Spencer looked at Harper. “Want to sit together?”
Harper’s face fell. “I’d love to, but our seats are assigned.” She pointed to Spencer’s name tag. “That number on your name tag is the table you’re sitting at. I’m sure you’ll meet some awesome early admits, though!”
“Yeah,” Spencer said, trying to hide her disappointment. And then, before she could say anything else, Harper flounced away.
Spencer found her way to table four and sat down across from an Asian boy with spiky hair and angular glasses who was glued to his iPhone screen. Two guys in matching Pritchard Prep jackets were talking about a golf tournament they’d competed in the summer before. A petite girl in a Hillary Clinton–esque pantsuit was screaming into a cell phone about selling stock. Spencer raised an eyebrow, wondering if the girl already had a job. These Princeton kids didn’t mess around.
“Hola.”
A guy with a billy-goat chin-beard, shaggy brown hair, and sleepy bedroom eyes gazed at Spencer from the adjacent seat. His gray dress pants had a ragged hem, his shoes were thick-soled and surely made of hemp, and he smelled like the enormous bong Mason Byers had brought back from Amsterdam.
The stoner kid stuck out his hand. “I’m Raif Fredricks, but most people call me Reefer. I’m from Princeton, so I feel like I’m going to the local community college. My folks are begging me not to board, but I’m like, ‘Hell no! I need my freedom! I want to hold drum circles in my room at four in the morning! I want to have killer protest meetings during dinner!’”
Spencer blinked at him. He’d said everything so fast she wasn’t sure she caught it all. “Wait, you got into Princeton?”
Reefer—God, that was a stupid nickname—grinned. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?” His hand was still hanging in front of Spencer. “Uh, normally, this is the part where people shake. And you say, ‘Hi, Reefer, my name is . . . ’”
“Spencer,” Spencer said dazedly, clasping Reefer’s enormous palm for a split second. Her mind reeled. This dude belonged on a grassy knoll at Hollis with the other kids who’d graduated from their high schools in the middle of the pack. He didn’t look like the type who agonized over AP exams and made sure he’d fulfilled enough community service hours.
“So, Spencer.” Reefer sat back and eyed Spencer up and down. “I think it’s fate that we got seated together. You look like you get it, you know? You look like you aren’t a prisoner to the system.” He nudged her side. “Plus, you’re totally cute.”
Ew, Spencer thought, purposely turning the opposite direction and pretending to be enamored with the endive salads the waiters were serving. It was just her luck to be seated next to this loser.
Reefer didn’t get the hint, though. He leaned closer, tapping her shoulder. “It’s okay if you’re shy. So get this: I was thinking of heading over to Independence Hall and checking out the Occupy Philly rally after this. Are you in? It’s supposed to be really inspiring.”
“Uh, that’s okay,” Spencer said, annoyed at how loud this guy was talking. What if everyone thought they were friends?
Reefer shoved a piece of endive into his mouth. “Your loss. Here, in case you change your mind.” He ripped a piece of paper from a ragged spiral-bound notebook in his bag, scribbled something down, and passed it to Spencer. She squinted at the words. What a long, strange trip it’s been. Huh?
“Jerry’s my guru,” Reefer said. Then he pointed to a bunch of digits below the quote. “Call anytime—day or night. I’m always up.”
“Uh, thanks.” Spencer slipped the paper into her bag. She noticed Harper watching her from across the room, met her eyes, and gave her an Oh-my-God-I-think-he’s-gross eye roll.
Thankfully, Steven, the other ambassador, started speaking, and his long, ego-stroking speech about how everyone in the room was wonderful and amazing and would surely change the world someday because they went to Princeton took up the rest of the hour. As soon as the waiters cleared the desserts, Spencer shot out of her seat as fast as her toned-from-field-hockey legs could carry her. She found Harper by the coffee urn and gave her a huge smile.
“I see you met Reefer.” Harper winked.
Spencer scrunched up her face. “Yeah, lucky me.”
Harper gave Spencer an inscrutable look, then moved in closer. “Listen, I know this is last minute, but do you have plans for this weekend?”
“I don’t think so.” Aside from helping her mom taste-test yet more confections for the wedding. Did a second wedding really need a cake and a cupcake tower?