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.”