My Fair Brady

by Brian D. Kennedy

Genres: YA LGBT & Pride; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

My Fair Lady meets the classic teen film She's All That in this charming and swoony new rom-com from Brian D. Kennedy, author of A Little Bit Country. Perfect for fans of What If It's Us and She Gets the Girl.

Wade Westmore is used to being in the spotlight. So when he’s passed over for the lead in the spring musical, it comes as a major blow—especially when the role goes to his ex-boyfriend, Reese, who dumped him for being too self-involved.

Shy sophomore Elijah Brady is used to being overlooked. Forget not knowing his name—most of his classmates don’t even know he exists. So when he joins the stage crew for the musical, he seems destined to blend into the scenery.

When the two have a disastrous backstage run-in, Elijah proposes an arrangement that could solve both boys’ problems: If Wade teaches Elijah how to be popular, Wade can prove that he cares about more than just himself. Seeing a chance to win Reese back, Wade dives headfirst into helping Elijah become the new and improved “Brady.”

Soon their plan puts Brady center stage—and he’s a surprising smash hit. So why is Wade suddenly less worried about winning over his ex and more worried about losing Elijah? 

 

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Release date: January 23, 2024

Publisher: Balzer + Bray

Print pages: 350

Sample

OneWade

I don’t know if all the world’s a stage. But as soon as fifth period lets out, our cafeteria certainly turns into one. It’s not an ideal performance space—fluorescent lights lack the dramatic effect of a tight follow spot, and there’s no twenty-piece orchestra ready to accompany anyone who wants to spontaneously break into song. But there’s definitely an audience. People who are hungry for a good show.

“Just go over to his table.”

“What would I even say to him?”

“I don’t know. That you like his smile?”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Fine. Tell him his butt looks good in our school uniform.”

“Oh my god. Stop.”

Glancing over my shoulder, two girls I don’t recognize stand behind me in the buffet line. They must be juniors because underclassmen eat the period before us.

“For the record,” I say, “these khakis aren’t easy to pull off.”

When they realize I’ve heard them, their eyes go as wide as the plates on their trays. I smile, flipping on the charm as effortlessly as a light switch. “Oh, and I’d stay away from the wax beans if I were you. They’ve probably been sitting out since I was a freshman.”

It takes a second, but then they look at each other and laugh.

“Wax beans,” one of them says. “So gross!”

It wasn’t that funny. But sometimes . . . well, I don’t have to try very hard to be liked.

Thankfully, a packet of soup crackers hits me square in the chest before my head can get any bigger. The girls laugh again, and across the buffet from me, Ava raises an eyebrow. “Hey, Prince Charming. I’d like to eat before my pizza gets cold.”

I shoot the girls a conspiratorial wink and join Ava in line to pay.

“Flirting with girls,” she says, shaking her head. “Are you really that desperate?”

“I flirt with everyone,” I reply, a little too defensively. “It’s my thing.”

“Being the focal point of any room you walk into is your thing.” Ava hands the cashier her student card, flashing an enthusiastic, camera-ready smile that says she enjoys attention just as much.

Once our lunches are paid for, we take a sharp right toward the exit. It’s been two weeks since Valentine’s Day, so I’ve had plenty of time to train myself not to glance over at our old table by now. But my eyes go there anyway, immediately landing on Reese. He’s laughing and stealing a Tater Tot from Hannah’s tray. My throat goes tight.

“Wade.” Ava snaps my attention away from them. “Let’s go.”

Technically we’re not allowed to eat outside the cafeteria, but since most students at Monroe Academy are chronic overachievers, the administration lets it slide. We’re one of the top private high schools in Minnesota for a reason. People aren’t skipping lunch to sit in their cars and get high. They’re skipping lunch to sit in their cars and compare PSAT scores.

Having lunch in the prop room with Ava has been a nice change, actually. I like that it’s just the two of us. When we reach the hallway outside the auditorium today, however, there are a few other students lingering around—freshmen and sophomores who should be in class right now. It’s no secret that on the day the cast list goes up, the number of hopeful thespians who forget a textbook in their locker or suddenly have weak bladders increases by about 50 percent.

“You might have to hold my hair back.” Ava tightens her grip on her tray. “When I vomit,” she clarifies.

