Kate hitched her leg over the end of the sofa and sat down.

On-screen, the theme music died down and Tully walked onto the cozy, we’re-just-a-couple-of-girls-hanging-out-in-your-family-room set. As usual, she looked beautiful. Last year she’d decided to let her hair grow out into a sleek shoulder-length bob, and she’d returned to her natural reddish-brown color. The sophisticated girl-next-door cut and color only emphasized her high cheekbones and chocolaty eyes. A few well-placed shots of collagen had given her perfect lips, which she coated in just a hint of gloss but almost no color.

“Welcome back to The Girlfriend Hour,” she was saying now, trying to be heard over the din of applause. Kate knew that people sometimes stood in line for six hours to be in the studio audience, and why not? The Hour, as it was called by fans and media alike now, was fun and breezy and occasionally even inspiring. No one ever quite knew what Tully would say or do next. It was part of what kept people tuning in, and Johnny made sure that everything ran like a well-oiled machine. True to her word, Tully had made them all rich, and Johnny, in turn, always made Tully look good.

Tully sat onstage, in the cream-colored chair that was hers. The pale color made her look more vibrant, larger than life. She leaned forward to talk intimately with both the audience and the camera.

Kate was instantly hooked. While she watched Tully reveal her makeup and hair secrets to the rest of America, Kate paid bills and dusted the Levolor blinds and folded laundry. After the show, she clicked off the television and sat down again to work on her Christmas list. She was so engrossed in this project, it took her a moment to realize her phone was ringing. She glanced around, saw the cordless phone on the floor under a pile of Legos, and answered it. “Hello?”

“Kate, is this you?”

“Yes.”

“Thank goodness. It’s Ellen, from Woodward. I’m calling because Marah isn’t in her fourth-period class. If you forgot to sign her out, that’s—”

“I didn’t forget,” Kate said, realizing how sharp she sounded. “Sorry, Ellen. Marah is supposed to be in class. Let me guess: Emily Allen and Sharyl Burton are absent, too.”

“Oh, boy,” Ellen said. “Do you know where they are?”

“I have a pretty good idea. When I find them I’ll call you. Thanks, Ellen.”

“Sorry, Kate.”

She hung up the phone and glanced at the clock: 12:42.

It didn’t take an advanced degree to figure out where the girls were. Today was Thursday, the day the new movies opened at the Pavillion. Coincidentally, that new teen queen—Kate couldn’t remember her name—had a new movie out.