Stunning

Page 21

“I appreciate you taking the time to see me,” Spencer said primly, straightening her cardigan sweater.
“Mi casa es su casa.” Reefer was practically salivating as he escorted her inside.
Spencer’s heels rang out in the foyer. The living room was long and narrow with beige carpet and leather couches and chairs. Volumes of an aging World Book Encyclopedia from the eighties lined the bookshelves, and a gilded harp stood in the corner. Next to the living room was the kitchen, which had swirly, psychedelic wallpaper and a cookie jar in the shape of a leering owl. Spencer wondered if Reefer hung out in there when he was high.
She sniffed the air. Strangely, the house didn’t smell like pot, but of cinnamon candles and minty mouthwash. What if Reefer didn’t smoke at home? Even worse, what if he was one of those kids who only pretended he was stoned all the time but really was afraid of the stuff?
“So what can I do for you?” Reefer asked.
Spencer placed her hands on her hips, suddenly unsure. She’d bought drugs last summer, but that involved secret passwords and back-alley deals. She doubted getting pot was the same. She decided to be blunt and precise: “I’m wondering if I could buy some marijuana from you.”
Reefer’s eyes lit up. “I knew it! I knew you smoked! You can totally score some! We can even smoke together if you want!”
Well, that answered that. “Thanks,” Spencer said, feeling relieved. “But it’s not for me. It’s for this potluck hosted by the Ivy Eating Club. Basically, they want everyone to bring a dish that has pot baked into it. So I need some pot . . . and a recipe. It’s really important.”
Reefer raised an eyebrow. “Does this have anything to do with you getting that chick in trouble at the party last night?”
Spencer’s shoulders tensed. “I didn’t get her in trouble! But it’s because of that, yes. Harper is really influential at Ivy, and I want to make sure I get in.”
Reefer plucked a string of the harp. “Ivy hosts pot parties? I didn’t realize they were so cool.”
What do you know? Spencer thought, annoyed. “Well, do you have pot for me or not?”
“Of course. This way.”
He walked up the stairs to the second level. They passed a small bathroom with a nautical theme and a guest bedroom containing several pieces of exercise equipment and finally entered Reefer’s bedroom. It was bright and big, with a queen bed, white bookshelves, and a white Eames chair and ottoman. Spencer had expected a stinky drug den with weird optical illusion posters on the walls, but this looked like a bedroom out of a boutique hotel in New York City. Of course, he probably hadn’t decorated it.
“So you’re vying to get into Ivy, huh?” Reefer walked to the closet at the far end of the room.
Spencer snorted. “Uh, yeah. Isn’t everyone?”
Reefer shrugged. “Nah. It’s a little stuffy for me.”
“An organization that supports a drug potluck is stuffy?”
“I’m just not into organizations.” Reefer put organizations in air quotes. “I don’t like being put into one category, you know? It’s so stifling.”
Spencer burst out laughing. “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”
Reefer stared at her blankly, leaning against the bureau.
“I’m just saying. Aren’t you putting yourself into a category?” Spencer waved her hands up and down Reefer’s body. “What about the whole Rastafarian thing you’ve got going on?”
A half-smile crept onto Reefer’s face. “How do you know I’m not more than just this? You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” Then he turned to his closet. “Why do you care so much about getting into Ivy, anyway? You don’t look like the kind of girl who’d have trouble making friends.”
Spencer bristled. “Uh, because being part of an Eating Club is a huge honor?”
“It is? Says who?”
Spencer wrinkled her nose. What planet did this guy live on? “Look, can I just see the pot?”
“Of course.” Reefer opened his closet doors and stepped away. Inside was a tall, clear plastic cabinet with at least thirty pullout drawers. Each drawer was labeled with things like Northern Lights and Power Skunk. Inside, Spencer could see a small, greenish-gray clump that looked like a cross between a wad of moss and a dreadlock in each one.
“Whoa,” Spencer whispered. She’d figured Reefer would have his stash in a dirty sock under his bed, or rolled up in a bunch of Socialist newspapers. The organizer was pristinely clean, and the same amount of pot was in each one, as though compulsively weighed on a mini scale. On the left side of the cabinets were pot varieties like Americano, Buddha’s Sister, and Caramella. On the very right side, at the bottom, was a variety called Yumboldt—Spencer assumed there wasn’t any pot that started with Z. It was in alphabetical order. Spencer smiled inwardly. If she were a pot fiend, she’d probably organize her drug stash just like this.
“All this is yours?” she asked.
“Uh huh,” Reefer looked proud of himself. “Most of it I grew using hybridization and genetic recombination techniques. It’s totally organic, too.”
“Are you a dealer?” She suddenly felt nervous. Was it dangerous to be here?
Reefer shook his head. “Nah, it’s more like a collection. I don’t deal—except to gorgeous girls like you.”
Spencer lowered her eyes. What did Reefer see in her, anyway? A Lilith Fair–going, eyebrow-pierced, bohemian hell-raiser seemed more his type. “So what kind is good for baking?” she asked, changing the subject.
