But then I got a phone call.

“I have a proposition for you,” Marsha Campbell said. “We have a girl group. They need a fourth.”

“And you want me to be the fourth?” I squeaked, looking in disbelief at the receiver. No one else had answered the phone; my parents were at work, the twins were at the Y, and Robbie was shooting hoops.

“Not quite. We’d like to audition you to be the fourth.”

“I—”

“You’re the right age, the right voice. We already know you can sing,” she added. “We just need to know if you’ll vibe with these girls. Are you interested?”

“Wh—Yes!”

“Perfect. I’ll leave you information on the details. Can you fly out this week?”

When I hung up, I was in a daze. Then, shrieking, hopping out of the kitchen chair so violently that it fell over in a clatter, I tore around the house.

My parents did not like it. “Your education is first and foremost,” they said. “Don’t you want to finish summer school?”

“But this is the opportunity of a lifetime—I’ll be back in a few days and will only miss two days, tops. I won’t even miss my session with Dr. Brant.”

They finally relented, and my father walked me to my gate at Hobby Airport and sat with me while I waited for my flight. “We wanted to give you this,” he said, pulling out a box. It contained a little silver brick with a blue screen—my first cell phone—and I clasped it with surprise. “Promise me you’ll call every day,” he said.

It wasn’t my first time flying alone, but it was the first time I felt like an adult while I was flying. It was a new experience, to fly out for a job interview. I didn’t even have time to check in to my hotel; a driver whisked me away from the baggage claim and deposited me neatly on the front steps of Big Disc’s offices. I was passed around from receptionist to assistant to a maroon chair outside an office door that swung open to reveal Marsha Campbell. She gestured me inside, already standing to greet me at her desk, arm outstretched for a handshake.

“Hi, Cassidy,” she said as we shook hands like grown adults. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” I said, resisting the urge to wipe my sweaty fingers on my jeans, determined to put my best foot forward.

She gave me a short once-over with her eyes, gray-flecked and serious. Then she smiled. “Let’s meet the girls, shall we?”

I FOLLOWED MARSHA’S tousled red head down a maze of corridors until we reached a door with a long, rectangular window. “Here we are,” she said, twisting the knob and revealing three girls seated in various stages of boredom around a conference table. There was a warbling voice that I realized was not emanating from any of them but streaming from a shoebox-size cassette player.

Three faces turned toward me, all blank in expression. The girl in the middle, with ice-blue eyes, stopped the tape and gave me a small hopeful grin.

“This is Meredith,” Marsha said, as ice-blue waved a hand. “Yumiko, Rose.”

Yumiko half-stood from her chair and reached out a hand without changing expression. I put a hand out as well and shook it. “Usually people call me Yumi,” she said with a touch of warmth, then sat back down again. Her voice was soft and wispy.

Rose, however, did not move. Her hands remained clasped on the table and her back was rod-straight.

“Well,” said Marsha. “Girls, Cassidy’s vocals suit what we’re looking for, so I think that she’s a good fit. I’ll just leave you four in here so you can get to know one another. Buzz if you need anything.” She closed the door behind her.

I pulled out a seat. We stared at one another.

Yumiko was one of the most naturally beautiful women I had ever seen. Long, black hair framed a delicate oval face. Her brown eyes were slightly far apart, giving her a sly, cattish sort of look, and a long flat nose led to a perfect cupid’s bow on a small mouth. When she’d stood up for our handshake, I’d noticed she was an hourglass of curves, clad in a shiny metallic jacket and shimmering dark jeans.

If Yumiko was warm-toned, Meredith was the complete opposite: blond curls and pale white skin, offset by berry lips. She wore a cropped tank top and bleached jeans with enough space between the two that it was apparent she was the most confident of the three about her body. She wore her skin like it was an expensive coat that she took for granted. I’d known girls like her in middle school—while the rest of us worried about our early-blooming breasts or sudden six-inch growth spurt that left our legs looking like sticks, she was the one that puberty was kind to, sharpening the childish angles of her face, growing hips gradually instead of overnight. The ones who were cheerleaders, the ones the sixth-graders worshipped.

Rose’s eye contact was unnerving. She was petite—Edie’s size, maybe—but her small body was coiled tight. One Doc Martens–enclosed foot tapped against the chair leg, unable to reach the ground. Aside from a fairly unremarkable face, which reminded me of a gerbil with its long dark lashes and tiny pointed nose, I realized it wasn’t just her staring that immobilized me. It was her unblinking eyes: one was brown, the other blue.

I suddenly found my voice. “So . . . hi. I’m Cassidy.”

“Don’t get too comfortable, Cassidy,” Rose declared in a soft, clipped tone. “We’ve been interviewing dozens of girls.” She gestured to the tape player, which I gathered had been playing their other choices before I’d walked into the room. Seems like my parents didn’t have much to worry about, after all.

“Rose, do you always have to be nasty to every new person we meet?” chided Meredith. Her attention swiveled to me. “We saw you on TV. You were good.”

My mouth involuntarily lifted in one corner. “Thanks.”

“Not that we regularly tuned into that show, but Marsha sent us clips when she wanted to throw your name in.”

“Thank you,” I repeated. “Um . . . so what is your band?”

“We’re from San Francisco. Well, not actually San Francisco, but the Bay Area?” Meredith said.

“We, minus one person,” said Yumiko.

“We got this deal here,” Meredith said, in my direction, “but our fourth—Viv—had to back out unexpectedly. But the group just doesn’t sound right with only three people, you know? It’s, like, unbalanced.”

“Why did she leave?” I asked, while also wondering if maybe I shouldn’t ask.

“None of your business,” Rose said, flint in her voice. She hadn’t shifted position, hadn’t moved her arms from that clasped position on the tabletop. But her foot continued to skitter against the chair leg.

Admonished, I looked down at my hands. Long fingers, pink nail beds. I had a flash of the last time I was in Los Angeles, of that boy whose hands I’d looked at before he went onstage. Stephen St. James. This was his label. He might have sat in this room. He might be in the building right now. The sudden thought streaked across my mind before I remembered why I was there.

“Oh. Sorry,” I murmured.

“Anyway,” Yumiko said brightly, trying to change the subject, “we’re also figuring out a new manager. We’re all up in the air but hopefully we’ll get it all figured out soon.”