“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.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Isaac since their dinner. The way he’d hung on her words, the way he’d stood up for her in front of his mom—he seemed older, somehow, really mature.
“Emily?”
She stared across the dark street. A figure in a blue checked coat was waving at her from Snooker’s, a college bar with Eagles pennants and Pabst Blue Ribbon lamps. He had a wrist brace on his hand and spiky dark hair. When he called her name again, Emily recognized the voice immediately. It was Derrick, her closest friend from the summer.