The hallway opened into a long, rectangular room that was packed with people dressed in metal-enhanced black leather. Kate had never seen so many bizarre hairdos in one room. There were dozens of people with six-inch-long Mohawks gelled to sawblade perfection and dyed in rainbow colors.

Johnny led them through the dance floor, past a few wooden tables, to the bar, where a girl with magenta hair cut into spidery spikes and a safety pin in her cheek took their orders. At the end of the bar, suspended up in the corner, was a good-sized TV that was currently tuned to MTV. No one was paying the slightest attention to it.

When the bartender returned, Johnny gave her a healthy tip and a bright smile, then led Kate and Tully to a table back in the corner, beneath the TV.

Tully immediately lifted her margarita for a toast. “To us. We totally rocked today.”

They clinked glasses and drank.

And drank.

By their third round, Tully was drunk. When the right song started—“Call Me,” or “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This),” or “Do You Really Wanna Hurt Me?”—she was on her feet, dancing all by herself right next to the table.

Kate wished she could find that kind of ease in herself, but two drinks weren’t enough to undo who she was. Instead, she sat there, watching Johnny watch Tully.

He didn’t really look at Kate until Tully went to the bathroom. “She never slows down, does she?”

Kate tried then to think of a response that would steer the conversation away from her best friend, maybe even reveal her own passionate side, but who was she kidding? She had no passionate side. Tully was candy-apple-red silk; Kate was beige cotton. “Yeah.”

Tully rushed back from the bathroom, skidded drunkenly into the bar. “Hey, it’s ten o’clock. Can we change the channel on the TV? No one is watching it anyway.”

“Whatever.” The bartender, who looked like an extra from some apocalyptic war movie, climbed up on to a stepladder and changed the channel.

Tully moved toward the TV, looking like a penitent approaching the Pope.

Then her face filled the screen. “I’m Tallulah Hart in Yelm, Washington. This sleepy town was the site of protest today when followers of J. Z. Knight and the thirty-five-thousand-year-old spirit she calls Ramtha clashed with locals over the proposed building of a compound . . .”

When it was over, Tully turned to Kate, said, “Well?” in a quiet, nervous voice.

“You were totally bitchin’,” Kate said, meaning it. “Excellent.”

Tully threw her arms around Kate and held her tightly, then grabbed her hand. “Come on. I want to dance. You, too, Johnny. We can all dance together.”

There were men dancing together, and women making out to the beat of the Sex Pistols. The girl beside Kate, wearing a black plastic miniskirt and combat boots with fishnet stockings, was dancing alone.