’t open your mouth, Merry; don’t say something you’ll regret, Merry. Yumi had pocketed her phone immediately without checking her messages, but Rose started sliding through texts before we’d even left the baggage claim. Yumi invited us to her house the next day to talk more about it, but I think Rose agreed because she actually wanted to discuss the upcoming movie premiere.
Rose always thought about the “big picture.”
My hired car had deposited me at the house, and Raul was home early from the set, fresh red roses placed in a vase on the kitchen island, the burners set to warm, an inviting simmering scent rich in the air. Sunny was out, so the TVs were not in their usual active and blaring mode. Usually I hated when she watched anything too loudly, but this time I had hoped to catch more of the news. Raul stopped me from reaching for the remote and attempted to feed me warm pasta sauce straight from the pan. I love Raul, I really do, but he was doing the opposite of what I wanted: I was starved for information, not for Italian food. When I pulled my face away from the wooden spoon, he gave me a wounded look. “You need to eat at a proper mealtime,” he urged, his voice warm caramel, “to readjust to our time zone.” I acquiesced by nibbling at a small bowl of pasta.