“Relax,” I tell her, even though my own pulse is starting to race. “Mr. Z won’t post the list until last period, like he always does.”

Although Ava and I both know this to be true, we still sneak a quick peek as we pass by the bulletin board outside Mr. Zimmerman’s office. Just in case.

Leaving the other vultures to circle, we head downstairs to the prop shop, which is a maze of shelves filled with relics from older shows. Like the umbrella from Mary Poppins, or a foam cutout of Greased Lightnin’. The prop master would be absolutely apoplectic if they knew we were eating greasy cafeteria food in here, on a tufted velvet sofa that was last used in a production of The Importance of Being Earnest.

“This is unbearable.” Ava stares down at her untouched pizza. “You think anyone will notice if I skip the rest of my classes and lie facedown on the floor until the list goes up?”

“We need a distraction,” I say. “Dream Role You’d Commit a Felony For?”

She leans back into the couch, her long black hair pooling behind her. “But our answers never change. You’re just going to pick Dear Evan Hansen again.”

I sigh, staring off into the distance. “That show not being licensed for high school performances yet is the greatest tragedy of my life.”

“Maybe by the time we graduate from NYU you can star in the Broadway revival.”

“Assuming we get into NYU.”

“When we get in.”

I smile, glad Ava’s getting back some of her spark. Our early decision applications for NYU were both deferred, bumping us into the regular decision pool. It was a blow to my confidence, for sure, but I’m not giving up hope. I refuse to settle for Lachlan University, the small liberal arts college in Wisconsin that my parents have been pushing for.

“Your turn,” I say, poking her in the side.

She takes a breath, considering her answer. “I don’t know. Elphaba?”

“Liar.”

She groans. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

Ever since it was announced that My Fair Lady was going to be our spring musical, Ava’s been freaking out. Eliza Doolittle is her dream role. And the thing is, she’s perfect for it. She has the beauty, the comedic timing, and the vocal chops. But she’s also convinced that if she says it out loud, she’ll ruin her chances.

“You know Mr. Z likes to cast his shows based on who’s graduating,” I say. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m hardly the only senior girl who auditioned. Hannah and Ebony also read for Eliza at callbacks. So did Brittany Carmichael, and she’s only a junior.”

True, sometimes Mr. Z throws a curveball with his casting. It’s how I ended up playing Captain von Trapp as a junior. But that’s exactly why I’m not too worried about this year. You don’t play the lead as a junior, only to be demoted to a supporting role your senior year.

And I’m sorry, but no one has better stage chemistry than Ava and me. It doesn’t

matter that I’ve been out since freshman year. People still like to cram us into a heteronormative box, which I’m not above using to my advantage when it comes to casting.

“Mr. Z had us read together at callbacks, like, five times.”

“Three times,” Ava corrects me. “But I also read twice with—”

She stops, averting her gaze.

“You’re allowed to say his name,” I reply flatly. “He’s not Beetlejuice.”

She looks back up. “I also read twice with Reese.”

Okay, so he may not be Beetlejuice, and saying his name won’t magically summon him to the prop room. But it does summon a slight tug at my heart. And the back of my throat aches, like after you’ve been crying for too long. For the past two weeks, I’ve gotten to know those feelings pretty well. But today’s going to be my turning point. Once that list goes up and I see my name next to Henry Higgins, I can forget about Reese and finally get my senior year back on track.

“Reese will be cast as Freddy,” I say. “It’s a good training-wheels role for him.”

I wait for Ava to agree, but she’s suddenly distracted by her phone.

“What—” My voice jumps. “Did they . . .”

“No. It’s just Ebony. She wants to work on our AP History project this weekend.”

I feel bad about taking Ava away from our other friends at lunchtime. Once rehearsals begin, though, we’ll be spending all our time together again. It will be awkward having to be around Reese. But that’s another reason I’m hoping he gets cast as Freddy. Freddy and Higgins don’t share a lot of scenes together.

Of course there is a chance I won’t get Higgins. But if I’m being honest, I know I can do the role justice. And I really want it. Henry Higgins is a pompous ass—that’s fun to play onstage. He’s also misogynistic and classist, which is less fun. But the entire point of the show is that he’s wrong for being that way. And it takes falling in love with Eliza for him to see his faults. There’s something romantic about that.

