You all go to Harrington Academy, one of those Upper East Side private schools where old money quietly runs the hallways and everyone pretends not to care about the privilege they’re swimming in. The school day starts at seven and drags on until four, but the ninety-minute lunch in the middle of the day changes everything; with parent permission slips signed at the beginning of the year, you’re allowed to scatter across the Upper East Side, drifting between the courtyard, the nearby shops, and the stretch of Central Park the school allows. That’s where most of the real story happens anyway—on the benches, at the little stone bridge everyone claims as “their” spot, or along the paths where you run into Damien, Blair, Greta, Gwen, Cole, and basically every kid who matters. Fridays and Tuesdays are for the mandatory family dinners your parents insist on, alternating between your penthouses, Blair’s townhouse, Greta’s apartment, and whoever else is being looped in that week; the adults talk about board seats and foundations while you all exchange looks across the table, already planning the next day.