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？And　who？s　this？？　Jason　added。　A　black　cat　wandered　into　the　living　room　from　the　bedroom　at　
the　back　of　the　apartment。　

Well；　that　explains　the　smell。　

Serena　pulled　out　her　pack　of　Gauloises　and　poked　her　head　out　that　famous　kitchen　window；　
hoping　to　feel　inspired；　but　all　she　felt　was　nervous　and　a　little　lost。　Why　was　she　there　again？　

Because　she　was　about　to　star　in　a　major　motion　picture？hello　？　

？He？s　cute。？　In　the　kitchen；　Jason　crouched　down　to　stroke　the　cat　behind　its　ears。　

Serena　turned；　lighting　her　cigarette　as　she　watched　her　dark…haired；　blue…eyed　neighbor　playing　
with　the　cat；　who　apparently　lived　in　their　building　too。　

See？　The　views　aren？tall　bad。　


d　learns　the　art　of　customer　service　

？Excuse　me；　sir；　can　you　tell　me　where　I　can　find　the　romance　novels？？　

Daniel　Humphrey　was　crouched　on　the　floor；　making　sure　the　biographies　were　alphabetized　by　
subject；　not　author。　When　working　at　the　Strand；　New　York？s　best？and　biggest？　bookstore；　it　was　
important　to　pay　attention　to　details　like　the　proper　arrangement　of　the　biographies。　

Whatever　turns　him　on。　

？We　might　have　a　few　on　the　shelves　by　the　stairs；　but　we　don？t　have　a　romance　section；？　Dan　
explained；　unable　to　hide　his　displeasure。　

？Thanks；？　the　woman　replied　cheerfully　as　she　strolled　away　to　browse　the　dusty　Johanna　
Lindsey　books　and　what…ever　Nora　Roberts　novels　were　still　left　on　the　shelves。　

The　Strand　was　legendary　not　just　for　its　incredible　selection　but　also　for　its　highly　educated；　
highly　snotty　staff；　and　Dan　was　thrilled　to　have　gotten　the　job。　He？d　seen　the　help…wanted　poster　
after　dropping　his　sister；　Jenny；　off　at　Kennedy　on　her　impromptu　trip　to　visit　their　mom　in　Prague　
and　take　some　art　classes；　and　he？d　been　feeling　a　little　down　about　what　he　was　supposed　to　do　
with　his　own　summer。　When　he　saw　the　poster　in　the　store　window；　it　really　felt　like　a　sign。　

Now　here　he　was；　shelving　books　at　the　best　store　in　town。　But　pared　to　other　bookstores；　the　
Strand　had　zero　atmosphere。　There　was　no　music；　no　coffee。　Just　rows　and　rows　of　mismatched　
bookshelves　crammed　with　books。　

Pushing　a　creaky　cart　overloaded　with　dusty　volumes；　Dan　made　his　way　down　the　narrow　aisle　
of　the　biography　section。　His　job　involved　spending　lots　of　time　on　his　own　and　ignoring　
customers；　which　gave　him　plenty　of　time　to　think：　about　literature；　about　his　poetry；　about　what　
Evergreen　College　in　Washington　state　was　going　to　be　like；　and　mostly　about　what　his　last　
summer　in　New　York？and　his　last　summer　with　Vanessa？was　going　to　be　like。　He？d　made　a　big　
scene　at　his　graduation　when　he？d　declared　he　wouldn？t　be　enrolling　in　college　at　all　so　he　could　
stay　by　her　side；　but　as　it　turned　out；　he　was　looking　forward　to　driving　out　west　in　the　rad　metallic　
blue　？77　Buick　Skylark　his　dad　had　given　him　as　a　graduation　present。　It　was　the　perfect　car　for　a　
road　trip；　he？d　be　just　like　Jack　Kerouac　inOn　the　Road　；　tearing　up　the　highways　and　making　love　
to　the　land　and　sky　with　the　words　that　crept　into　his　head　as　he　drove　along。　He？d　leave　poems　
for　all　the　women　he　met？the　mysterious　lover　they？d　never　quite　have。　Until　then；　he？d　have　one　
last　perfect　summer　in　the　city　with　Vanessa；　his　first　love。　

