We moved into the second suite room, still without dialogue, barely acknowledging each other. As if she knew she couldn’t be the first to talk, Rose perched on her bed and flipped through channels, stopping when she found a rerun of The Jet-Setters. She left it on low volume, as if the walls were thin enough to wake Merry in the next room. I watched the pronounced cupid’s bow of Lucy Bowen’s mouth undulate on the screen, though I was unsettled to feel Rose’s eyes flicker on me instead.

AT DAWN, THERE was already a crowd outside of Sunrise’s first-floor studio window.

We were whisked away to the dressing rooms in jeans and wide-collared shirts. Even at this hour the hallways were bustling with personnel. Yumi, Rose, and I sat quietly, eyes closed and listening to Muzak, in our separate little chairs as the hair and makeup stylists worked. Our bodies, on West Coast time, had hit the snooze button. Merry, on the other hand, had banked so many hours of sleep during our travel that she was wired and chatty.

How strange, I thought, as someone soothingly combed out my hair and spritzed it with spray. That we were here, doing this. That we’d be on television and my mom would tape it for the rest of the family. That Alex and Edie and Joanna would catch the broadcast in different time zones, if they weren’t sleeping through it. That the next few months we’d be working continuously, and that this soft tiredness on the edges of my eyes, in between my brows, was going to be pleasant compared to the bone-deep weariness that would be setting in over the course of the coming weeks.

As blush was being applied to my cheeks, Merry uttered a gasp of disbelief. “We’re going on stage in those?”

Those turned out to be full latex suits in different colors. Laid out on hangers, they looked like doll’s clothes. I thought I knew what we’d be wearing on tour, and this had not been in our fittings.

“Will they fit?” Yumi asked doubtfully, examining one.

Ian, who had merely checked a box ensuring the clothes had been in the cargo for the tour, also looked at them apprehensively. “I’m sure they had your measurements,” he said slowly.

“They’ll stretch,” I added, but I didn’t know how I could go out in that. All other performances I’d seen on The Sunrise Show had been flamboyant, sure, but nothing as gratuitously skintight as this.

“Someone call Peter,” Merry said, looking with disdain at the tiny catsuit. “I doubt this will end well.”

But Peter did not budge. “They’re hot!” he argued on the phone. “The designer assured me they stretch just fine. And what else can you wear while you’re out there—jeans? Don’t bother me with petty stuff like this. Just put the damn things on!”

So Ian left, and we tried to change. Merry tugged on her suit while a stylist was still chasing after her with a can of hairspray. “Cassidy, zip me up?” she said, wriggling her arms into the long sleeves. The suit was ice-blue and covered her entire body, from neck to ankle, but it hugged every curve like a second skin. Every time she moved, she squeaked, and she pulled at the crotch with both hands. “This is more invasive than a visit to the gynecologist,” she groused.

With thick-soled shoes that added three inches to her height, she looked like a genuine pop star. Our debut on national television was going to get tongues wagging, that much I knew.

“This doesn’t breathe,” Yumi complained, as she zipped into hers—black, of course. Mine was dark blue.

The makeup artist was aghast. “You’re supposed to sprinkle baby powder inside the suit so that your skin isn’t sticking directly to it! Didn’t your costumer tell you?” She shifted bottles around on the table, searching for some.

“You’d be surprised what they don’t tell us,” Merry said wryly. She pulled at the neck of her suit and sprinkled the proffered powder down the front and jumped up and down to disperse it.

Yumi opted to peel hers off and sprinkle powder inside before yanking it back on again. There was no costumer to wipe away the white spots that made it to the outside, so the makeup artist did that for her.

Rose twisted into her pink suit. “I blame Britney for this.”

Merry shifted in the mirror, looking at her body from all angles. “My boobs are stretching this thing within an inch of its life!” she commented. “I can barely breathe.”

“That’s not your boobs, that’s your ass.” Rose flicked an eye toward Merry’s rear end. “Less regular Coke, more Diet, Merry.”

“Aw, screw you, Rose!”

We were ushered outside to wait behind the patio stage. The crowd was a wavering blob of colors and noise and rectangular boards. The fluorescent poster boards were easier to read than the people holding them; they expressed birthday wishes, anniversary kisses, hellos to people at home, all wanting their tiny slices of broadcast fame. I could see Milena Vaclavik’s side profile as she spoke to a camera amid a spattering of enthusiastic viewers, and then we were tipped to ascend the shallow stage. I nervously looked at the faces, trying to single out anyone who shouldn’t be there. I wondered if those people would be fast-forwarding through our parts on the VCR while slowly parsing the crowd scenes. Perspective. We may have flown in on a private jet, but to thousands across the nation we were just the musical filler, the background to their loved one’s tiny moment of fame.

“This is Gloss with their debut single, ‘Wake Up Morning.’ What a perfect title for our viewers!”

It was barely ten and already the buildings were baking in the summer sun. The unforgiving latex made me feel like I was encased in tin foil. Merry and Rose, both so fair, began to turn pink.

We took our places—Rose and Merry in the front as main vocals, Yumi and me in the back, and waited for the backing music. While we grasped a hold of our microphones, I found myself reading the signs.

HI DAD

NANA PAPA WE LOVE YOU

LOUISIANA GIRLS LOVE NYC

GO SASSY CASSIDY GO GLOSS

A quick pang of fear quivered down in my stomach, ricocheted off every surrounding organ. I glanced up at the face to see who was holding this sign.

I squinted. Was that . . . ?

Teeth glinting in a large, smiling mouth; sunglasses wrapped around his eyes so it was hard to tell, but . . .

There went the opening bars to the music, and I snapped back to the task at hand. We were a well-oiled machine and our dancing was crisp.

Every morning when I wake up

I feel a pang when I remember you’re not here

But then I recall that you kissed me goodbye

And told me that you’d always be near . . .

We were in the middle of the second verse when the crowd began to buzz with agitation. Normally I lose myself when performing, but out in the daytime like this, on an outdoor stage without extra lighting, the audience was visible and took up more attention than usual. It wasn’t the typical grooving or hand-clapping that we’d grown accustomed to—they seemed distracted, pointing at the stage, murmuring. I wasn’t sure what was going on. They whooped and clapped when we finished our set.

As we exited the stage, the crowd shifted away from us, homed in on the camera crews like minnows. We were being led back toward the building, but I craned my head and looked for that guy again. Maybe he’d fight his way inside.

“God!” Merry said as soon as we were inside. “Fuck!”