Rose winced as she gingerly and carefully made her way down the steps. “No, don’t do that. I can go by myself.”

“But . . .”

Decker looked annoyed. “How about I tell you who stays and who goes? I understand if you’re hurt and you think it’s necessary to get to a doctor. Cassidy, we have the most footage of you, so you can go with her. Merry, stay behind and try the tank again. Maybe we’ll get a few more seconds of you to put in the video.”

I looked at Rose, bent over double, tying the ends of a terrycloth robe around herself. I remembered the long sheet of fax paper detailing the plans for this video and hoped it would continue smoothly without Rose and me there. “I’ll stay here with Merry,” Yumi said, as if guessing my thoughts.

“Whatever you want,” Decker barked. “Merry, sweetheart, let’s get you back in the water.”

Excerpt from GLOSS: The Rise and Fall of the Millennium’s Biggest Girl Group by Christina Silverman, published 2013

“PRIME”: The Iconic Single

Yes, Britney danced with a snake; yes, Christina wore chaps and got dirrty. But the girl group moment of 2002 that blew our socks off was the entire rollout of Gloss, their second studio album (Prime), and their single of the same name.

How do we describe Prime? We first have to describe everything going on with Gloss in 2002. High off the success of their first album and a nationwide tour, the group seemed to be poised to take over the world. Gifted with monikers that showcased their personalities, Rose “Rosy,” Meredith “Cherry,” Yumi “Tasty,” and Cassidy “Sassy” Gloss were signed to headline a world tour. Their first single from Prime, “Remember,” was the song used on every radio and television station when the 9/11 attacks were mentioned, as the proceeds from the single’s sales went to a memorial foundation.

The girls shot the “Prime” music video with visionary director Noah Decker, and it proved to be one of his most notable works. Winning every category of music video award from that year, it was a seminal piece that perfectly showcased the feeling of the early aughts: the future, hurtling into the new millennium! Beautiful women enjoying their own sexual agency!

By now, the iconic moments of the video have been seen and repeated in loops, over and over, across the internet for over a decade. There’s the full group, throwing down that sick choreography in shiny silver suits, in perfect synchronization—so perfect that there was talk that the dancers were computer simulated, but then behind-the-scenes footage unearthed in 2010 showed that the girls really did dance that tightly. There’s Sassy, floating in blue water, wearing a loose lavender dress that teases a hint of her nipples at the edge of the frame. The only stark color in the palette is her bright-red lipstick. Then there’s Rosy in the sensual close-ups that seemed to be required of all music videos, but she’s not smiling, she’s not frowning—she’s staring with fierce intensity from one side of the screen to the other, never making eye contact with the viewer. It was a bold choice from the director, when all other music videos seemed to soft-focus on a woman performer’s face, gazing longingly into the lens’s eye. Rumor has it that Decker was unnerved by Rosy’s heterochromia, so he showed one side of her face at a time, never both together.

If you watch the video closely, you’ll see that Rosy has only a few seconds of footage underwater. Sources say that she was injured on set and fractured a vertebra. It was this injury that began her alleged relationship with painkillers. This was also the music video that was shot right before Sassy’s broken arm that plagued her throughout the first part of the Prime tour. Then, of course, there was the infamous fire . . .

24.

March 2002

L.A.

Cassidy

When I passed by Stephen in the hallway the next day, I felt like it was by divine design and not an accident. “Oh, the Oscars,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”

The dimples made an appearance. “Good. I’ll pick you up?”

“Fine.”

“And Merry . . . she’s okay?”

I felt my eyebrows lift in surprise. “Merry? Why wouldn’t she be?”

Sliding by me in the hallway, he called, “Check a newspaper,” and swept around a corner.

A newspaper? I could just ask Merry once I got to the meeting. But when I entered the room, the only other person there was Yumi. “Did I miss something?” I asked.

Yumi sighed and pushed a ratty copy of the Los Angeles Times across the conference table toward me. It was folded open to an article: “House Fire in Malibu Torches Kidd Home—Arson Suspected.”

I fingered the headline. “Grant’s house? ‘Firefighters were called to a blaze in Malibu on Wednesday evening. Once on the scene, around two a.m., they found heavy fire blazing in the west wing of the mansion. Owner Grant Kidd was not home at the time; the fire department was alerted by a guest staying at the house.’ Let me guess. Merry is the guest.”

“She is still at the hospital getting checked out for smoke inhalation,” Yumi said.

“They think someone set the fire on purpose?” I said, reading on.

“I think they suspect Marisa. Sorry,” she said, yawning. “We didn’t get out till close to eleven. How’s Rose?”

“She’s okay. Bruising on her spine or something. She kept mentioning the pain she had, even though they said it would go down in a few days, so they gave her a script for Vicodin. She’ll be good as new in a week.”

When Yumi learned I was going to the Oscars, she invited herself over for the prep. She sounded as though it was like going to the biggest prom ever. I hired Gail, an Oscars stylist who wore red-soled Louboutins and said such things as “you have the neck for this,” and she in turn referred me to a makeup artist who arranged to do my hair and makeup at the house.

Now, two days later, I was sitting in a barstool in my master bedroom while the Gail-appointed hair stylist curled tiny pieces of my hair and Yumi roamed around. “Strange, about the house,” Yumi remarked, as her fingers skimmed the bottom of my simple, sky-blue sheath made of slippery silk. The dress was draped over a hanger by its narrow camisole straps, and Gail had instructed me to only wear strategic body tape, which made me immensely nervous.

“What do you think of it? I know you didn’t like the driveway—”

“Not this house,” she said, sounding annoyed. “Grant’s house. You know, I think it’s weird how the police aren’t arresting Marisa for torching it.”

“Maybe it was an accident.” I shrugged. The stylist lightly touched my shoulders to remind me not to move.

Yumi fingered my jewelry—long drop earrings and a thread-thin necklace with teardrop gemstones, nestled on velvet beds—and changed the subject. “How is Alex taking this whole Oscars thing?”

“Not great. I think we’re over.” I hadn’t heard from him since the fight, and he’d hung up on me. Wasn’t that a breakup? I’d been too busy to devote much attention to his absence in my life. And if it didn’t hurt, then maybe I didn’t need him . . .

The gate buzzer rang and Yumi’s head swiveled toward the open bedroom door, as though she could see whoever was down there. “I can get it,” she said, already scurrying downstairs. A moment later, she returned with a frown. “Speak of the devil.”