Dan　grabbed　a　copy　of　Boswell？sLife　of　Johnson　off　the　top　of　his　cart　and　crouched　on　the　
dusty　wood　floor　of　the　store　trying　to　find　the　spot　where　it　belonged。　His　mind　began　to　wander　
as　the　words　came　to　him：　

Hot　hands　steer　the　wheel　


You？re　my　gears；　my　pedals　

Stir　up　the　dust。　Lust。　Lust。　Make　it　last　

Sure；　it　was　a　little　cheesy；　but　God；　that　was　how　he　felt　right　now。　He　started　making　a　mental　
list　of　classic　romantic　New　York　dates：　Seeing　Shakespeare　in　Central　Park；　riding　the　Staten　
Island　Ferry　just　for　the　hell　of　it；　watching　the　sun　rise　over　the　Fifty…ninth　Street　bridge　just　like　
Woody　Allen　and　Diane　Keaton　inManhattan　。　Maybe　a　drive　out　to　Jones　Beach　in　the　Skylark；　
the　salty　wind　blowing　through　the　open　windows；　Vanessa？s　hair　blowing　behind　them　。　。　。　Okay；　
well；　not　her　hair？she　basically　had　no　hair？but　maybe　she　could　wear　a　long　silk　scarf　or　
something。　He　could　see　it　now。　It　was　going　to　be　the　most　romantic　summer。　

It？s　going　to　besomething　；　that？s　for　sure。　

？Excuse　me；　do　you　have　the　Cliffs　Notes　forUlysses　？？　a　high…pitched　male　voice　whispered　
barely　audibly；　interrupting　Dan？s　reverie。　

Cliffs　Notes　for　James　Joyce？　The　horror！　

Dan　scowled　at　the　nerdy…looking　goth　kid　who？d　asked　for　his　help。　He　was　holding　a　Batman　
lunch　box；　and　Dan　realized　he　wasn？t　nerdy　or　goth　so　much　as　hopeless。　

？Why　don？t　you　try　reading　the　real　thing？？　he　responded　disparagingly。　

Hopeless；　who　was　actually　probably　older　than　Dan？an　NYU　student；　maybe；　or　some　poor　
asshole　toughing　it　out　in　summer　school　so　he　could　finally　graduate　at　twenty…three？　
shrugged。？Boring。？　

Dan　wanted　to　punch　him　in　his　skinny　stomach；　but　he　suddenly　realized　it　was　his　job？no；　his　
duty？to　make　this　asshole　read。　He　stood　up。　？Follow　me。？　

He　led　the　mindless　goth　kid　into　a　small　back　room　full　of　leather…bound　classics　and　found　a　
beautiful　Everyman？s　Library　copy　of　Joyce？s　masterpiece。　Dan　began　to　read　aloud　from　a　
random　page：　？Touch　me。　Soft　eyes。　Soft　soft　soft　hand。　I　am　lonely　here。　O；　touch　me　soon；　now。　
What　is　that　word　known　to　all　men？　I　am　quiet　here　alone。　Sad　too。　Touch；　touch　me。？　Dan　
paused　and　looked　up。　？e　on；　you　know　you　want　to；？　he　urged。　

The　kid　looked　terrified；　probably　suspecting　Dan　was　some　sort　of　Strand…lurking　literary　
pervert。　He　dropped　his　Batman　lunch　box　and　bolted。　

Dan　sat　down　on　the　floor　to　finish　the　page。　He　had　to　admit　that　James　Joyce　did　always　sort　of　
turn　him　on。　