Not the being classist and sexist part. The part about meeting someone who challenges who you are and makes you a better person for it.

I know certain people at this school—certain people at my old lunch table—would say I’m too shallow and self-involved to care about anyone other than myself. But I don’t know how you can love musicals as much as I do and not be a hopeless romantic. Plays tend to be more realistic, therefore subtle. But in a musical every emotion is heightened. Characters aren’t hiding their feelings.

They’re projecting them out to the back of the theater.

That’s why musicals are filled with some of the greatest romantic pairings of all time.

Tony and Maria.

Sandy and Danny.

Professor Higgins and Eliza Doo—

“Oh shit.”

Ava’s still glued to her phone. But judging from the way her mouth’s gaping open, she’s no longer discussing AP History.

“It’s up,” she whispers.

I grip the edge of the couch, goose bumps pricking my forearms.

Ava’s eyebrows pinch together.

“What? Did something happen? Why are you making that face?”

She quickly closes out her texts. “It’s nothing.”

I have no doubt Ava’s going to be standing behind a podium someday, accepting her Tony Award. But I also know when my best friend is lying to me.

“Someone texted you the cast list, didn’t they?” I ask accusingly.

“What? No.”

It doesn’t matter how good the news is, you’re not supposed to ruin this moment for anyone. Sure, sometimes you see the list and you’re dealt a blow so crushing it feels like you’ll never recover. But when the opposite happens? When you first see your name next to the part you so badly wanted? Nothing beats that feeling.

“You know something,” I say.

“Wade. I swear.” She sets her tray on the cushion. “Ebony just said the list was up and everyone was freaking out.”

“Freaking out in a good way? Or . . .”

“I don’t know!”

We stare at each other for a moment, too scared to even breathe.

“Okay,” I finally say. “Let’s do this.”

Good actors know the importance of milking a dramatic moment for all it’s worth, so when Ava and I walk upstairs, we pause just before entering the hallway. The buzz of noise around the corner is like Christmas morning, hitting the top peak of a roller coaster, and waiting in the dentist’s chair for a cavity filling all wrapped into one.

Ava grabs my arm, giving it a squeeze. “Hey, whatever happens out there, it’s only one show. We have a lifetime of auditions in front of us.”

Only one show? Okay, she must know something. Unless it’s just her nerves. She’s going to be devastated if she doesn’t get Eliza. Which is why I can’t wait to see her face when she realizes it’s her name at the top of that cast list.

When we finally round the corner, there’s a crowd of people standing in front of the bulletin board. Some are jumping up and down, feigning surprise at being cast in the role they were not-so-secretly coveting. And some are hiding their disappointment behind congratulatory hugs and plastered-on smiles, proving my theory that the best acting happens offstage, before rehearsals

begin.

Maybe it’s just my imagination, but as Ava and I push our way forward, the crowd seems to part. Heads turn, staring at us with knowing looks.

My heart catapults against my rib cage as we finally make it to the front. Since Ava’s shorter than me, and at the perfect eye level for the cast list, she lets out a short gasp before I can lean in close enough to read any of the names. My heart catches in my throat. But then I see who’s at the top of the list.

Eliza Doolittle: Ava Mehta.

I knew it. I knew she had nothing to worry about. I’m so excited for her that it takes me a second to process the name listed under hers.

Henry Higgins: Reese Erikson-Ortiz.

The smile drops from my face. My stomach immediately follows. Ava turns around to say something, but her words don’t register. There’s just this humming in my ears. No—not a humming. A name.

Reese Erikson-Ortiz.

My ex-fucking-boyfriend.

 

TwoElijah

I get that porn isn’t going for authenticity, but something always feels off about scenes that are set in a locker room. Two guys are usually standing there, fresh from the showers with only towels around their waists. They’ll look each other up and down—slowly, head to toe—before striking up a conversation.

“Hey, saw you pumping iron out there.”

“Yeah? That’s not all I’d like to pump.”

Unfortunately, the dialogue’s always that bad. Not that I watch enough porn to know—but I am a sixteen-year-old who’s familiar with the internet. Anyhow, it’s hard for me to suspend my disbelief for this particular fantasy. Because who looks at other people in the locker room? Who talks to people? Who spends time doing anything other than trying to get out of there as fast as you can before anyone notices you?

