On his way to Riverside Prep Tuesday morning, Dan stopped at the newsstand on Seventy-ninth and Broadway to buy the Valentine?s Day issue ofThe New Yorker and a large black coffee that tasted like it had been made three years ago?just the way he liked it. The cover ofThe New Yorker was an illustration of Noah?s Ark docked at a pier in New York Harbor, with the Statue of Liberty looming in the background. The wordsThe Love Boat were painted on the side of the ark, and all of the animals lined up to board were holding hands and kissing and groping each other. It was pretty funny. Dan stood on the corner and lit an unfiltered Camel with trembling fingers as he turned back the cover and searched the table of contents for his poem. There it was under Poems: Daniel Humphrey, page forty-two, ?Sluts.? He flipped to it, forgetting all about the burning cigarette propped between his lips. Page forty-two happened to be the ninth page of a fourteen-page story by Gabriel Garcia Rhodes called ?Amor con los Gatos???Love with Cats??and right there, in the middle of the story, was Dan?s poem. Wipe the sleep from my eyes and pour me another cup. I see what you?ve been trying to tell me all along, Shaving your head and handling me (so delicately) With satin and lace:
 You?re a whore. It was freezing outside, but nervous sweat beaded on Dan?s eyelids, and his tongue was as dry as firewood. Dan spat the burning cigarette out onto the sidewalk and closed the magazine, tucking it into his black messenger bag. If he?d turned to the Contributors page, he would have seen the entry:Daniel Humphrey (Poem, p. 42) is a high-school senior in New York City. This is his first published work. But Dan couldn?t handle looking at the magazine for a moment longer, not when thousands of people were right now browsing through it and stopping to read his brutal, angry poem, which he honestly wasn?t sure was any good. Dan walked down Broadway toward school, his hands shaking crazily. If only he could have pulled off some heist like sabotaging theThe New Yorker ?s printing presses so they couldn?t print vowels anymore. Then all the Valentine?s Day issues would have been recalled from the newsstands late last night. As if he could ever have pulledthat off. ?Yo, dude,? Dan heard the familiar, conceited voice of his least-favorite Riverside Prep classmate behind him. Dan stopped walking and turned around to see Chuck Bass flipping his signature navy blue monogrammed cashmere scarf over one shoulder and running his manicured fingers through his brown-and-blond highlighted hair. ?Nice poem inThe New Yorker , man.? He gave Dan a congratulatory clap on the shoulder, his monogrammed pinky ring glittering in the winter sunlight. ?Who knew you were such a stud?? Was there something distinctlygay about Chuck Bass these days? Or perhaps not. Just because he?d gotten blond highlights and was wearing a slim, cream-colored wool coat by Ralph Laurenand orange leather Prada sneakers didn?t mean he?d given up molesting defenseless, drunken girls at parties. Perhaps he was simply expressing himself. There?s certainly nothing wrong with that. ?Thanks,? Dan mumbled as he fiddled with the plastic top on his coffee cup. He wondered if Chuck was planning on walking all the way to school with him so they could discuss his poem. But then Dan?s cell phone rang, saving him from having to answer Chuck?s inane questions about how many chicks he?d bagged before writing the poem, or whatever Chuck Bass liked to talk about on his way to school in the mornings. Dan put the phone to his ear and Chuck clapped him on the shoulder again and kept walking.  ?Hello?? ?Congratulations, Danielson!? Rufus shouted into the phone. His father never got out of bed before eight o?clock, so this was the first time Dan had spoken to him all morning. ?You?re the real banana, the genuine article!The New Yorker , the goddamnedNew Yorker !? Dan chuckled, feeling slightly ashamed. Countless notebooks filled with his father?s odd, disjointed poems were stashed in a dusty box in the broom closet. Even though he was an editor of lesser-known Beat poets, the truth was, Rufus had never actually been published. ?And you?ll never believe?,? Rufus continued, but then his voice broke off. Dan heard the toilet flush in the background. Typical. His dad had been talking to him while he was in the can. Dan gulped his coffee and picked up his pace, crossing Broadway and heading down Seventy-seventh Street. He was going to be late for first-period chemistry if he didn?t hurry up. Not that that would be such a bad thing. ?Dad? You still there?? he asked. ?Hold on, kid,? Rufus replied distractedly. ?I got my hands full here.? Dan could