We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,37

“I wanted to go to Dartmouth but I’m not the one paying, so...” He trails off. “Anyway. I don’t think I had a chance to ask you the other night… where are you headed in the fall?”

“Brown.”

“Ah. A fellow Ivy Leaguer. Hence the impressive books. You planning to study science?”

“If my parents have their way? Yes. They’ve got it all planned out. Undergraduate degree in Biology with a focus on Nutritional Science. Masters in Public Health, followed by an internship at their nonprofit. Eventually, taking over the reins and running the company.”

“And you? What’s your grand plan?”

I try to focus on his question, rather than the other students making their way to the front door. Several of them are blatantly staring at us. By first period, the news will have swept through every classroom.

Ryan Snyder was carrying Josephine Valentine’s books this morning! And he had a black eye, to boot!

“Earth to Valentine. Am I boring you?”

“No! Sorry,” I murmur guiltily. “I want to study fashion.”

“Let me guess — you’re hoping for a stint on Project Runway? Future designer to the stars? Kardashian fashion consultant?”

“Not exactly.” I roll my eyes. “The design side is interesting, but I want to learn about the whole industry. From sketching new styles to manufacturing lines to stocking the shelves.”

“That’s cool.”

“It’s not cool, actually.” My brows pull together. “Do you know how many harmful dyes and chemicals are pumped into our rivers every year, just to make the uniforms we’re wearing right now? Do you know how many people live below the poverty line, working in sweatshops to sew them together?”

“I’m guessing a lot.”

“Yes. A lot. And no one is doing anything about it.” I shake my head in exasperation. “I want to start a fashion brand that does things differently. One that actually pays the people who make my clothes a livable wage. One that creates clothing without destroying the earth in the process.”

“I’d say ‘that’s cool’ again, but I’m afraid you’ll yell at me.”

I snort-laugh, somewhat mortified by my tirade. He probably thinks I’m a total freak. “Sorry. I’m a bit on-edge today. And I tend to get revved up when I talk about this stuff.”

“Never apologize for being passionate about something, Valentine.” He glances at me again. “I just can’t believe I ever thought you were shy.”

I duck my head, hair falling around my face in a curtain. I hope it hides my blush. (Judging by the way a group of sophomore girls giggle behind their notebooks as we pass by, I’m guessing that hope is futile.)

We’ve reached the front door. Juggling my books, Ryan reaches out and holds it open for me.

“How gentlemanly,” I tease, walking inside.

“I’m trying to impress you, if it wasn’t obvious.” He’s smiling as he passes my books back to me. “How am I doing so far?”

“What fun would it be if I told you?”

With that, I turn and walk away, heading for my locker. It’s at the tail end of the senior hallway with the rest of the alphabetical rejects, crammed in between Kenny Underwood and the Wadell twins.

“You’re killing me, Valentine!” Ryan calls after me, loud enough to make everyone in earshot turn around to stare.

Unfortunately, three minutes before the final bell, the senior hallway is packed with lingering students — all eager witnesses to my embarrassment. They whisper under their breath as I walk the gauntlet. The weight of many watchful eyes rests heavily on my shoulders, an unfamiliar burden for a girl who is usually borderline invisible. I pray my cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel.

I’m spinning open my combination lock — 3-34-14 — when the Wadell twins flank me on either side, their matching pink backpacks the same shade as the gum they’re snapping in tandem. There’s not a hair out of place in their glossy platinum bobs; a far cry from my windswept mane. Driving with the top down creates more volume than the best blow-dryer on the market.

“Hey,” Ophelia says.

“Hey,” Odette says.

“Can I help you?” I grunt, distracted. They’ve made me mess up my combo. I start over.

Twice to the right…

3…

“So are you, like, dating Ryan now?” Ophelia asks.

I ignore the question.

Once to the left…

34…

“How’d he get that black eye?” Odette wonders.

Back to the right…

14…

“Everyone’s saying Archer gave it to him,” Ophelia informs me.

“And that they’re, like, fighting over you now,” Odette adds.

I press my lips firmly together. Yanking open my locker door, I shove my textbooks inside haphazardly. I don’t care if they fall out later; I’m desperate to