We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,45
Odette’s finally calmed down enough to speak. “You don’t mind if we call you Josie, right?”
I sort of do mind, but I don’t say anything. In my experience, when the popular kids pick a nickname for you, there’s very little point in protesting.
“Anyways…” She fixes her lipgloss in her handheld mirror. “Like I was saying, don’t worry about it — we brought extra.”
“Check the YETI,” Ophelia suggests, jerking her chin at the seat beside mine, where a large cooler rests. When I open it, my eyes widen. It’s fully stocked with a dozen or so spiked lemonades.
Of course they meant alcoholic beverages.
“Oh,” I murmur, feeling like an utter idiot. “I didn’t realize—”
“Don’t sweat it, honey.” Odette glances over her shoulder at me. “Pass up a lemonade, will you?”
I pull out a bottle. It’s cold with condensation as I hand it to her.
“Now crack one for yourself!” she orders, twisting off the cap. “We have to toast to the Wolves winning tonight! It’s good luck.”
I don’t let myself think about the brutal hangover I experienced last time I put alcohol into my body. I don’t let myself think about anything. Frankly, I’m tired of thinking. Tired of doing what everyone expects of me all the time. Tonight I just want to be a normal teenager for once.
Tonight, I just want to forget.
Clinking my bottle against Odette’s, I twist off the cap, put it to my lips, and let a large gulp pour into my mouth. Flavors explode across my tongue — tart lemonade, sickly sweet sugar. The sharp after-burn of alcohol.
“‘Atta girl!” Odette cheers, pumping her fist in the air.
I cough slightly, taking another large sip.
We roll through the exterior gates of Cormorant House, onto the main road. Ophelia meets my eyes in her rearview mirror as she accelerates. “Gorgeous house, by the way.”
“Thanks.” A thought occurs to me. “How did you guys even know I lived here?”
They look at each other briefly.
“Our Dad subscribes to Architectural Digest,” Odette says finally. “There was that article a few years ago—”
Oh.
The photo spread.
How could I forget?
For a week straight, Cormorant House was a circus of florists and photographers and lighting consultants. Interior designers and historical society members and journalists. They catalogued the entire property, pouring over the most minute details. While they interviewed my parents at length, for the most part they ignored my presence — like I was a particularly well-mannered family pet, trained to sit nicely but never to speak.
The profile was eventually published alongside a picture of me and my parents on the front steps. It took about a zillion takes to get one with all of us smiling at the same time, my braces glinting in the sun. But when the magazine hit shelves six months later, the article’s title was far more mortifying than my untimely orthodontia.
NEW ENGLAND’S OLD MONEY: BEHIND CLOSED DOORS AT CORMORANT HOUSE WITH THE INDOMINABLE VALENTINE CLAN
I found the whole thing so pretentious, I like to pretend it never happened.
“Right,” I say slowly, taking another big sip of my lemonade. “The article.”
“It’s a stunning house.” Ophelia’s eyes flicker to mine again. At the next stop sign, she pulls a JUUL vaporizer from her center console and puffs on it twice. “You could have, like, a Gatsby-level party there.”
Odette squeals. “Oh my god, yes! Fill the pool with champagne and swing from the chandeliers!”
“Not sure how my parents would feel about that…” I mutter.
Despite my protests, there’s a certain allure in the idea. The thought of Vincent and Blair’s faces if they walked in after their latest business trip to find fifty drunken teenagers rampaging through their picturesque estate…
“At least think about it,” Ophelia encourages. “We still need a location for the prom after-party. Lee Park was supposed to host it, but his parents flipped after his last rager. Apparently someone fucked with his mom’s koi pond.”
“Did you say after-party?” My brows lift. “I thought prom was the party.”
Odette giggles. “Oh, you innocent little flower. Everyone knows the after-party is more fun than some corny, school-sanctioned dance. The only reason to even attend is for an excuse to rent a limo and get all dressed up.”
“Don’t forget the corsages!” Ophelia’s lips part to release a thin stream of vapor from one corner of her mouth. “And the competition for Prom Queen, of course.”
“As if it’s even a competition.” Her twin rolls her eyes. “We all know Sienna is going to get all the votes. Who needs to stuff the ballot box when you’ve banged half