We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,6

sinks effortlessly into a cup.

“That’s how it’s done,” she declares, planting a hand on her hip. Her bright coral skirt is so tight, it’s practically fused to her skin. There’s no way she’s wearing underwear — and I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Every guy in the room has his eyes fixed on her. They can’t seem to look away. She’s magnetic.

Maybe it’s her perfectly bronzed skin, not a single tan line in sight. Maybe it’s the crop top, stretched tight over a full set of breasts that make mine look like mosquito bites by comparison. Or maybe it’s simply her confidence — that undiluted charisma that draws everyone’s attention, whether she’s on the top of a pyramid in her cheerleading uniform or standing in a kitchen surrounded by half-empty plastic cups.

Sienna smiles coyly. “Oh, I’m not done yet, boys… unless you’ve seen enough?”

They yell louder, egging her on.

She makes several more perfect throws in quick succession, until all but one of our cups contains a small white ball floating on the surface. Turning her back to the countertop with a hip-shimmy that makes the boys roar, she blindly tosses the last ball over her shoulder. It lands in the cup directly in front of me with a tidy little plunk! that signals the end of the game.

Much as it pains me to admit, it’s pretty damn smooth.

Sienna knows it, too. She pivots around as the jocks explode into cheers, a self-satisfied smile on her face. A giggle escapes her glossy lips as Chris hoists her into the air. The other guys fall to their knees, adoring subjects chanting their queen’s name — three syllables, over and over, drowning out the music.

“Si-en-na! Si-en-na! Si-en-na!”

“That’s right, peasants!” She laughs down at her adoring fans, arms waving over her head. “I am the Queen of Beer Pong!”

Something inside me deflates, but I manage to keep the smile on my face. Ever the good sport. Never one to make a scene. After all, plain little Jo Valentine — perpetual wallflower — wouldn’t dare infringe upon the spotlight that’s been fixed in Sienna’s direction since the day she sprouted boobs, way back in third grade.

I know full-well I’ll never possess whatever magic runs through Sienna’s veins. It’s not something you can acquire; it’s something you’re born with, like freckles or allergies or double-jointed fingers. My best imitation of her carefree allure would no doubt come across awkward and antiseptic. A little girl stumbling around in her mother’s high heels.

When Chris finally sets Sienna back on her feet, she looks straight across the island at me. Her heavily-mascaraed eyes scan me up and down, seeming to pick apart every facet of my existence from my simple fishtail braid to my oversized white wool sweater to the lack of makeup on my face.

“Drink up,” she says, jerking her head at the cups in front of me. “You lost.”

I glance down at the cups. White balls bob like tiny ships atop the frothy yellow beer. It looks about as appetizing as urine.

I clear my throat. “I actually wasn’t planning on drinking…”

“God, you are such a stick in the mud.” Sienna rolls her eyes. “Why do you even bother coming to our parties? Stay home and knit something instead next time, for Christ’s sake.”

A few of the jocks muffle laughs into their beer cups.

Anger bubbles through me, undercut by a stream of embarrassment so thick, it’s difficult to breathe around. Sienna Sullivan is the worst kind of popular — the type that revels in it. She finds joy in annihilating those below her on the social totem pole. Probably because she assumes we’re plotting to steal her spot at the top. She’d never understand that some of us are quite happy on the bottom rungs; that we’d rather stay anonymous than step on everyone else in order to ascend the meaningless echelons of Exeter Academy.

“Come on, Valentine.” My nickname is said in a mocking sneer through pouty pink lips. “Show us you’re not the total Goody Two Shoes everyone thinks you are.”

I bite my tongue to keep from snapping back at her. It would be a waste of breath. Nothing I say will make her magically morph into a better person.

“Well?” she taunts, eyebrows arching. “What’s it gonna be?”

I shift back and forth on my leather flip-flops, wishing I could disappear. Sienna notices my uneasiness; her smile widens like a cat with a canary between its paws.

She’s fully aware I hate being the center of attention. She’s