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at building things. Last year he built a model of the Roman Coliseum out of sugar cubes.
)
    We drive out of the tube, which is another name for the tunnel, and Howard makes a left turn at the traffic light. Aunt Rootie, who is now very awake, starts shouting.
    “Howard. Howard! Turn right at this next light! You beat the traffic that way. I’ve been driving in this city for years. Trust me.”
    Howard nods, but I don’t think he needs help from Aunt Rootie. He drives right between a bus and three taxis.
Molto
amazing. Venus and I look out the windows and count how many people Howard almost runs over before we get to Jazz’s office.
    Howard zigs, zags, and then makes a right turn. Our people count is eighteen and a half.
    Jazz reaches into her bag and pulls out herphone. She flips it open. Howard turns the car closer to the curb.
    “Hey, Hoyt. JD. We’re pulling up. Tell everyone to get ready.” (
“JD.” Jazz is so you-know-what.
)
    “Ready for what?” I ask.
    Jazz smiles. “You’ll see.”
    Venus leans closer to me and whispers, “The incredible, cool makeover.”
    I nod and smile as Howard gets out of the car and walks around to the sidewalk, where he opens the door.
    “Okay. Everybody out,” says Jazz. “Thank you, Howard.” She glances at her watch. “We’ll see you again in about a little over an hour.”
    (
An hour? Magazine people can do an incredible, cool makeover in only an hour? They are almost as fast as a real fairy godmother.
)
    “Follow me, everyone,” Jazz says as she turns to go into the building.
    I look up. This building is really, really, seriously really tall.
    “Did I ever tell you girls about the time I wasalmost a Rockette?” says Aunt Rootie, as she follows us through the revolving doors into the lobby.
    “You were almost a Rockette?” we all say. Our voices echo. This lobby has acoustics way more
bene
than even the hallway at HST.
    Aunt Rootie laughs as Jazz gathers the three of us by the long security counter.
    (
It’s something like the one Mrs. Katterman has in the office, only this one is marble and Mrs. Katterman’s is plastic. The security guard looks like he’s even harder to get past than Mrs. Katterman.
)
    “They’re with me,” Jazz says, showing him her identification badge. “Come with me, ladies.”
    We snake through the red velvet ropes and head for a long double row of elevators.
    One of the doors in the middle right row opens and we step inside. Jazz pushes a button that lights up with the number forty-two.
    My ears pop.
    Bing
    The door opens. “Welcome to
U Grl
!
”
    We step into the reception area and face the name of the magazine in big orange and purple letters on the back wall.

    The walls are painted the same color as my wicked green stickies.
    Venus whispers, ’Very cool.”
    A girl gets up from behind a desk and takes our coats. (
Luckily my mother didn’t make me wear my poofy coat.
)
    Jazz crooks her finger for us to follow. We go down a hall with lots of offices and turn left. Then right. Then left. Right. Left.
    We finally reach a door at the end of a long hall that says Conference Room.
    Jazz smiles at me. “Ready?”
    “Ready!” (
Coolability meter, get ready to boing.
)
    Jazz opens the door.
    Aunt Rootie gasps.
    Venus gasps.
    I think I have to go to the bathroom.
    If this is my makeover, it’s going to be very weird. Everyone is wearing fedoras, sneakers, and bowling shirts with names embroidered on their pockets.
    …They all look like me!
    (
Especially the one who looks like she hasn’t combed her hair.
)

Fourteen
    Jazz puts her arm around me.
    “This is our Zoey!”
    Everyone applauds.
    (Applause? Getting weirder.)
    “Hello, Zoey. I’m Cindy Fowler, the executive editor of U
Grl.
So nice to meet you.
    The lady with short, white hair shakes my hand. “We are so excited to have you here.”
    “You are?”
    Jazz laughs. “Can’t you tell?”
    I look at everyone wearing fedoras that look just like mine (
or technically my