And there we are; facing why I am here. "I guess I screwed up," I say quietly.

He stares at me, waiting.

"I need a job, Fred," I say. "I'll do anything."

"I don't have any anchor spots open, Tully, and even if I did, you wouldn't be happy-"

"Anything," I say again, fisting my hands. Shame burns my cheeks.

"I can't pay-"

"Money isn't my priority. I need a chance, Fred. I need to prove that I'm a team player."

He smiles sadly. "You've never been a team player, Tully. That's why you are a superstar. Do you remember how much notice you gave me when you got the network job in New York? None, that's how much. You came to my office, thanked me for the opportunity, and said goodbye. This is the first time I've seen you since."

I feel hopelessness well up. I refuse to let him see how deeply his words affect me, though. Pride is all I have left.

He leans forward, rests his elbows on his desk, and steeples his fingers. Through the vee, he stares at me. "I have a show."

I straighten.

"It's called Teen Beat with Kendra. It's thirty minutes of nothing much, really. But Kendra's a mover and shaker like you were. She's a senior at Blanchet and her father owns the station, which is how she got a show for teens. Because of her school schedule, it tapes in the early morning." He pauses. "Kendra needs a cohost, kind of a straight man to keep her from overemoting. Can you play second banana to a nobody on a fourth-rate show?"

Can I?

I want to be grateful for this offer-and I am grateful, honestly-but I am also hurt and offended. I should say no. In the great reformation of my image quest, this will do almost nothing for me.

I should say no and wait for something more worthy of me.

But it has been so long. Being out of work, being nothing, is killing me. I can't live this un-life anymore. And it can't hurt to do a favor for this station's owner.

And maybe I can mentor Kendra the way Edna Guber mentored me all those years ago.

"I'll take it," I say, and as I agree, I feel this huge weight sliding off my shoulders. A genuine smile tugs at my mouth. "Thank you, Fred."

"You're better than this, Tully."

I sigh. "I used to think so, too, Fred. I guess that's part of my problem. I'll succeed here. You'll see. Thank you."

CHAPTER Thirteen

That night, I stay up late, surfing the Internet, finding out all that I can about my new cohost, Kendra Ladd. There is precious little. She is eighteen years old, a reasonably good athlete with stellar grades and a full-ride scholarship to the UW in the fall. She apparently came up with her show idea because kids are disenfranchised and confused these days. Her goal is to "bring teens together." At least this was her answer in the Miss Seafair competition last year, in which she was first runner-up. A "disappointing finish," apparently, which she wouldn't let "derail" her.

At that, I roll my eyes and think: Listen to this, Katie. Hours later, when I go to bed, I am exhausted but I can't sleep. The night sweats are so unbearable I get up at two and take a sleeping pill, which knocks me out; the next thing I know, my alarm is bleating.

I am so wrung out and medicated, it takes me a second to figure out why my alarm is ringing.

Then I remember. I throw the covers back and stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed. It is five o'clock and I look like something a gillnetter has dragged in with the day's catch. I don't suppose a show like Teen Beat has a makeup person, so I ready myself as best I can. I put on a black suit that is too tight, with a white blouse, and leave my condo. In no time, I am pulling up to the studio.

It is a nice Seattle predawn morning. I check in at the desk (security since 9/11 has changed everything about my profession-even on a nothing show like this) and go to the studio. A producer, who is young enough to be my son, greets me, mumbles something that might be recognition, and leads me to the set.

"Kendra is pretty green," he says as we stand behind the camera. "And challenging. Maybe you can help her." He sounds doubtful.

The moment I see the set, I know I am in trouble. It looks like a stuck-up teenage girl's bedroom, complete with enough sports trophies to sink a small yacht.

And then there is Kendra herself. She is tall, and Q-tip-thin, wearing tiny denim shorts, a plaid shirt with ruffles around the collar, a fedora with a gold lame hatband, and what we used to call come-fuck-me pumps in the old days. Her hair is long and curly and makeup enhances her spectacular natural beauty.

She is leaning back against her dresser, talking to the camera as if it is her closest confidant. "... Time to talk about texting rules. Some of the kids I know are, like, making Herculean mistakes. In the old days, there were, like, books to tell you what to say and how to act, but we, like, don't have time for old school now, do we? Teens today are on the go-go-go. So Kendra is going to step in to the rescue." She smiles and moves away from the dresser, walking casually toward the bed. There is a blue X on the floor-her mark-which she misses. "I've come up with a list of five things that should never be texted." She moves across the room, misses her mark again. Tully hears the cameraman curse under his breath. "Let's start with sexting. Face it, girls, boob shots to your guy are a no-no-"

"Cut," the director says, and the cameraman breathes a sigh of relief.

"Kendra," the director says. "Can you stay on script?"

Kendra rolls her eyes and starts playing with her phone.

"Go on," the producer says, giving me a shoulder pat that might have been meant to be reassuring but feels more like a shove.

I square my shoulders and walk onto the set, smiling.

Kendra frowns at me. "Who are you?" she says to me. Into her mic, she says, "I have a stalker."

"I am hardly a stalker," I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.

She pops her gum. "You look like a waiter in that suit." She frowns. "No. Wait. You look kinda like someone."

"Tully Hart," I say.

"Yeah! You look like her, only fatter."

I clench my jaw. Unfortunately, my body picks this exact moment to overheat. A hot flash tingles uncomfortably across my flesh. Pins and needles. My face turns beet-red, I'm sure. I can feel myself sweating.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I snap. "I'm Tully Hart, your new cohost. There's nothing for me to do on today's script, but we can talk about tomorrow. In the meantime, you need to hit your mark. It's the sign of a professional."

Kendra stares at me as if I have just sprouted a beard and begun braying. "I don't have a cohost. Carl!"

The young producer is beside me in an instant, pulling me back into the shadows.

"And Carl is?" I ask.

"The director," the producer sighs. "But it really means she's going to call daddy. Did they tell you she's already had four cohosts fired?"

"No," I say quietly.