Reefer opened a drawer and selected a greenish clump. “This stuff is super-mellow and really fragrant. Smell.”
Spencer backed away from him. “It’s not like it’s wine.”
Reefer gave her a condescending look. “In some cultures, distinguishing different brands of pot is much more refined than having a good palate for wines.”
“I guess you’re the expert.” Spencer brought the wad of pot to her nostrils and breathed in. “Ugh.” She turned her head away, assaulted by the familiar skunky odor. “It smells like butt.”
“Novice.” Reefer chuckled. “Keep sniffing. There’s more to it than just that. It’s a secret that’s locked just underneath.”
Spencer gave him a wary look, but then shrugged and moved in for another sniff. After getting over the stale, icky, pot smell, she began to notice another scent just beneath it. Something almost . . . fragrant. She looked up, surprised. “Orange peels?”
“Exactly.” Reefer smiled. “It’s a hybrid of two different kinds of pot that have really fruity characteristics. I created the blend myself.” He turned and pulled out another bud and waved it under Spencer’s nostrils. “What about this one?”
Spencer closed her eyes and breathed in. “Chocolate?” she said after a moment.
Reefer nodded. “It’s called Chocolate Chunk. You have a really good nose.”
“If only there were a career in pot-sniffing,” Spencer joked. But deep down, she couldn’t help but feel pleased. She liked when someone pointed out she was good at something.
She dared a smile at Reefer, and he smiled back. For a moment, he looked really cute. His eyes were such a disarming golden color. If he just got rid of those stupid clothes, he’d be gorgeous.
Then Spencer forced the corners of her lips down, startled by her thoughts. The pot fumes were probably getting to her. “So you can bake these into brownies?” she barked.
Reefer cleared his throat and stepped away, too. “Yep. I’ve got a great recipe you can borrow, too.” He pulled out a binder from an organized bookshelf, extracted an index card, and handed it to her. Magical Mystery Brownies read the heading at the top.
Spencer put the card in her pocket. “What do I owe you?”
Reefer waved his hand. “Nothing. Like I said, I’m not a dealer.”
“I want to give you something.”
Reefer thought for a moment. “You can answer me something. Why do you want to be part of Ivy?”
Spencer bristled. “Why do you care?”
Reefer shrugged. “I just don’t understand Eating Clubs. It seems like most people use them to feel better about themselves, but do you really need a stupid club to tell you that you’re cool?”
Spencer’s face turned hot. “Of course not! And if you ask anyone who belongs to them, I’m sure that’s not why they’re part of them, either.”
Reefer snorted. “Please. I heard those Ivy girls at the party. They name-dropped like crazy. I guarantee you the only reason they’re part of the club is to impress their parents or one-up their siblings or because it gives them an automatic clique. It’s so . . . safe.”
Spencer’s mind reeled. “I assure you that’s not what they’re thinking. That’s not what I’m thinking, either.”
“Okay.” Reefer crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me what you are thinking, then.”
Spencer opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Infuriatingly, she couldn’t think of a single reason Reefer would understand. Even worse, maybe he was right—maybe she did want an automatic clique. Maybe she wanted to impress her parents, Mr. Pennythistle, Amelia, Melissa, and everyone at Rosewood Day who didn’t believe in her. But Reefer had made it sound like wanting those things was shallow and unadventurous. He painted her as an eager, insecure little girl, only wanting to make Mommy and Daddy happy, not thinking for herself.
“Where do you get off?” she sputtered, facing Reefer. “What makes you so high and mighty? What about Princeton itself? They only admit a few people while rejecting plenty of others. You have no problem with being part of that!”
“Who says I don’t have a problem with it?” Reefer said quietly. “You really shouldn’t—”
“Judge a book by its cover, I got it,” Spencer snapped angrily. “Maybe you should listen to your own advice.” She fished in her wallet and flung two twenties at Reefer for the pot. He stared at them as though they were coated in anthrax. Then she marched out of the house, slamming the front door behind her.
The cold air was a welcome greeting on her hot skin. Her jaw hurt from clenching it so tightly. Why did she even care what Reefer thought? It wasn’t like they were friends. Still, she glanced up at his bedroom window. The blinds weren’t parted and Reefer wasn’t looking forlornly out, begging her forgiveness. Jerk.
Rolling back her shoulders, she stomped down the steps and pulled out her cell phone to call the cab company to take her back to the motel. Her eyes watered, and she drew back and sniffed the phone’s leather case. It smelled like the pot Reefer had given her. She wrinkled her nose, cursing the odor. It no longer smelled of sweet, tangy orange peels. Maybe it never had.
21
A FRIENDLY REUNION
On Saturday evening, Emily scurried down the street in Old Hollis, the commercial district next to the college that boasted bars, restaurants, funky T-shirt shops, and a psychic who read tarot cards. A neon sign in the shape of an ice cream cone swung from an awning ahead, and her stomach did a nervous flip. She was on her way to hang out with Isaac again, and even though her secret weighed heavily on her, the buzzy, giddy feeling she’d had since she last saw him hadn’t ceased.