“What book are you selecting?” I ask Dylan as Miss Delway sits back at her desk.

“Whatever one you pick for us.”

For someone who likes to have the upper hand, it’s a little surprising and infuriating that he cares so little about this.

“I’m not doing the assignments for you,” I remind him.

The last thing I need is another one of those situations where I’m stuck doing the work of four people. Without fail, it’s what happens for every group assignment.

“I know,” he says in a bored tone. “I don’t have a preference, and I’d rather just to do whatever you’re doing if we’re going to do the assignments at the same time.”

“Fair enough,” I admit. “I think I want Brave New World. I read it a few years ago and loved it. There’s plenty to work with for the assignments and unit paper she wants us to do.”

He yawns. “Fine with me.”

“And Huxley had a remarkable influence on almost every single dystopian novel that was published after it.”

I’m getting excited just thinking about it. It’s so cool to see trends and patterns in books and to think about how one book can have a legacy that carries through an entire genre and over multiple generations.

Dylan does not share my enthusiasm.

“Why are you even bothering going to college?” I ask because I can’t help it. “Doesn’t your dad have a job waiting for you the second you graduate?”

He doesn’t realize how privileged he is to be at this school and queued up for a spot at the Ivy League school of his choice.

And I’m enabling it.

“Maybe I have my own plans,” he answers. “Or maybe I just want to get the hell away from this place.”

Both of those seem believable enough. “Are you going to tell me which school you’re applying to?”

“Does it matter? They’re all cold in the winter.”

Of course that’s his answer.

He doesn’t have to worry about which school is going to offer him the most scholarship money, if there are cheaper off-campus rooms to rent, or what his parents think about him moving so far away.

“The campuses are so different, as well as the specialties in academia,” I say as neutrally as I can. “You really don’t care about where you’re going to spend four years of your life?”

“Well, since you’re so well versed, why don’t you tell me your top pick?”

I think he’s going to brush me off once the bell rings, but we fall in stride beside each other and walk toward the cafeteria.

“James wants Cornell and—”

“Did I ask where he is going?” Dylan sighs.

People watch us walk together.

It’s hard to miss it because the normally crowded hallway parts like the Red Sea to let us through.

We’re an unusual duo. The bookworm and the bad boy.

It’s like a really weird fairytale, but instead of falling in love, he’s using me and keeping my secret, and I’m okay with it.

Except for the fact that I don’t like to be the center of attention.

I run my hands through my hair, pulling it down to frame and hide my face when I dip my head down.

Dylan doesn’t notice the stares or my discomfort; he just side-eyes me and waits for my answer.

I really have nothing to lose by telling him the truth, so I decide to do so, regardless of how much it will irritate him.

Actually, that might be a bonus.

“Our families are rooting for us to go together,” I explain. “We live next door to each other. We have for my entire life. I mean, we were born on the same day in rooms on the same floor of the same hospital. Our parents are best friends, and James is mine. It just kind of works out to go along with it.”

Dylan considers my explanation.

As if he, of all people, would understand what it’s like to make promises and have loyalty toward other people. “But you don’t want to go there?”

“Cornell’s a great school. And it’s kind of selfish because I’m so lucky to be able to go to college at all. Well, pending financial aid. But the thought of spending four years in the middle of nowhere in New York State...” I trail off.

“Sounds boring as hell,” Dylan finishes my thought when we enter the cafeteria.

“It’s a really beautiful campus, though. The architecture is interesting at least.”

He wrinkles his nose. “If that’s your selling point, I think I’ll cross that one off the list.”

We’re in line with our trays in our hands, and I can feel his stare, waiting for me to tell him my choice.

It’s an easy word to say, but it’s an admission I haven’t made to anyone.

Not even my parents.

Certainly not James.

They all know I’ve applied to multiple schools and for numerous scholarships, but I told them I wanted to wait until I had all the letters to officially make the decision. Still, they’ve all dropped plenty of hints that it wouldn’t be so bad to be at school together.

“Columbia,” I say quietly.

“Colombia? Do you even speak Spanish?”

I’m about to correct him, but the upturned corner of his mouth reveals that he’s messing with me.

“Relax, Reed,” he says, sliding one of the rice and chicken dishes onto his tray. “What’s another little secret between classmates?”

I swallow. “Well, that’s my dream. Life in New York City.”

“Some people say it’s overrated,” he says.

“Overrated? It’s the cultural epicenter of the U.S. Restaurants, museums, and oh my gosh, the library.” I smile. “I want to spend days of my life in that building.”

“What’s stopping you?”

There are a lot of reasons, but I give him the one that’s the easiest to explain. “On our thirteenth birthday, James and I made a pact that we’d go to college together.”

Dylan waits for me as I load my plate up on items from the salad bar.

I’m practically shaking at the novelty of this, talking to him while others gawk, but honestly, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. I’m just trying to ignore them as well as he does.

I thank Loretta, the head of culinary, while Dylan half-nods in her direction.

“So, you’re following someone to a school you don’t even want to go to when you have dreams to go elsewhere,” he finally says. “That’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s called ‘friendship.’ Loyalty means something to some people, you know.”

“This is not loyalty. This is basing your life off of a decision you made as you became a teenager, which is, as I said, stupid.”

I open my mouth to cut him off, but he keeps going.

“What you did when you were thirteen doesn’t count,” he insists. “Want to know what I was doing when I was thirteen?”

“Manipulating fifteen-year-olds into letting you feel them up?”

At this, he laughs out loud, calling even more attention to our interaction.

“I didn’t have to manipulate anyone into doing that,” he assures me. “But anyway, what I was doing when I was that age doesn’t matter because I was thirteen, not an adult with a very specific set of goals and plans years out. Come on, Reed, you’re smarter than that.”