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though, so don’t go replacing me yet.”
    “Please,” Waverly says. “I would never un-BFF you. Some people might say mean things about you, but not me. I keep telling everyone that you’re not sure about Kent and that you are still figuring things out. No worries: I am totally covering your back.”
    I sigh and collapse into bed; definitely no pillow top on this baby.

    “Thanks,” I mutter. What are kids saying about me? I’ve been gossip fodder before, but always for good PR like the time that I lured Octavia Johnson’s boyfriend away. Or the time that I managed to throw a Halloween party in my apartment while my parents were away in Bermuda without getting caught. My bribing the babysitter and my brother is legendary. But now, gossip and me in the same sentence doesn’t sound good. Ugh, I need to get back to New York and to Kent before this ruins me. Or I need to hire a publicist; they can spin anything. But unless publicists work pro bono, there’s no way I can afford one since my parents froze my credit cards.
    “I’ve got to go, Corrinne,” Waverly says. “I’m heading to some Chinatown tea place that doesn’t card after midnight, but I am thinking of you.”
    “Maybe pray for me too; thoughts might not be enough,” I say, imagining Waverly all dressed up, looking out her bedroom window at the city’s lights. She’s about to start a night and nobody knows how it’ll end. That used to be me. Now I am in a tiny, steamy room in Texas with one small crank window and am about to go to bed at midnight or eleven Central. The only thing the future promises me is misery and Sonic Blasts. But thinking about Sonic reminds me of Grandma and Grandpa’s conversation in the truck. What happened twenty years ago and how can I use it to my advantage?

Chapter 4
    No Potential Needed
    G ETTING INTO PRESCHOOL IN N EW Y ORK C ITY is a feat and getting into grammar school in the city is a noted accomplishment. And if your parents can manage those obstacles (aka buying your admission), you need to worry about securing a spot at one of the best boarding schools in the country, which takes a near miracle.
    The fear of not getting into the right boarding school has been ingrained in my DNA since childhood. Don’t tease other kids, our teachers threatened. We write your recommendations for boarding school. Or Don’t cheat, our teachers warned. We write your recommendations for boarding school. I promise the phrase We write your recommendations for boarding school is the most commonly used phrase by any exasperated private school teacher in Manhattan. It’s akinto Just wait until your father gets home, which is only scary for girls who don’t know how to work their daddy’s baby-girl button.
    I wanted Kent. My dad wanted Kent. My mom wanted whatever would keep me from prolonged wailing and rebound shopping. But see, Waverly wanted Kent too, which wasn’t good since boarding schools prefer to take only one student from each elite private school. Although I am not a fan of admitting it, Waverly was always the A to my A minus. Okay, fine, the A to my high B plus. Take, for instance, the ninth-grade science fair: I made a headband that expanded or contracted to fit a head, and Waverly redesigned the entrances and exits of Central Park to better flow pedestrian traffic.
    So when Waverly set her heart on Kent, my mom spent weeks telling me that whatever happened, it would be okay. Even my own parents know that I am the princess to Waverly’s queen, both academically and socially. Of course, I didn’t believe my mother that things would be okay without Kent, especially after I fell in love with the campus and its perfectly manicured stables. And on my visit, I had the hottest tour guide ever: Smith Cunnington, who not only gives tours but stars on the lacrosse team and looks like he walked out of a J. Crew ad. After that day, I became entranced by the idea that my life must play itself out on the grassy knolls of