She was so nervous she arrived at the bus stop early. Every minute that passed seemed to last an eternity, but there was still no sign of Tully when the school bus drove up and came to a shuddering stop.

Kate dropped her chin and took a seat in the first row.

All through morning classes, she looked for Tully, but didn’t see her. At lunch she hurried past the crowd of popular kids, who were busy cutting to the front of the food line whenever they felt like it, and sat down at one of the long tables at the very end of the cafeteria. On the other side of the room, kids were laughing and talking and shoving each other; these tables in social Siberia were sadly quiet, though. Kate, like the others seated around her, rarely looked up.

It was a survival skill the unpopular kids learned early: junior high was like the jungles of Vietnam; it was best to crouch low and keep quiet. So intent was she on her lunch that when someone came up to her and said, “Hey,” she practically jumped out of her seat.

Tully.

Even on this cool May day, she wore a cut-to-there miniskirt, white go-go boots, shiny black panty hose, and a tube top. Several peace-symbol necklaces bounced against her cleavage. Her hair glinted with copper streaks in the light. A huge macramé-knot purse hung against her thigh. “Have you told anyone about last night?”

“No. Of course not.”

“So, we’re friends, right?”

Kate didn’t know which surprised her more: the question or the vulnerability in Tully’s eyes. “We’re friends.”

“Excellent.” Tully pulled a package of Twinkies out of her purse, then sat down beside Kate. “Now let’s talk about makeup. You need help, and I’m not being a bitch. Really. I just know about fashion. It’s a gift. Can I drink your milk? Good. Thanks. Are you gonna eat that banana? I could come to your house after school . . .”

Kate stood outside the drugstore looking up and down the street for someone who might know her mom. “Are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely.”

The answer was slim comfort, actually. In the day they’d officially been friends, Kate had learned one thing about Tully: she was a girl who made Plans.

And today’s plan was to make Kate beautiful.

“Don’t you trust me?”

There it was, the big question. It was like rolling a Yahtzee: once Tully said it, Kate lost the game. She had to trust her new friend. “Of course I do. It’s just that I’m not allowed to wear makeup.”

“Believe me, I’m such an expert your mom will never know. Come on.”

Tully walked boldly through the drugstore, choosing eye shadow and blush colors that were “right” for Kate, and then—amazingly—she paid for everything. When Kate said something, Tully said airily, “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

On the way out of the store, Tully bumped her, shoulder to shoulder.

Kate giggled and bumped her back. They made their way through town and followed the river toward home. All the while, they talked about clothes and music and school. Finally, they turned off the old road and went down Tully’s driveway.