Yes；　it？s　going　to　be　an　interesting　summer　indeed。　

helmets　are　almost　as　important　as　condoms　

Nate　stood　up　on　the　pedals　of　his　vintage　Schwinn；　pushing　them　up　and　down　with　his　feet；　and　
then　eased　himself　back　onto　the　unfortable；　unpadded　leather　seat。　He　liked　to　bike　this　
way？pedaling　as　hard　as　he　could　and　then　sitting　down　to　feel　the　warm　summer　breeze　on　his　
face。　To　the　right；　the　waves　rippled　off　the　beach。　On　his　left　was　a　vine…yard　full　of　Chardonnay　
grapes。　The　air　smelled　like　salt　and　gas…grilled　steak。　He　listened　to　the　satisfying　crunch　of　the　
gravelly　road　under　his　wheels　and　grinned　lazily。　

His　morning　joint　had　done　just　the　trick；　and　by　the　end　of　the　day；　he？d　been　kind　of　grooving　
on　what　was　supposed　to　be　his　summer　punishment。　There　was　something　soothing　about　
physical　labor。　He？d　spent　the　summer　after　tenth　grade　helping　his　dad　build　their　sailboat；　
theCharlotte　；　up　at　his　family？s　pound　in　Mt。　Desert　Isle；　Maine；　and　the　after…noon　working　
on　Coach　Michaels？s　place　kind　of　reminded　him　of　that　summer；　although　the　setting？rows　of　
houses　and　overpopulated　beaches？wasn？t　quite　as　serene。　Still；　there　was　nothing　like　tough　
manual　work；　bright　sunshine；　and　the　reward　of　a　cold　Stella　Artois　when　the　day　was　done；　and　
no　distractions。　

There　were　no　classes　to　worry　about：　school　was　over　at　last；　and　Yale　seemed　impossibly　far　
away。　Blair；　the　girl　he　was　pretty　sure　was　the　love　of　his　life　but　who　he　could　never　seem　to　get　
it　together　for；　was　in　England　with　her　new　aristocrat　boyfriend；　probably　shopping；　eating　scones；　
and　drinking　way　too　much　tea。　Serena　was　back　in　the　city　being　a　movie　star；　and　Jenny；　the　
incredibly　well…endowed　freshman　he？d　somehow　gotten　involved　with　last　winter；　had　been　
shipped　off　to　Europe。　He　was　better　off　far　away　from　those　three。　

He　grinned；　realizing　that　this　was　how　the　whole　summer　would　go：　days　of　hard　labor；　bike　
rides　back　home；　then　a　shower；　a　joint；　and　maybe　some　time　by　himself　was　just　what　he　needed。　
Coach？s　house　was　in　Hampton　Bays；　several　miles　from　his　own　house　in　East　Hampton；　but　it　
was　like　a　different　world；　with　its　suburban　houses　and　minivans　and　malls。　It　was　just　the　kind　of　
place　that　would　help　him　refocus　this　summer；　which　was　his　plan。　He　didn？t　have　his　eye　on　any　
particular　girl；　and　anyway；　they　tended　to　lead　him　into　nothing　but　trouble。　Maybe　he　was　better　
off　as　a　solo　act。　

As　if　he　were　ever　alone　for　more　than　thirty　seconds。　

Nate　had　to　climb　off　and　push　the　squeaky　bike　up　a　particularly　bad　hill；　wheezing　from　the　
effort。　Sucking　down　three　joints　a　day　will　do　that　to　you。　

Out　of　breath　and　sweating；　he　climbed　back　on　the　bike　at　the　hill？s　summit　and　drifted　down；　


letting　gravity　do　the　work。　He　looked　down　and　poked　at　his　forearm　to　see　if　the　pink　skin　
turned　white　when　he　touched　it。　It　was　something　Blair　used　to　do　to　him　when　they　went　to　the　
beach　together。　After　declaring　him　burned；　she？d　gently　slather　him　with　her　fancy　sunscreen。　He　
pushed　at　his　forearm　again。　Definitely　a　little　cooked。　

That？s　what　you　get　for　skipping　the　Coppertone！　

Then　he　looked　up　and　realized　he　was　speeding　straight　for　the　road？s　shoulder。　He　pulled　on　
the　handlebars；　swerving　across　the　road；　but　he　was　going　so　fast　that　he　wiped　out。　Hard。　

