This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2026 by Nicole Melleby

  Skyline illustration © netsign33/Shutterstock.com

  Shoe illustration © nikiteev_konstantin/Shutterstock.com

  Cover art copyright © 2026 by Svetla Radivoeva. Cover design by Patrick Hulse. Cover copyright © 2026 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Interior design by Michelle Gengaro.

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  Hachette Book Group

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  First Edition: January 2026

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Melleby, Nicole author

  Title: Brady Mason’s perfect fit / Nicole Melleby.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2026. | Audience: Ages 9–12 | Summary: “A queer New Jersey orphan goes to live with her glamorous birth mom in New York City.”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2025002191 | ISBN 9781523529360 hardcover | ISBN 9781523529384 ebook

  Subjects: CYAC: Mothers and daughters—Fiction | LGBTQ+ people—Fiction | Fashion—Fiction | New York (N.Y.)—Fiction | LCGFT: Queer fiction | Novels

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M46934 Br 2026

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025002191

  ISBNs: 978-1-52352-936-0 (hardcover), 978-1-52352-938-4 (ebook)

  E3-20251104-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise for Nicole Melleby

  For Robin.

  I’ve been waiting a long time to dedicate a book to you.

  1.

  Brady Mason wasn’t the type of kid that had a smartphone to scroll through social media. She didn’t even have a computer, other than the ancient one in the living room of the group home, which sometimes made a noise so loud, it sounded like a plane getting ready for takeoff.

  Not that it mattered if it worked or not. The older girls tended to hog the computer, and Yara tended to hog the one TV in the house, leaving Brady little time to hog either of them herself.

  She had little time to hog anything, really, what with sharing a home with five other girls. She had arrived here a couple years ago with nothing but the clothes on her back, and the only new thing she had been given at that time was a toothbrush.

  Everything else was hand-me-downs or donations, and people didn’t tend to give away anything particularly nice. Which meant that Brady’s baseball mitt was basically useless, so thinned out with age that she might as well be catching the ball with her bare hand.

  Luckily for now, though, her hand was mostly getting a break as she stood up at bat. In New Jersey, a Friday night at the end of August meant playing baseball on the beach. She and Cory had barely beaten the boys all summer, and she was determined to end on a high note.

  “Don’t hit the ball too hard!” Diggs yelled. He and his two brothers spent all summer in a condo on the shore that their parents had rented. They were leaving to go back home next week. Brady hadn’t decided yet if she would miss them or be glad to finally be rid of them.

  Brady rolled her eyes at Diggs as she planted the toe of her busted, secondhand sneaker into the sand. He never missed an opportunity to call her weak, so she sure as heck was going to be hitting as hard as humanly possible.

  “Seriously, Brady. We can’t lose this ball, too!”

  “Oh my God, just pitch already!” Brady said.

  It was after dark, and they were only allowed on the New Jersey public beaches until sundown. Not to mention she and Cory were supposed to be back at the group home in like ten minutes for curfew. Brady could barely see the lines of their makeshift baseball diamond in the sand. The sound of the ocean crashing against the shore echoed around them, and what little light remained came from the streetlamps in the parking lot, the almost-full moon above them, and the New York City skyline across the bay, reflecting on the water.

  “Okay!” Diggs shouted. “I’m throwing it!”

  In the nightfall, Brady was grateful for his warning. She swung the beautiful, shiny, brand-new-at-the-start-of-summer metal baseball bat she had borrowed from the boys, and the ball connected at the last possible moment, then shot off high into the sky, out, out, out…

  They didn’t see where it went, only heard the plunk it made as it landed in the water.

  Brady ran the makeshift bases anyway—the old piece of driftwood they used for first base; the smelly, dried-up horseshoe crab they used for second—as the pitcher groaned and angrily threw his glove down onto the sand and the other boys all started yelling at her, too.

  “You lost the ball again!”

  “That shouldn’t count! Out of bounds!”

  “Next time you want to play with us, you’re bringing your own baseballs!”

  But then a deeper, much-louder voice shouted, “You kids aren’t supposed to be out here!” It was accompanied by a sudden beam from a flashlight shining right into Brady’s eyes. She didn’t need to see who that flashlight was attached to. She took a deep breath and yelled, “Cops!”

  Everyone immediately scattered.

  Brady collided with one of the boys—she didn’t know which one—as she tried to reach for her baseball mitt. She ricocheted off him and fell hard on her knees into the sand. She reached for her glove, stood, and tried to brush herself off when suddenly a hand grabbed her. She looked up to see Cory glaring at her.

  Cory tugged hard at Brady’s arm. “We need to go. Come on.”

