How is this piece of writing?

I was six when I met him.

I was this pretentious little Upper East Sider that had been raised in a typical green awning-ed building by a nanny named Clara that wore white gloves and was from France. He was a shaggy-haired tiny rocker, already harboring a sort of rebel attitude along the lines of James Dean (circa Rebel without a Cause). He was from the West Village, a neighborhood my mother would never have set a Jimmy Choo-ed foot in. In her closed-conservative mind, it was almost as bad as Queens.

I was getting dropped off for my first day of Kindergarten at Cappaport Academy, the school at which my mother had applied me to the day I was born, by Clara. It was raining, hard, and Clara was holding a Burberry umbrella in her white-gloved hand as we went up the steps to the intimidating white stone building on Park. I was carrying a tiny Kate Spade coin purse, for buying lunch, of course. The already upwards of 40k a year cost of tuition school charged extra for their all-organic vegetarian lunches, and snacks of Perrier and sugar-free cupcakes from Rose Bakery next door were extra on top of that.

As Clara signed me in with the Chanel-wearing secretary and waited to get my schedule (yes, as a kindergartener, I had to get a schedule), a tall red haired woman wearing paint-splattered jeans and a Prada flower-print dress ran in, her demeanor in entire disarray. She was toting a little boy with messy auburn hair wearing khakis and a black cashmere tee-shirt, and she was yelling into her cell phone something about 鈥済oing to Ivan鈥檚 art show in Brooklyn鈥? They looked like Park Avenue鈥檚 demented surprise babies, conceived by a clandestine affair with Alphabet City.

The secretary looked the woman and her son up and down before literally turning her nose up at them. She asked the mother鈥檚 name, and when it was given, immediately turned down her nose and ushered them through the huge oak doors leading to the elevators right behind us.

As we both stepped onto the elevators, Clara and the woman started the quintessential small talk essential to any New Yorker.

鈥淐lara Maddeuax, I鈥檓 this Delilah Chase鈥檚 nanny,鈥?She introduced herself. She always introduced me like that, as 鈥渢his Delilah Chase鈥? With her French accent, most people interpreted it was 鈥渕iss Delilah Chase鈥? which was probably for the best.

鈥淧leased to meet you, This Delilah Chase. I鈥檓 Rhea O鈥橬eil, mother to This Sebastian Walker.鈥?

So she had caught the 鈥渢his.鈥?But for a moment, I thought Clara had gone mute. She stopped fiddling with her gloves and looked up at the woman like she had just told her she was Jesus Christ鈥檚 daughter. After a long, awkward silence, she finally said,

鈥淵ou-You鈥檙e Rhea O鈥橬eil? My God, You鈥檙e my favorite artist of all time!鈥?The woman just smiled and nodded, obviously used to this sort of reaction.

鈥淚鈥檓 flattered, darling.鈥?The woman-or, as we now know, Rhea O鈥橬eil murmured politely, just as the elevator doors opened to the Kindergarten floor.

Classical music was playing from the ceiling, the smell of Chanel No. 5 wafted in the air, and the children in the room were all silent Ralph Lauren Child Fall Catalog look-alikes. It felt like I had stepped into the Church of Classic Wealth, worshipping Chanel, Park Avenue, and Mozart. Resale shops, fattening cakes, and bright colors were the Antichrists at Cappaport.

Clara leaned down, gave me two quick kisses on each cheek, and left, muttering a quick, 鈥渂onjour鈥?to the teacher, who was standing by the door, watching over the terrified class of beautiful children like a hawk. Any tear that was shed was quickly wiped off with a glare from the teacher, whose title, I would learn later, was Madam Roguard.

Rhea O鈥橬eil merely patted little Sebastian on the butt and nodded at Madam before lighting up a cigarette as she left. Madam鈥檚 mouth opened, most likely to bark at her about the strict no-smoking rule at Cappaport, but Rhea was already in the elevator, flicking ash onto the flawless white carpet.

Sebastian and I looked at each other with curious eyes. He was by far the child that fit in the least among the obscenely preppy crowd; even though his attire wasn鈥檛 too crazy, his manner was decidedly Greenwich, whereas the other children鈥檚 was definitely Upper East Side. I fit in easily, with my Ralph Lauren Annora Polo Dress in sea foam, my black curls held back by a J. Crew headband and my teeth already doctor-straightened and whitened. I had been brought up to be silent around adults, polite around children, intelligent around teachers.

But Sebastian鈥 already knew something was different about him, even then. He had this mop of messy auburn hair that fell into bright brown eyes, a lopsided grin that bore a huge gap between his front teeth, and such a sort of confidence exuded from him that you knew he wasn鈥檛 born and bred a few steps away from Central Park.

Hold on a second. This isn鈥檛 a love story, if that鈥檚 what you鈥檙e thinking. Not at all. So if that鈥檚 what you want, you better look elsewhere, because I鈥檓 about to tell a story with little to no romance in it whatsoever. I realize what I鈥檝e said so far has conveyed severe Nicholas Sparks vibes, but that is about to end. Just to give you a heads up.

Alright. Now that that鈥檚 been straightened out鈥?br> Sebastian looked straight at me and said, with the oddest look of rebellion in his eye,

鈥淗i. Your hair is messed up. And your nanny is a piece of crap. Just thought I鈥檇 let you know that,鈥?He stated before skipping over to talk to a Maddox Jolie-Pitt clone.

I remember being so caught off guard by his comments that I literally froze. My mouth dropped and I felt myself going numb. This was Cappaport Academy, supposed home of the most elite children in the city, and this was the first person I meet? A horridly rude little boy that had an artist, albeit an incredibly famous one, for a mother? Something in the world had gone horrendously wrong.

Thus was my first encounter with Sebastian Walker.

How is this piece of writing?

It seems really good, though a little rough in spots. I like the conversational tone. But you might find an email heading towards you with suggestions. I have been dying for another editting job on someone elses's work. And all you need is tweaking, really.

How is this piece of writing?

very good. compelling. however: it seems like you're going for a direct talking to the reader style... but at times you seem a little aloof. the descriptions are interesting but there is a rough balance between the views of a six-year-old and the older reminiscing author. Also as a reader I feel overloaded by the descriptions of wealth and general snotty-ness. I see what you're trying to do but it might be helpful to reduce or change some of these references. For such a short piece there seems to be a lot of repetition. you can get your point across with fewer and subtler clues: e.g. you don't need to mention Clara's white glove's more than once; I would keep the second reference. it is an excellent image though and I appreciate what it evokes.

I like the writing style but at times the sentences and adjectives get a bit convoluted - other times the style is very direct and I like that a lot more. The preppy and well-bred six-year-old is a somewhat disturbing idea - though I don't doubt its accuracy and find the narrator so far compelling.

How is this piece of writing?

too descriptive......but pretty good...

How is this piece of writing?

cool, I think you can work on it some more and do some edits, but for a start it is good