picture his dad drying his hands on the frayed red towel hanging on the back of the bathroom door and then pulling his rolled-up copy ofThe New Yorker out from under his hairy arm so he could read Dan?s poem again. ?The deans of admissions from Brown and Columbia just called to tell me what a prodigy you are,? Rufus explained. It sounded like his mouth was full of something, and Dan could hear water running. Was he brushing his teeth? ?They were slobbering all over themselves, the greedy bastards.? ?Brown and Columbia? Really?? Dan repeated in disbelief. Ahead of him the sidewalk, shopfronts, and pedestrians suddenly all blurred together into a slow-moving, oceanic mass. ?Are you sure it was them? Columbia and Brown?? ?As sure as my piss is still yellow,? Rufus answered blithely. Usually Dan blanched at his father?s crudeness, but right now he was too preoccupied with his own success. Maybe being a published poet wouldn?t be such a bad thing after all. Ahead of him the black metal doors of Riverside Prep?s upper-school entrance loomed before him. ?Hey Dad, I have to get to class, but thanks for calling. Thank you foreverything ,? he gushed with a rush of affection for his belligerent old dad. ?That?s all right, kid. Don?t let this go to your head, though,? Rufus joked, unable to hide the pride in his gruff voice. ?Remember, poets are a humble bunch.? ?I?ll remember,? Dan promised earnestly. ?Thanks again, Dad.? He clicked off and pushed open the school doors, waving to Aggie, the ancient front-desk receptionist who wore a different wig every day of the week, as he signed in. His cell phone beeped and he realized he?d missed a call while he?d been talking to his father. Cell phones were forbidden during school hours, but first period had already begun and the halls were empty. Trudging up the concrete stairs on the way to the chemistry lab, he called his voice-mail. ?Daniel Humphrey, this is Rusty Klein from Klein, Lowenstein & Schutt. I read your poem inThe New Yorker and, assuming you don?t have an agent yet, I?m going to represent you. I?ve got you on the guest list for the Better Than Naked show Friday night. Let?s talk then. You may not know it yet, but you?re hot shit, Daniel. The public needs a serious young poet to make them feel worthless and superficial. And now that we?ve got their attention, we?d sure as hell better keep the momentum going. You?re the next Keats, and we?re going to make you so famous so fast, you?ll think you were born that way. Looking forward to it. Ciao!? Dan wobbled outside the door of the chemistry lab as he listened to Rusty Klein?s loud, breathless message for a second time. He?d heard of Rusty Klein. She was the agent who?d negotiated the million-dollar book deal for the Scottish jockey who?d claimed to be Prince Charles? illegitimate son. Dan had read about it in theNew York Post . He had no idea what the Better Than Naked show was, but it was pretty cool of Rusty to put him on the guest list for it when they?d never even met. He also loved being called the next Keats. Keats was one of his major influences, and if Rusty Klein could recognizethat after reading only one of his poems, he definitely wanted her to represent him. Tucking his phone back into his bag, he pulled out his copy ofThe New Yorker again. This time he turned to the Contributors page, reading his short bio before he turned to his poem on page forty-two. He read the poem from start to finish, no longer ashamed to see his own work in print. Rusty Klein thought he was good?Rusty Klein! So maybe it was true. Maybe hewas good. He looked up and peeked through the little window in the chemistry lab door at the row of boys? heads, all lined up like chess pieces facing the blackboard. School suddenly seemed so trivial. He was on to phenomenally bigger and infinitely better things! Suddenly the lab door swung open and the bizarrely short Mr. Schindledecker stood gazing up at Dan, wearing an ugly double-breasted suit and pulling on his wiry brown mustache. ?Are you planning to join us, Mr. Humphrey, or would you rather stay out here and watch through the window?? Dan rolled up his copy ofThe New Yorker and tucked it under his arm. ?I think I?ll join you,? he replied, stepping inside the lab and walking calmly to a seat at the back of the room. How strange. Dan never did anything calmly, and he?d barely recognized his voice when he?d spoken just now, for in it was a brazen note of cockiness, as if something new inside of him had blossomed and was ready to be let loose. It was like that line in the Keats poem, ?Why Did I Laugh Tonight??Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed. . . . And Dan was definitely feeling it.