There　was　a　polite　round　of　applause；　like　at　a　golf　match。　Nate　looked　up；　realizing　he　was　
splayed　out　in　the　dirt　parking　lot　in　front　the　Oyster　Shack；　a　gray　clapboard　seafood　joint　about　
halfway　between　Coach？s　house　and　his　family？s　hundred…year…old　estate　near　Georgica　Pond　in　
East　Hampton。　A　group　of　high…school…age　kids　was　sitting　at　a　picnic　table；　strewn　with　sweating　
beer　bottles　and　baskets　of　fried　food；　and　they　were　all　staring　at　him。　

？Shit；？　Nate　muttered。　Tiny　pebbles　were　embedded　in　the　palms　of　his　hands；　and　he？d　torn　the　
faded　lime…green　Stussy　shirt　he？d　been　working　in　all　day。　He　brushed　the　dirt　from　his　hands　and　
looked　down　at　his　cutoff　khakis？no　damage　there。　

Leave　it　to　Nate　Archibald　to　look　even　better　covered　with　sweat；　blood；　and　grime。　

He　crouched　to　examine　the　bike？s　front　wheel。　It　was　bent。　

　？Tough　break。？　

Nate　looked　up。　The　voice　belonged　to　a　curvy；　blue…eyed　blonde　who　wore　her　curly　dark　blond　
hair　pulled　back　tight　and　tucked　under　a　red　bandana。　Her　pink　tube　top　was　riding　dangerously　
low　and　her　denim　miniskirt　promisingly　high。　A　lipstick…smeared　straw　poked　out　of　the　Coke　she　
gripped　in　her　left　hand。　She　extended　her　right　hand　to　Nate；　her　long；　perfectly　painted　nails　
exactly　the　same　shade　of　red　as　the　can。　

？Just　ignore　my　friends；？　she　told　him　apologetically。　

Her　skin　was　the　same　golden　beige　as　that　of　every　other　girl　who　used　the　same　shade　of　
Clinique　self…tanner；　but　beneath　the　beige　was　a　smattering　of　freckles　covering　her　nose；　cheeks；　
shoulders；　arms；　and　chest。　Nate　had　learned　from　Blair　that　girls　were　usually　more　plicated　
than　they　first　appeared；　and　this　girl？s　prominent　freckles　seemed　to　suggest　that　she　was　more　
than　just　a　typical　Long　Island　babe。　

Nate　grinned　as　he　took　her　hand　and　let　her　pull　him　to　his　feet。　？Yeah；　no　problem；？　he　
answered　sheepishly。　

？You？re　going　to　need　to　get　that　looked　at；？　Freckles　advised；　nodding　at　the　bike。　


？Yeah；？　muttered　Nate。　He　wasn？t　that　worried　about　the　bike。　The　only　thing　that　seemed　worth　
looking　at　was　right　in　front　of　him。　

？I？m　Tawny。　I　know　a　place　where　you　can　get　your　bike　taken　care　of。　But　maybe　I？ll　buy　you　
an　ice　cream　cone　first。？　

Tawny？　But　isn？t　that　the　color　of　her　self…tanner？！　

？Sure。？　He？d　smoked　the　roach　from　his　morning　joint　before　leaving　Coach？s　place？hence　the　
accident；　maybe？？　and　ice　cream　sounded　very　appetizing　indeed。　

？So　what？s　your　story；　Nate？　I？ve　never　seen　you　around；？　Tawny　asked　as　she　skipped　across　
the　street　to　a　tiny；　faded　blue　house　that　was　so　small　it　looked　like　it　was　out　of　a　cartoon。　A　
couple　of　little　kids　were　perched　on　the　steps　licking　strawberry　ice　cream　cones。　

？Two　vanilla　cones；？　Tawny　purred　to　the　pimply　guy　behind　the　counter。　She　had　the　faintest　
hint　of　an　accent；　but　Nate　couldn？t　quite　place　it。　

？No　story。？　Nate　idly　kicked　the　side　of　the　cartoon　house　with　the　toes　of　his　battered　Stan　
Smiths。　He　wanted　to　run　his　hands　u