Stunning (17 page)

Starting almost immediately after the police had hauled Harper away from the party, Spencer had texted Harper with several profuse apologies, but Harper hadn’t responded. Neither had Quinn or Jessie or anyone else whose numbers she’d gotten before the big drug bust. Spencer knew staying at the Ivy House—or anywhere else on campus—wasn’t an option, so she’d Googled local motels in the area and stumbled into the Motel 6 room at almost midnight. All she wanted to do was get some sleep and forget about everything that had happened, but she’d been kept awake almost all night by the techno music coming from the adult bookstore next to the motel. Her hair was greasy from the motel shampoo, her skin itched from the cheap cotton sheets, and her head was spinning from just how badly she’d ruined her chances at getting into Ivy.

She was ready to go home.

A group of adults in business attire swept past, looking honored and important. Hanna said Gayle had been on the Princeton campus. It was obvious Gayle had spied on her the other night and had called the cops on Harper. Spencer understood this woman was angry about Emily not giving her the baby, but what lunatic went to such extremes to mess with kids half her age?

A blonde sitting on a bench swam into view, and Spencer stopped short. There, reading a D. H. Lawrence novel and nursing a large Starbucks coffee, was Harper.

“Oh,” Spencer blurted. “H-hey!”

Harper looked up, and her features settled into a scowl. She returned to her book without a word.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Spencer rushed to the bench, dropping her duffel at her feet. “Are you okay?”

Harper flipped a page. “If you wanted to get me in trouble, you’re out of luck. The cops couldn’t find any pot on me. They let me go with a warning.”

“
I
didn’t want to get you in trouble!” Spencer cried. “Why would I do something like that?”

“You were the only person at the party who I don’t know really, really well, and you seemed pretty uncomfortable with me smoking.” Harper still didn’t look up.

A flock of pigeons landed close to them, fighting over a pizza crust. Spencer wished she could tell Harper about A, but A would wreak havoc if she did. “I have some skeletons in my closet, so I’m skittish about getting caught again,” she admitted in a low voice. “But I would never rat you out.”

Harper finally met Spencer’s gaze. “What happened?”

Spencer raised one shoulder. “A friend and I were into study drugs last summer. We were caught with it on us.”

Harper’s eyes bugged. “Did you get in trouble?”

“I was let off with a warning.” Spencer stared at her duffel. There was no use getting into the Kelsey stuff now. “It freaked me out. But I promise I didn’t narc on you. Please give me another chance.”

Harper saved her page with a tasseled bookmark and shut the text tight. She stared at Spencer for a long time as though trying to opine her thoughts. “You know, I really
do
want to like you, Spencer,” she said. “If you want to make it up to me, there’s an Ivy luncheon tomorrow you can come to. But there’s a catch: You have to bring a dish.”

Spencer blinked. “I have to cook something? Where am I supposed to find a kitchen?”

“That’s for you to figure out.” Harper slipped the book into her bag and stood. “Everyone has to bring a dish. It’s a
potluck
.”

“Okay,” Spencer said. “I’ll figure something out.”

The corners of Harper’s mouth slowly curled into a grin. “See you at the Ivy House tomorrow at twelve sharp. Bye!”

She strode down the sidewalk, her hips swinging and her bag bouncing against her butt. Spencer shifted from foot to foot, puzzled. A potluck? Seriously? That sounded like something Nana Hastings would’ve done for the Women’s League she once chaired. Even the term
potluck
sounded weirdly 1950s, conjuring up images of garish, Technicolor macaroni salads and Jell-O molds.

The words clanged in her head again.
Potluck.
Harper had winked at her like they had a double meaning. Spencer laughed out loud, something clicking. It was a potluck—
literally.
Harper wanted her to bake pot
inside
a dish. It was Spencer’s chance to prove she wasn’t a narc.

The clock bells chimed the hour, and the pigeons lifted off the sidewalk all at once. Spencer sank into the bench, thinking hard. Even though she hated the idea of buying drugs again, she was desperate to get back in Harper’s good graces—and into Ivy. Only, how was she going to get her hands on pot? She didn’t know anyone here besides the people she’d met at the party, and they probably wouldn’t help her.

She sat up straighter, hit with a bolt of brilliance.
Reefer.
He lived near Princeton, didn’t he? She rifled through her purse, looking for the slip of paper he’d given her at the Princeton dinner. Blessedly, it was tucked into a pocket.
What a long, strange trip it’s been
, the note said.

You’re telling me
, Spencer thought. Then she held her breath as if plunging into a room with a nasty smell and dialed his number, hoping she wasn’t making a huge mistake.

“I knew you were going to call,” Reefer said as he opened the door to a large Colonial house in a neighborhood a few miles from the Princeton campus. He was dressed in an oversize Bob Marley T-shirt, baggy jeans with a pot-leaf patch on the knee, and the same hemp sneakers he’d had on at the dinner at Striped Bass. His longish hair had been tucked into one of those hideous, brightly colored Jamaican hats that every druggie Spencer had ever known loved to wear, but he’d at least shaved the goat beard. He looked a million times better without it—not that she thought he was cute or anything.

“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
.”