What had happened to Bridget was appalling, but, as I had predicted, the college was offering her a full scholarship, and Cartwright Records had topped it by offering to pay full tuition and room and board at any American college she wished to attend.
Muffy Fowler had been philosophical when I’d congratulated her at lunch earlier in the week for managing to keep the story about what happened to Bridget out of the press.
“No one wants to write about an underage girl who was mentally tortured by a psychotic stalker that the police can’t seem to catch,” she said, shrugging over her habitual tuna-salad wrap. “And they can’t mention her name anyway, since she’s a minor. I had no trouble at all getting that one squelched. They were thrilled to write instead about how that stalker managed to secure student housing and participate in our summer session for weeks and none of us noticed. I don’t know how we’ll ever live this one down.” She bit into her sandwich. “On the bright side, though, at least no one’s talking about Pansygate anymore. And in the meantime, I’m going to play up the Rock Off angle as much as possible. That’s the only positive development that I can see.”
Muffy was right. The fact that Tania as well as all the girls and their mothers were so determined to put on the camp Rock Off despite the fact that Gary Hall was still at large in the tristate area (if he hadn’t yet found his way to Canada) had touched and even charmed the media, and the network had been inundated with requests for press passes to the event. Every major network was sending a reporter, and as a result, with all the girls’ families attending and many of the college’s donors insisting on coming too, every seat in the auditorium was full.
This was probably the reason why most of the girls—especially the extremely PR-savvy Cassidy and her mother—were so determined to go on with the show in the first place . . . and also the reason why I was so ready to be rid of them. In the corridor outside the dressing rooms earlier in the evening, I’d overheard Mallory say, “Hey, you guys, I forgot to tell you. I got a text from Bridget today. She says to tell everyone to break a leg.”
“Awww,” said several of the other girls. But not, of course, Cassidy.
“Knowing her, she means it,” she’d huffed. “She probably wants me to break a leg for real.”
“Oh, Cass, get over yourself,” Emmanuella had said. “You’re just jealous because you know if Bridget were here tonight, she could beat you, vocal nodules or not.”
“Yeah,” said Mallory. “It’s lucky for you she got those and had to be put on complete vocal rest, or you’d have to beat me and her.”
This brought laughter from all the girls . . . except Cassidy.
“Bridget did not get vocal nodules,” Cassidy said, her voice rising. “She stole that idea from Adele, and you know it, Mallory. You know she was seeing a guy over in Wasser Hall, probably that same guy—”
“Cut.” Stephanie’s voice had sounded sharp. “Girls, remember what we talked about? The legal department has said that any mention of that man will result in all your scenes being eliminated from the show. Is that what you want, Cassidy?”
“No, ma’am,” Cassidy said, but there was still resentment in her voice.
“Fine,” Stephanie said. “Why don’t we go back to how you got a text from Bridget today, Mallory, and all you girls say something supportive about her. Cassidy, you can say something bitchy, just don’t mention a man.”
Cassidy then muttered something about reality shows “not being very real” that got her sent down the hall by Stephanie “to cool off.”
A little while later, when I went to the ladies’ room, I’d found Stephanie standing over a sink, staring at her own reflection, circles under her eyes. Stephanie no longer wore cute suits and Louboutins to work. Instead, she wore jeans and Uggs and a pained expression.
“How’s it going?” I asked her, even though I knew the answer.
“I’m never having children,” she answered bleakly.
I hesitated before closing my stall door. “Yours wouldn’t necessarily turn out like Cassidy,” I pointed out.
“No,” she said. “But what if they did?”
There was no reply I could make to that. So, in an attempt to cheer her up, I said, “Tomorrow it’ll be over.”
“Thank God,” Stephanie said with a groan and turned on the faucet to plunge her face into the cool water.
That’s the thought I keep clinging to . . . that it’s the last night of Tania Trace Rock Camp, and tomorrow all the girls are going to check out and go home. Which means that Stephanie and the film crew will leave too. Which means that maybe my life will start to go back to normal.
Except that Tania and Jordan are still living in my house. And Gary Hall is still at large.
“Five minutes.” Lauren the PA ducks into the dressing room. She has her headset on. “Five minutes to curtain, ladies. You going to be ready?”
“No,” says Ashley, one of Tania’s stylists. She’s still flat-ironing Tania’s hair. “Why do we have to be on time if they aren’t shooting live?”
“Because we’ve got all the girls’ families out there,” Lauren says. “They came in to see their daughters perform. And we’re already running twenty minutes late. The natives are getting restless. There are little brothers and sisters out there who are starting not to look so adorable for the camera. Do the best you can, okay?”
Ashley sends Lauren a look over the top of Tania’s head, so Tania can’t see it. I’ve seen the look before. It means, Get off my back, only less polite.
“Where’s Jordan?” Tania asks Lauren.
“I don’t know,” Lauren says after hesitating for only a fraction of a second. “I thought he was in here with you.”
“We sprayed him, put him in his tux, and sent him on his way about ten minutes ago,” Anna, one of the other stylists, says.
“Well, then he’s either in the bathroom or saying hi to his family,” Lauren says. “I heard they all just came in.” She touches her headset. “Let me check—”
“It’s okay.” Tania whips her crystal-covered phone out from beneath her smock and begins to thumb a text. Baby, on her lap, appears undisturbed. “This is the first time he’s ever been ready before me. He’s usually always last.”