“Shit, Dombrowski. Your nipples are big enough to be on a pepperoni pizza!”

Okay, so I guess the rest of my classmates do those things. The entire locker room erupts into laughter as everyone stops to look at Jake Dombrowski’s nipples.

“Whatever, Caleb,” Jake replies. “Your mom hasn’t complained. She keeps asking for the meat lovers’ supreme. Extra meat.”

I’m almost certain Jake is making a thrusting motion with his crotch. But I can’t bring myself to look. My cheeks are burning as if it were me they were talking about.

“Boys, boys, boys,” says a voice I know all too well.

Connor Goldfarb.

Cute, funny, fearless Connor Goldfarb, who makes everything look so easy.

“I heard Caleb’s mom took one look at Jake’s meat and went vegan.”

This gets more laughter. Which always surprises me—that straight guys find Connor funny. I know we’ve progressed as a society, but when you think about a group of sophomore boys, you have to assume there’s still plenty of aggressive, hyper-masculine bullshit. Not when it comes to Connor, though. He’s somehow found a way to transcend homophobia.

Quickly pulling my gym shirt down over my head, I hurry out into the gymnasium and wait. Coach Walker has us playing badminton this week, which calls for teams of four. If I get my timing right, I might be able to work my way on to Connor’s team. One round of badminton won’t turn us into friends, just like us both being gay doesn’t automatically make us friends. But I have to start somewhere.

As soon as Connor exits the locker room, he’s ambushed by Callie Navarro and Brooke Martin. Callie wears her long brown hair in braids, and Brooke keeps her shorter blond hair pushed back with a knotted headband. Despite our unflattering maroon gym shorts, they still manage to look fashionable.

So does Connor, of course. With his curly chestnut hair. And his constantly rosy cheeks. And his white socks, which he pulls up all the way to his calves. He seems so confident in everything he does.

I wish I could be more like that.

As they move to pick out rackets, I hurry over before anyone else can join their team.

“I can’t get over it,” Connor tells his friends. “Wade Westmore as Colonel Pickering. His senior year. He must be crushed.”

“But Colonel Pickering’s a lead role,” Brooke offers.

“It’s all dialogue—he only gets one duet. Besides, Colonel Pickering is basically an old grandpa who smells like butterscotch.”

I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out warbled.

“Hey. Mind if I join your team?”

Connor gives more of a shrug than a verbal confirmation, but I grab a racket anyhow and join them as they make their way over to one of the nets. Connor and Callie take one side, me and Brooke the other.

“Rehearsals are going to be so awkward now,” Callie says.

“Do you think they’ll get back together?” asks Brooke.

Connor tosses the shuttlecock up, only to catch it in his hand again. “No way. Reese dumps him, then also gets the starring role? There’s no coming back from that. Which is fantastic news for me. Because I’m single and ready to tingle.”

“You mean mingle,” says Callie.

“No, babe.” Connor waves his racket over the general direction of his crotch. “Tingle.”

Even though I don’t really know what they’re talking about—something to do with the spring play, I guess—I can’t stop the corners of my mouth from tugging into a smile. I don’t want to seem like a creep, but the way they talk, the way words effortlessly fly out of their mouths, it’s all just so . . . funny.

I wish I could say whatever I was thinking without overanalyzing it first. But my brain doesn’t work that way. Instead, the only thing I’ve ever been good at is retaining useless trivia knowledge. Unlike humor, which is subjective, facts are either right or wrong. I guess that’s why I like them so much. Once you learn a fact, that’s one less thing you can be wrong about.

Plus, I figure if I amass enough information about things, it’ll eventually come in handy when one of those facts pops up in a conversation.

Next to me, Brooke lets her racket hang at her side, not even attempting to look active. “I do feel bad for Wade, though.”

“Are you serious?” Connor’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows push up. “First of all, you never have to feel sorry for someone that good-looking. Their life’s going to work out just fine. Second—”

Coach Walker’s whistle blows. “I want that shuttlecock out of your hand, Connor.”

“Sounds pervy when he says it like that,” Connor replies, smirking.

Callie sticks out her tongue. “Shuttlecock tease.”

