Page 39 of Dear Mr. Brody

“I was hoping to receive your fiction piece. I’m surprised you haven’t turned it in yet.”

“Uh…” I pushed my hands into my back pockets, and in my peripheral, I saw Wilder set down his phone on the desk. One of my idols stood less than ten feet away from me, and Mr. Brody wanted to talk about my amateur fiction piece? “I… I finished it, but it sucks. I’m rewriting it tonight.”

“I want to read both, then.”

“That sort of defeats the purpose,” I said, and holy shit, Wilder laughed.

“How so?” Mr. Brody seemed genuinely confused.

“The first one is garbage, and I’d rather you not read it, hence the whole reason I’m rewriting it in the first place.”

“Mr. Mills—”

“Parker,” I reminded him, and his smile mirrored mine.

My gaze flicked between his eyes and his mouth, lingering on the curve of his bottom lip as the seconds ticked by. One, two long breaths passed between us before he spoke again.

“Send me both. I want to see your progression.”

“Do the other students have to write two papers?” I asked, knowing this was my choice, but wanting to tease him anyway.

He made it too easy.

“You can turn in what you have,” he said, his tone professional and even. “I’m not requiring you to—”

“Got it… I’ll send both.”

“Good. I’m eager to see what you came up with.” He turned to look at Wilder. “This is the student I was telling you about the other day. Parker Mills.”

To my utter horror and thrill, Wilder walked toward me. “It’s nice to put a face to the name.” He held out his hand and I stared at it, totally starstruck. “I think he might be in shock.”

“Oh shit… I’m sorry.” I took his hand, probably more aggressive than was socially acceptable. “You’re Wilder Welles.”

He smiled at Mr. Brody. “God, he’s cute.”

I let go of his hand and rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m overwhelmed, I guess. I’ve never met an author before. Your work is... inspiring.”

“Thank you,” he said, the tops of his cheeks dusting with a pale shade of pink. “I’m lucky I get to do what I love.”

Mr. Brody picked up a booklet from his desk and handed it to me. Bright purple and gold script unraveled across the page. “Did you know the school has a literary magazine?”

“No. I had no idea,” I said, skimming through the pages.

“They take submissions every quarter. I think you should enter.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it, look over the content, and then make a decision. The deadline is a month from now. You have time.”

“Trust me. Van is an agent…” Wilder laughed as he spoke. “If he didn’t think you were talented, he wouldn’t even bother.”

“Yeah… okay. I’ll look at it.” I rolled up the magazine and tucked it in the side pocket of my backpack, knowing I wouldn’t submit anything, at least not anytime soon. My work was private. I wasn’t ready to share it with the entire school. “Thanks.”

“And I’m a professor before I’m an agent when it comes to my students. It’s my job to help you grow.”

“I stand by my previous statement.” Wilder grinned, setting a stubborn hand on his hip. “You can water a plant all fucking day, but if it has weak roots, it’s gonna rot.”

“Am I the one with weak roots in this scenario?” I asked and they both laughed.

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