Title: Tipping Point Synopsis/Tagline: THEY are an ultra-famous threesome. SHE is a normal girl. THEY are an ultra-famous threesome in need of an opening act for their fourth tour. SHE is a normal girl who fits the bill. Pitch: Ina Galet used to be capital-O obsessed with Tipping Point. They encapsulated her fifteen-year-old life. And better yet, she was just one of the few that knew about them--which meant, when they came to her hometown, she got the chance to meet them. It didn't go well. Two years have passed since then, and Tipping Point has blown up. Wherever Ina turns she sees their faces. Wherever she goes she hears talk about them. They're impossible to escape, no matter how much she wants to. So when the opportunity arises to audition to be an opening act for the band, she can't refuse. If you can't beat them, join them, right? And anyway, it would be the perfect way to kickstart her music career. If she was picked out of the thousands and thousands vying for the spot. She is. Now she's set to join Tipping Point on the road, flying across the globe, playing a set every night. It's not going to be easy. Hector Dubois is just as awful as she remembered to be--he's entirely focused on his longtime girlfriend, Ainsley, and getting the group to change their musical direction. Wesley Allender is as friendly and open as people make him out to be, but his love of chatting girls up--including her--makes for some difficult times. And then there's Laughlin. Fan favorite by day, withdrawn and angry by night. He won't make eye contact--he won't say anything to her--even though she tries. Overall, it sucks. And she really, really wishes she'd never gotten the job in the first place. _________________________________________________ Foreword

They smiled up at me from the cover of a magazine with perfect, impeccable faces. I frowned back, probably staring too hard, as my heart pounded in my chest. The girl in front of me jerked on her wallet with one loud, annoying zip as she pulled out her card to pay for her soda. At the last minute she swiveled around to point at the very magazine I’d been ogling, saying in a lovestruck tone of voice, “I’ll take that, too.”

The cashier added it to the bag and rang her up. “That’ll be seven fifty-six.”

“Really? That’s how much it was?” She slid her shiny credit card in the slot and shook her head, scooping up her bag. “Did you ring up my coke twice or something?”

“No, hon, that magazine was five dollars.”

“Oh, sorry.” She glanced over at me, and her grin brightened. “They’re worth it though, right?”

I nodded absently and clutched my tin of altoids tighter, and praying she’d leave.

She did.

“How are you doing today?” The cashier asked in a monotone as I stepped up.

“Good, you? This is it.”

She scanned them. “Nothing else?”

My eyes were pulled back to that cover by some malicious, gravitational pull. Ugh. I leaned over and grabbed my own copy, handing it to her.

“You too?” She asked in disbelief as she rang it up. “I’ve sold about fifteen of these today, I swear. What’s the big deal? No offense to you.”

“They’re Tipping Point.”

We both turned toward the preteen girl in line behind me, witness to this crazy string of magazine-buying. Her mother edged closer to her, putting her hand on her shoulder.

“Who?” The cashier asked.

“Like, only the most famous boyband in the world like ever.” Her mouth gaped open in partial indignance. From where I was towering a good couple of feet above, I could see her gum.

“It doesn’t matter,” I assured the poor woman, who appeared more confused than ever. I handed her a ten. “It’s best if you stay in the dark.”

“What’s it, some cult or something?” She grabbed my receipt. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. You have a good day.”

“Same.” I tucked it into my pocket, scooped up my things, and was on my way.

A bell jingled above me as I stepped out into the dry sunshine, checking for cars before I crossed the wide expanse of parking lot. It was a busy day in Dollar Smart, which wasn’t unusual. I hadn’t even intended to come in—I was already running five minutes behind schedule.

I hopped into my car and flipped on the air conditioning, throwing the bag into the passenger seat. But then I stopped. I reached over and extracted the glossy magazine from the plasticy depths. They seemed brighter and more beautiful, once out of the glow of fluorescent lights.

They were even better in person.

I flipped to the article and checked the time on the dash. My obsessive-compulsive scheduling had allowed for at least twenty minutes delay, should I need it. And by my estimations, I had a full five minutes to go before getting there on time would actually start to be a problem. I might as well read up on them.

I was going to need to know everything I possibly could.