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.