  Brady didn’t need to be told twice. She knew how the world worked. If the summer-touristy boys got caught, they would get warnings and lectures and maybe escorts home. The group-home girls, however, would be in big trouble.

  They ran as fast as they could off the beach and away from the police officer and his flashlight beam.

  After a couple of blocks, they figured they were safe enough to catch their breaths. Brady leaned over, then started to laugh a bit as she pushed her sweaty, shaggy, dirty-blond hair out of her face. “If Diggs didn’t take five hundred years to pitch the ball, we’d have been done an hour ago, and this wouldn’t have happened,” she said.

  Cory sighed and rolled her eyes as they started walking again toward home. “Yeah, well, he knew you were gonna lose their ball, didn’t he?”

  “That’s just the risk you take playing on the beach. A home run’s a home run.”

  “Admit it: You aim for the water because it’s the easiest way to win.”

  “We deserve a win,” Brady said, shrugging. “Figuring out the best way to do it isn’t cheating.”

  As they slowly made their way under the streetlamps and down the sidewalk, Brady took inventory of everything that hurt: the gravelly sand under her feet that had gotten into the rips in her old sneakers, the way her palm throbbed at the bottom. She held up her glove and waved it in Cory’s face. “This thing is useless. I’m gonna be bruised tomorrow.”

  “Same,” Cory said, thumbing the frayed edges of her own baseball glove. “Maybe if we ask nicely and bat our eyelashes, they’ll get us new ones.”

  Cory, who was about twice Brady’s size and preferred wearing baggy men’s clothes, fluttered her eyelashes dramatically in Brady’s face. It wasn’t exactly convincing.

  “Yeah, right. When was the last time you got something new that wasn’t underwear?” Brady asked.

  “Doesn’t need to be new, just needs to not be useless.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “I don’t hear you coming up with any solutions.”

  Brady considered this. “I think we need to win the lottery.”

  Cory snorted. “Gotta ha ve money to play the lottery. No dice.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” Brady said, and she meant it. Just like she’d figured out how to wiggle the knob on the water heater to get the showers going from lukewarm to almost hot, like she’d figured out how to fake her way through an English assignment so that no one realized she barely understood what she was reading, like she’d figured out she should hit the baseball into the ocean to get the win. “Give me time. We’ll leave the group home, and I’ll buy us a fancy place at the very top of one of those skyscrapers.” She gestured back behind them, toward the beach and across the bay, where the city skyline stood proudly in the distance. “We’ll have a view of Central Park, and we’ll pay people to bring us breakfast in bed, and I’ll have an entire boudoir filled with baseballs.”

  “Boudoir!” Cory repeated, with another snort.

  “You can have a closet full of brand-new sneakers.”

  “You get a whole boudoir, and I get a closet?”

  “Sneakers are more expensive than baseballs. It evens out.”

  “Make it two closets, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “Point is,” Brady said, taking back control of the conversation. “I’m going to get us out of here someday. You and me both. We’ll be our own family.”

  “Our own rich family,” Cory said, and then sighed. “Sounds stupid nice.”

  It sounded more than nice. Brady had long ago grown up and abandoned the thought of getting adopted, and then she’d met Cory, and she’d realized there was maybe a different way to have a real home.

  Cory interrupted Brady’s thoughts: “Too bad this is home, sweet home for now.”

  They stood in front of a small Jersey town house. It looked quaint, if you squinted. If you didn’t see all the ways in which it was old, or the evidence that the landlord didn’t care to make real improvements. One of the windows upstairs had fallen out during a hurricane last summer and was still boarded up.

  Brady took out her key to let them both in—the door was locked at all times—hoping no one noticed or cared they were a few minutes past curfew. Some of her foster families had cared a lot about things like that. Though sometimes they’d barely noticed you were part of the household at all.

  This group home fell somewhere in the middle. The person in charge, a tall and skinny but fierce woman they called Ms. Randall, had rules and expectations, but she wasn’t strict enough to lock the girls in their bedrooms if they were a little late every now and again.

  The door creaked loudly as Brady and Cory walked inside. But the TV was blasting, and Wren and Yara were sitting on the worn couch in the living room, arguing about whatever they were watching. Brady hoped it was distracting enough to let them kick off their sneakers and pretend we’ve been home for a while, actually, didn’t you notice?

  “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  So much for that.

  Brady and Cory both turned and pasted big smiles on their faces as Ms. Randall looked them up and down. She sighed, resigned. “Don’t make it a habit,” she said.

  A familiar warning they’d now heard at least three times already this week.

  Of all the homes that Brady—orphaned as a baby—had lived in, she really couldn’t complain much about this one. It was nice to be in a home where she wasn’t afraid of getting in trouble for being herself, or worse, just for breathing. But the truth was that Ms. Randall probably didn’t yell at them because she was too exhausted to care, and sometimes Brady wished someone would just… care. Even if that meant occasional yelling.

