So you read the piece in The New Yorker.
(Or at least you told your friends you did.)
And you saw the picture of 30-year-old Lucinda Rosenfeld, sitting on her brownstone steps in Brooklyn, looking coyish as ever. And you thought to yourself, “Man, I wish I’d written that.” (Or, if you were really cocky, you thought, “I could’ve written that! I’ve been to plenty of those parties. I’ve been dissed. I have fickle self-esteem. I have bitchy friends, too!”)
But you didn’t. And know what? You couldn’t have. Because the rest of the book is even more impressive. And today it hits stores.
Even more entertaining are the narrator’s fifth-grade adventures with “Stinky” Mancuso, a rebel who smokes Kools, talks back to teachers, wears Members Only, and challenges her to her first kiss. Or, with “Spitty” Clark, a frat boy whom she encounters in a story that, without telling us too much, makes you want to cry, laugh, and vomit all at the same time because her observations are so spot on.
Either way, What She Saw (Random House), she wrote. And you didn’t. But reading the novel couldn’t be more fun.