Well, um, yes. Yes, it is. Have I, Linda Owens, the same Lindy who reads Gabriel Garcia-Márquez and Ayn Rand (even when they’re not required for school) and who skipped lunch every day in third grade in order to donate a flock of chickens to a family in Guatemala, become as shallow as Sloane Hagen and her posse, liking a guy just based on looks? Well . . . Not just looks . . . The fact is, I like to think there’s something more to Kyle Kingsbury. The money is irrelevant. I like him despite his money and his looks. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Maybe I’m fooling myself. Our school, Tuttle, is the kind of school where you find kids whose parents are Broadway producers, minor rock stars, second-generation Kardashians, people whose grandfather invented Pop-Tarts. But Kyle still gets more than his fair share of attention not only because his father is a network news anchor, but because of Kyle’s own is a network news anchor, but because of Kyle’s own gorgeousity. People get used to it after a while—or they pretend to.
