Page 7 of Perfect on Paper

“She’s got some samples for us. Are you filming before dinner?”

“Nope, I was going to later. Count me in.”

Even though the Crepe Shoppe paid Ainsley’s bills, for the last year she’d been putting all her free time toward building her thrift-flip YouTube channel. Her videos were actually really impressive. Dealing with the same pressure to fit in at a rich private school as I did, but amplified by the added pressure of working within the limited new wardrobe Mom and Dad could afford to give her at the time—much of which wasn’t designed with her proportions in mind—Ainsley had adapted by developing her sewing skills. And, in the process, had discovered she had a natural creativity. She could look at the ugliest pieces of thrift store clothing, and where the rest of us saw something we’d never wear in a million years, Ainsley saw potential. She’d rescue items and take in the hips, add in panels, add or remove sleeves, and cover them in crystals or lace or patches, and she’d absolutely transform them. And it just so happened that the transformation process, along with her self-deprecating voice-over commentary, made for quality content.

I sent back a text to Brooke. What I wanted to say was abso-fucking-lutely she could come over, as soon as possible, and in fact, she could also move in, and marry me, and mother my children while she was at it, but my extensive study in relationships had taught me wild obsession wasn’t cute. So I went with a simple “sure, we’ll be eating around six.” Same overall message, less terrifying intensity.

While Ainsley headed back to the kitchen, I changed out of my uniform, then fished today’s letters out of my bag and started working my way through them. I had a real system going after doing this roughly twice weekly for two years. Dollar bills and coins went into a Ziploc bag to be deposited into my bank account (I figured the easiest way to get myself caught would be to be seen with a purse stuffed full ofsmall bills one too many times). Then I’d speed-read all of the letters and sort them into two piles. Pile one: letters I could answer off the top of my head. Pile two: letters that stumped me. I was proud to say these days that pile two was almost always smaller, and sometimes there was no need for a pile two at all. There were very few situations that threw me anymore.

I did worry sometimes that this whole process would become too time consuming to continue in senior year. But, hey, plenty of students had part-time jobs. Why was this any different? Apart from the obvious answer: I enjoyed this. A hell of a lot more than most people enjoyed their minimum wage jobs bagging groceries or collecting dirty plates from ungrateful customers.

By the time Ainsley wandered back in so she could procrastinate from her own responsibilities, I’d finished pile one—the only pile today—and moved on to YouTube research. Over the last couple of years, I’d cultivated a subscription list of who I considered to be the very best relationship experts on YouTube, and I made a point of never missing their videos. It was a Tuesday, so that meant a new upload from Coach Pris Plumber. Today’s video was a review of the latest research behind the biology of the brain in love, which interested me far more than my actual biology homework. Coach Pris was one of my very favorites, second only to Oriella.

God, how to describe the enigma that was Oriella? A twentysomething influencer who practically founded the corner of YouTube devoted to dating advice, she uploaded a video every other day. Could you imagine coming up with that many topics to cover? Unbelievable. And no matterhow many she released, how many times you thought she’d surely talked about everything there was to talk about, boom: she blew your mind with a video about how to use artful shots of food in your Instagram stories to make your ex miss you. The woman was a goddamn genius.

She’d also pioneered one of my favorite relationship-advice tools, not-so-creatively called “character analysis.” Oriella figured every problem could be labeled, and that to find the correct label, you had to run a diagnostic. Under her prerecorded instruction, I’d learned to list everything relevant about the person in question—in my case, always a complicated locker-letter writer—and once it was all written out, things would almost always become clearer.

Ainsley came up behind me and watched the video silently for three or so seconds, then she moved to my bed and sat heavily on the edge. My cue to stop what I was doing and pay attention to her.

I looked over to see her sprawled in a starfish pose on my bed, her straight brown hair fanned out over the blanket. “Any good ones today?” she asked when I caught her eye.

“Pretty standard,” I said as I paused Pris. “Whatisit with guys calling their girlfriends psycho? It’s an epidemic.”

“If there’s one thing guys love, it’s an excuse to avoid accountability for their own role in causing the behavior they don’t like,” Ainsley said. “You’re fighting the good fight.”

“Someone’s got to, I guess.”

“Pays the bills. By the way, Brooke’s just pulled up outside.”

I slammed my laptop lid down and jumped to my feet to douse myself in perfume. Ainsley shook her head. “I’ve never seen you move so fast.”

“Shut up.”

We reached the living room as Mom opened the front door and greeted Brooke, which meant I had at least fifteen seconds to prepare while they embraced and Mom asked after every family member Brooke had.

I dove onto the couch, kicking various decorative cushions onto the floor, and arranged myself in a way that hopefully looked like I’d been chilling casually for ages, unconcerned Brooke had arrived. “How’s my hair?” I hissed to Ainsley.

She studied me with a critical eye, then shot her hands out to tousle my shoulder-length waves. With a nod of approval, she threw herself beside me and took out her phone, just in time to complete the picture of relaxed nonchalance as Brooke appeared.

My chest compressed. I swallowed my heart, which had lodged itself somewhere behind my tonsils.

Brooke glided into the living room, her stockinged feet silent on the carpet. She was yet to change out of her uniform, to my secret delight.

Our school uniform consisted of a navy blazer with the school logo on the breast, and a white button-down shirt, both of which had to be bought from the uniform shop. Outside of that, there was still a code, but it was a little more lax in terms of how we interpreted it. Bottoms had to be a beige, khaki color, with the choice of pants or a skirt, but we could buy them wherever we wanted. Guys had to wear ties, but the color and style of tie was up to them—barring any explicit or inappropriate prints. That rule had been added back in my sophomore year when Finn got his hands on a tie covered in marijuana leaves.

So, we’d come to a compromise that stopped the studentsfrom revolting. Uniform enough to keep the majority of parents and staff happy, but with enough expression that we didn’t feel like we were trapped in some stuffy British boarding school where individuality was illegal.

Now, it might sound like I was complaining about the uniform, but let the record show I was not. How could I complain, when Brooke looked like this in it? With her slender legs shown off by her flippy skirt and black tights, her gold locket pendant dangling in front of her buttoned collar, and her straight dark hair tumbling over the shoulders of her blazer, Brooke was a goddamn vision. I was quite sure that until the day I died, the sight of the St. Deodetus girl’s uniform would send my stomach into rollicking butterflies. All because of how it looked on Brooke Amanda Nguyen.

“Hey,” Brooke said, dropping to her knees in the center of the room. She dumped the canvas bag she’d carried in with her upside down on the carpet and dozens of sachets and tubes bounced out.

One of the great benefits of having Brooke as a friend—other than, you know, having her around to bring light and joy into my life each and every day—was her department store sales job.

It was hands down the coolest job any teenager could have, if you ignored my job, which was arguably cooler. She got to spend her shifts talking to people about makeup, recommending products, and getting sneak peeks of new stuff. And best of all, she got a staff discount and could take home any samples she wanted. Which translated to me inheriting more than my fair share of free makeup.

With a shriek of happiness, Ainsley dove off the couch and onto the ground to grab a sachet before I’d had thechance to process the selection. “Oh, yes, yes, yes, I’ve beenwantingto try this,” she said.

“Well, I guess you’re claiming that one,” I said, pretending to be put out. “Hi, Brooke.”

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