"You have to admit he's good-looking," Bree pressed, leaning against my kitchen counter.

"Of course I admit it. I'm not blind," I said, busily opening cans. It was my night to make dinner. The washed, cut-up chicken was sitting naked in a large Pyrex dish. I dumped out a can of cream of artichoke soup, a can of cream of celery soup, and a jar of marinated artichoke hearts. Voila: dinner.

"But he seems like kind of a player," I continued mildly. "I mean, how many people has he gone out with in the last two weeks?"

"Three," said Tamara Pritchett, unfolding her long, skinny frame onto the bench in out breakfast nook. It was Monday after noon, the beginning of the third week of school. I could safely say the Cal Blaire's arrival in the sleepy town of Widow's Vale was the most exciting thing that had happened since the Millhouse Theater burned to the ground two years ago. "Morgan, what is that?"

"Chicken Morgan," I said. "Delicious and nutritious." I reached into the fridge for a Diet Coke and popped the top. Ahhh.

"Toss me one of those," Robbie said, and I got him one. "How come when a guy dates a lot, he's a player, but if a girl does, she's just picky?"

"That is so not true," Bree protested.

"Hello, girls and Robbie," my dad said, wandering into the kitchen, his brown eyes somewhat vague behind his glasses. He was wearing his usual uniform: khaki pants; a button-down shirt. Short sleeved because of the weather; and a white T-shirt underneath it. In the winter he wears the same thing except with a long-sleeved shirt and a knit sweater vest over it all.