  Not that she would admit it. Not to Cory, or anyone. Thoughts like that made her look weak, and Brady knew better than to show weakness.

  She and Cory chucked their sneakers into the bin next to the door, and Cory went into the living room to sit in the cracked leather armchair in the corner. “What’re we watching?” Cory asked. Then she caught sight of the TV and sighed loudly. “Not this again.”

  “Stop, shush,” Yara responded without looking away from the TV.

  “You’ve been watching this lady all week—”

  “Elena Lavigne,” Wren interrupted, as if Cory didn’t know. They all knew. Her name had been constantly in Yara’s mouth lately.

  “Yeah, well, I’m sick of her face,” Cory said.

  Yara glared at her. “Well, since the library still hasn’t gotten Elena Lavigne’s memoir in and Ms. Randall changed her Amazon password—again—and, oh yeah, we’re poor, I can’t get my hands on Elena’s new book. So, until I do, I’m watching every minute of her press tour, and you can suck it up.”

  “She’s not even a real celebrity,” Cory said.

  “You don’t know anything. She’s, like, one of the most important people in fashion,” Yara argued. “She’s the editor of Vivacité!”

  “Unless she’s dressing Zendaya, I don’t care much about Elena Lavigne, either,” Wren admitted. “But I’m down for celebrity gossip.”

  “What gossip? This is boring,” Cory replied.

  “Both of you! Shush! I care,” Yara basically shrieked. “Elena was a nobody once—”

  “Like you,” Cory interrupted.

  “—and then everyone started watching Young Adult, her vlog, and she became an influencer and a writer, and I’m going to do the exact same thing someday and then people will send me so many clothes they’ll want me to post photos wearing,” Yara finished.

  Brady rolled her eyes. How Yara could care so deeply about fashion while she wore clothes that weren’t good enough to sell at a thrift store was beyond her. But maybe Yara dreamed of a wardrobe full of designer clothes the same way Brady dreamed of a boudoir full of baseballs. They all needed their happily ever afters.

  Brady did not care about fashion. She watched Elena Lavigne cross her bare ankles as she sat on the couch, leaning over to smile at the talk-show host. She was wearing the type of thing that expensive people always wore—a tight blue dress with a low-cut top and a slit along the side.

  Elena looked powerful, even alluring. But Brady never wanted to be caught dead wearing anything like that.

  “Where’s Sierra?” Brady asked. “Shower?”

  “I think she just finished,” Wren said.

  “I’m going to shower, then.” She turned to head up the stairs.

  Wren squealed loudly at the TV. “Oh! Oh! Finally, turn it up! She’s gonna talk about the adoption!” Wren said, and Brady, scolding herself a bit for being such an orphan cliché, turned back around at the word adoption.

  Poised in her seat, on the TV screen, Elena Lavigne said, “Oh, I know. You want to talk about the baby. God forbid we talk about my career, which is the focus of this book.”

  “Well, it was quite the bombshell in your memoir,” the TV host replied. He wore a suit with a loosened tie and a smile that looked boyish, even as he leaned closer to Elena. Brady knew that look; she knew that a well-placed smile could hide even the sharpest of teeth.

  “Here we go,” Wren said, sounding outright gleeful. “Elena is going to tell him off!”

  Yara, meanwhile, seemed to slump a little in her seat. “If I started off with nothing but a vlog on our crappy computer and got so popular that every fashion outlet in New York City wanted me to work for them, and I was so good at it that I ended up being the one in charge, and the only thing people wanted to talk about from my entire book was the baby I placed for adoption? I’d be so mad.”

  “But it’s a secret baby!” Wren said. “A baby no one knew about. Could you imagine?”

  “Why is that anyone’s business?” Brady asked despite herself.

  “Well, in fairness, she did write about it,” Yara said.

  The host kept talking. “You went public for the first time about how, twelve years ago, before leaving for New York, you had a child and put the baby up for adoption. Somewhere out there, there’s a mini–Elena Lavigne.”

  “Not so much a mini-me, I’m sure. People always ask if I regret not having kids of my own, because I’m a woman of a certain age at this point, and, you know, the road to Vivacité was everything I wanted and worked for. I’m very proud of what I’ve done and where I’ve gotten,” Elena replied. She tucked her blond hair behind her ear, and Brady followed the movement. She had to hand it to Yara, at least: Elena Lavigne was captivating. “I’ve made sacrifices, and I wanted to be honest about them in the book.”

  “No regrets, then?” the TV-show host asked.

  “No,” Elena said. “No regrets.”

 

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