“The other reason I can’t feel bad for Wade,” Connor continues, finally making his serve, “is that he has a speaking role. I refuse to pity anyone who has lines to say.”

Callie groans. “I can’t believe we’re stuck in the chorus again.”

“At least I don’t have to be a Nazi this year,” Connor says as we volley back and forth. “Talk about a bummer on your acting resume.”

“Ugh.” Callie swings her racket. “Being an extra sucks.”

As the shuttlecock comes back across the net toward Brooke, she just stands there, not moving as it hits her in the chest.

“Oh, Brooke. Baby!”

“We didn’t mean it like that!”

Connor and Callie both run up to the net. Connor sticks his fingers through the little squares as though he’s trying to coax a wounded animal from

the back of its cage. “We were being ungrateful. Don’t listen to us.”

“You’re going to have so much fun doing costumes,” Callie tells her. “They’re really amazing for this show.”

Brooke slowly makes her way up the net. She touches her fingers to theirs, and the three of them share a moment. I’d say it was annoying, but I’m actually jealous. Callie, Brooke, and Connor are bonded in a way that I’m not with anyone.

Last year I joined the Quiz Bowl team and made one friend. Micah and I were both freshmen, and both kind of quiet. After a few weeks, we started hanging out after school to do homework together. I thought we were getting close. But when I mentioned I was gay, he suddenly lost interest in me. He never said why, but I could tell I made him uncomfortable.

Eventually I just stopped showing up to Quiz Bowl. Micah’s family ended up moving to Colorado over the summer, so I guess I could’ve rejoined the team this year. But I wasn’t very good at it to begin with. I always froze under pressure.

Coach Walker’s whistle blows again. “Don’t make me separate you four over there.”

Right. As if we could ever be four. Instead of three plus one.

If I wanted to be a part of their group, I’d have to stop being quiet. I’d have to come up with something funny or interesting to say. They probably think it’s weird that I haven’t said anything since we started playing, but that’s always been my default. I’d rather say nothing at all than say something to make me look foolish or wrong. People have enough reasons to laugh at me. I don’t need to give them more.

And, yeah, I don’t know much about this play they’re doing. But I do know who Wade Westmore and Reese Erikson-Ortiz are. Everyone does. It shouldn’t be difficult for me to be a part of this conversation.

“Speaking of costumes,” Callie says, starting her serve as we get back to playing. “How hot is Reese going to look as Professor Higgins?”

Connor sighs. “I just love a man in a top hat and cravat.”

The shuttlecock starts heading my way. This is it. My chance to finally say something. “Did you know,” I reply, returning the serve with surprising ease, “that a top hat once saved Abraham Lincoln’s life?”

The shuttlecock flies over the net, landing halfway between Connor and Callie, neither of whom moves to hit it. All three of them are staring at me now, as if they suddenly realized there was a fourth person on their team.

I know I should explain the rest of the story: a bullet pierced his top hat, tipping him off to the sniper who was trying to assassinate him. My tongue’s too thick, though. Heat starts creeping up the back of my neck as I wait for Coach Walker to blow his whistle again, hoping he can save me. But the whistle never comes.

“Random,” Connor finally says, twisting his mouth into a smile.

The three of them laugh. And while it doesn’t feel like they’re laughing at me, exactly, I don’t think they’re laughing with me, either. When

gym class ends, I change back into my school uniform without saying another word. I don’t want to humiliate myself further.

I tried—that’s something to be proud of. But it’s hard to feel good about a failure.

Walking past the auditorium on my way to my locker, there’s a small cluster of people by the bulletin board in the hallway. Mom’s probably waiting for me in the parking lot already, so I can practice driving home. But my curiosity gets the best of me. I move closer to see what everyone’s looking at.

It’s the cast list. I’m surprised by how many names are on it. A second sheet of paper, even longer than the first, is for the stage crew. I knew theater was popular at Monroe, but I never realized it took this many people just to put on a show.

“Did you audition?” a girl asks, looking directly at me.

“What?” I laugh. “No, I just—” My cheeks go warm, as if I’ve been caught doing something bad. I shake my head and hurry off to my locker.

When I finally exit the school a few minutes later, the February air hits my lungs like an icy punch. (Trivia fact: lungs are the only organ that can float on water.) I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and look for Mom. But standing on the sidewalk, ...