For Jenny Meyer, who totally sucks Ivy Vega trudged sleepily into the breakfast room, slid into her chair, and rested her cheek on the cool stone table. She wished she was still in her coffin. Monday mornings were the worst. "Good morning, sleepybones," her father said, placing a bowl next to her head. "Shh," Ivy murmured, her eyes closed. "I'm still sleeping." "It's your favorite," her dad coaxed. "Marsh- mallow Platelets." Ivy peered at the little white marshmallows and maroon bits bobbing in their milky sea. "Thanks," she mumbled. Her father, already dressed for work in black chinos and a black pin-striped shirt with French cuffs, sipped his tea and picked up the remote control. "There is nothing better for a young per- son's dull morning mind," he said, "than dull morning television." He flipped through the weather and some talk shows before settling on The Morning Star. "Please no," Ivy said. "Just looking at Serena Star's smile gives me sunburn." Serena Star, WowTV's best celebrity reporter, had impossibly bright, bleached blond hair and eyes that looked as if they'd been surgically enhanced to be permanently wide open in either adoration or shock. Lately she'd been trying to cast herself as a serious journalist on her own morning news show, The Morning Star. Just the other day, Ivy had turned the