Page 14 of Perfect on Paper

Mrs. Brougham, I assumed.

She looked something like the female Snapchat filter version of her son. Slender and fine boned, she shared his protruding navy-blue eyes and thick, chocolate-brown hair, although hers had subtle, warm highlights through the layers. She was dressed in an outfit that by all means should’ve looked completely uncoordinated, but on her looked like it came straight out of aVoguestreetwear editorial. She’d tucked a crisp white T-shirt into wide-legged pants made out of a black pleather kind of material, paired with black kitten heels and a black woven bracelet.

Brougham came to an abrupt halt, and I copied him. His mother surveyed him with a flat look, and narrowed her eyes. “Alexander, your father will be working late again,” she said to Brougham without even acknowledging me, “so I have a friend over. We’ll be in the renovated wing. Don’t bother us unless it’s an emergency.”

Brougham didn’t seem surprised at his mother’s hostility. “Okay.”

“If he tells you he’s coming home early, text me.”

“Okay.”

They faced each other down, and I felt a weird sort of chill. It was obvious I was missing something betweenthem, but for the life of me I couldn’t pinpoint what. All I knew for sure was that the vibe was extremely uncomfortable, and I wanted to get out of there, pronto.

With a sharp nod, Mrs. Brougham glided out of the room. And I do mean glided. If it weren’t for her heels’ rhythmic clacking, I would’ve insisted she was carried out on some sort of invisible conveyer belt.

“Sure, nice to meet you, too,” I whispered, before I could stop myself. It probably wasn’t thebestthing to say with her son still in earshot.

But if Brougham was offended he didn’t show it. He just tore his eyes away from the door she’d left through and pursed his lips. “With my parents, you’ll be better off lowering your expectations,” he said. “We can go into the back room.”

On the way through the maze that was his house, Brougham made a pit stop in the glossiest kitchen I’d ever seen. Everything was shiny and reflective, like someone had taken Photoshop to real life. Gleaming white countertops, pristine glass cabinets built into the walls guarding crystal plates and glasses. A mahogany island counter so reflective I could make out my awed expression on its side. The floor so polished I felt rude to be tracking my school shoes over it.

Brougham, still oblivious to my wonderment, dug around in his refrigerator—which I was sure contained only the very most expensive, fanciest, organic, locally sourced produce—and then emerged with a bunch of grapes and a small wheel of Brie. He set about arranging them on a plate, along with some water crackers, and only then did he glance up and notice my face.

“Sorry, will these do?” he asked.

Truly, a personal chef couldn’t have whipped up anythingthat would’ve delighted me more than the sight of a whole wheel of Brie. It’s not like I’d never had cheese before, but it wasn’t exactly a staple in either parent’s house. This was all sofancy.

“It’ll do, I suppose,” I allowed.

In the back room—a second living room that smelled like rosewater, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over a groomed, unnaturally green backyard—Brougham flopped into a cream leather armchair, resting the plate on the glass end table with a clink. “So, how does this work?”

I shucked off my backpack, tucked my skirt under my thighs, and lowered myself into the matching chair. “It doesn’t. I usually write emails, remember?”

“Okay, so, what do you do when you get a letter?”

“Depends on the letter.”

Brougham’s face was thoughtful as he pulled a grape off the bunch. He held it up with a questioning expression, and I nodded with a bit more enthusiasm than I meant to, and snatched it from midair when he tossed it my way. He was still a blackmailing asshole, so I didn’t want to be too grateful, but it was nice to be fed.

Brougham watched me patiently, and I realized he was waiting for me to initiate. Part of me wanted to insist I had no idea what I was doing, because I kind of didn’t, but that might be poking the beast here. Maybe the best thing I could do right now was tackle the familiar, hoping the unfamiliar would come as a natural next step.

Wordlessly, I fished today’s three letters from my backpack. I scanned them all, and, thankfully, one of them was vague enough I was certain it wouldn’t give the writer’s identity away to Brougham. “Okay, so,” I said. “‘Dear locker eighty-nine, I’m really into this girl, but we’re acquaintances at best. She’s a year below me so we don’t have any classes together or share any friends. Sometimes I feel like she might be sending me signals when I do see her around, but I’m worried I might be seeing what I want to see. How do I ask her out without putting my foot in it or coming across like a massive creep? ‘Hey, you’re hot, wanna go out with me?’ is a weird hallway icebreaker.”

Please help, [email protected],I finished in my head. Just in case Brougham happened to know who the email address belonged to.

Brougham popped a grape in his mouth and rolled it into his cheek. “That doesn’t give us much to go off,” he said.

I held my hand out palm up, and he dutifully picked off another grape and threw it to me. “It gives us enough,” I said. “You just have to break it down. We know they’re at least a sophomore, because they’re a year above this girl. We know they don’t share friends, so we don’t have to worry too much about someone being off-limits. We know they’re at least on speaking terms, because they called the girl an acquaintance, not a stranger. We know the writer is at least a little self-aware, because they’ve thought about this girl’s hypothetical reaction to being asked out without any warning. That also tells us the writer probably hasn’t done anything rash to scare the girl off previously, which helps a lot.”

Brougham looked thoughtful. For a brief moment I wondered if I’d impressed him. But then he narrowed his eyes. “You think the writer’s a girl,” he said. Statement, not question.

“Not necessarily.”

“You were avoiding pronouns. How come you don’t think it’s a guy? Or did the email address give it away?”

“I don’t think it’s a guy or a girl. I literally have no wayof knowing. Why would you think they were anything right now?”

He didn’t seem to realize the question was rhetorical. “Well, because statistically, straight guys outnumber girls who like girls. And,” he added, before I could interject, “people with other genders.”

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