Pop star is Duff's juiciest role so far. And she hasn't gotten
her due. "I feel like I do so much," she says. "And it strikes
me that I don't hear myself on the radio. That critics don't
really talk about my music. I mean, a song like 'Wake Up' [Wake
up/ On a Saturday night] is not for a 50-year-old man with
arthritis who doesn't want to get out of bed."  I suggest that
her lack of radio play has more to do with the cold economic
logic of the medium: Stations are shooting for listeners older
than her tween base. "Um, sure," Duff says. "I don't really
care." I feel a sudden twinge of empathy for parents of teenage
daughters everywhere.  The next morning, I return to Casa Duff.
Chatting with Susan, I hear shouting and yelping from the
bedroom, the Duff girls' movable slumber party, followed by the
sound of various decongestants going up Hilary's nose. And then
she emerges, a princess, her luxuriant hair released from
yesterday's sun bonnet, decked out in Juicy short shorts and
slippers festooned with cut-glass