The Carrie Diaries and Summer in the City. Candace Bushnell

       CHAPTER ONE A Princess on Another Planet

      They say a lot can happen in a summer.

      Or not.

      It’s the first day of senior year, and as far as I can tell, I’m exactly the same as I was last year.

      And so is my best friend, Lali.

      “Don’t forget, Bradley, we have to get boyfriends this year,” she says, starting the engine of the red pickup truck she inherited from one of her older brothers.

      “Crap.” We were supposed to get boyfriends last year and we didn’t. I open the door and scoot in, sliding the letter into my biology book, where, I figure, it can do no more harm. “Can’t we give this whole boyfriend thing a rest? We already know all the boys in our school. And—”

      “Actually, we don’t,” Lali says as she slides the gear stick into reverse, glancing over her shoulder. Of all my friends, Lali is the best driver. Her father is a cop and insisted she learn to drive when she was twelve, in case of an emergency.

      “I hear there’s a new kid,” she says.

      “So?” The last new kid who came to our school turned out to be a stoner who never changed his overalls.

      “Jen P says he’s cute. Really cute.”

      “Uh-huh.”Jen P was the head of Leif Garrett’s fan club in sixth grade. “If he actually is cute, Donna LaDonna will get him.”

      “He has a weird name,” Lali says. “Sebastian something. Sebastian Little?”

      “Sebastian Kydd?” I gasp.

      “That’s it,” she says, pulling into the parking lot of the high school. She looks at me suspiciously. “Do you know him?”

      I hesitate, my fingers grasping the door handle.

      My heart pounds in my throat; if I open my mouth, I’m afraid it will jump out.

      I shake my head.

      We’re through the main door of the high school when Lali spots my boots. They’re white patent leather and there’s a crack on one of the toes, but they’re genuine go-go boots from the early seventies. I figure the boots have had a much more interesting life than I have. “Bradley,” she says, eyeing the boots with disdain. “As your best friend, I cannot allow you to wear those boots on the first day of senior year.”

      “Too late,” I say gaily. “Besides, someone’s got to shake things up around here.”

      “Don’t go changing.” Lali makes her hand into a gun shape, kisses the tip of her finger, and points it at me before heading for her locker.

      “Good luck, [A-Z]ngel,” I say. Changing. Ha. Not much chance of that. Not after the letter.

      Dear Ms. Bradshaw, it read.

       Thank you for your application to the New School’s Advanced Summer Writing Seminar. While your stories show promise and imagination, we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a place in the program at this time.

      I got the letter last Tuesday. I reread it about fifteen times, just to be sure, and then I had to lie down. Not that I think I’m so talented or anything, but for once in my life, I was hoping I was.

      I didn’t tell anyone about it, though. I didn’t even tell anyone I’d applied, including my father. He went to Brown and expects me to go there, too. He thinks I’d make a good scientist. And if I can’t hack molecular structures, I can always go into biology and study bugs.

      I’m halfway down the hall when I spot Cynthia Viande and Tommy Brewster, Castlebury’s golden Pod couple. Tommy isn’t too bright, but he is the center on the basketball team. Cynthia, on the other hand, is senior class president, head of the prom committee, an outstanding member of the National Honor Society, and got all the Girl Scout badges by the time she was ten. She and Tommy have been dating for three years. I try not to give them much thought, but alphabetically, my last name comes right before Tommy’s, so I’m stuck with the locker next to his and stuck sitting next to him in assembly, and therefore basically stuck seeing him—and Cynthia—every day.

      “And don’t make those goofy faces during assembly,” Cynthia scolds. “This is a very important day for me. And don’t forget about Daddy’s dinner on Saturday.”

      “What about my party?” Tommy protests.

      “You can have the party on Friday night,” Cynthia snaps.

      There could be an actual person inside Cynthia, but if there is, I’ve never seen it.

      I swing open my locker. Cynthia suddenly looks up and spots me. Tommy gives me a blank stare, as if he has no idea who I am, but Cynthia is too well brought up for that. “Hello, Carrie,” she says, like she’s thirty years old instead of seventeen.

      Changing. It’s hard to pull off in this little town.

      “Welcome to hell school,” a voice behind me says.

      It’s Walt. He’s the boyfriend of one of my other best friends, Maggie. Walt and Maggie have been dating for two years, and the three of us do practically everything together. Which sounds kind of weird,

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