“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?
Harper’s eyes glittered. “Great. Because there’s a party I’d love to bring you to. I think you’d really get along with my friends. You could stay with me in this big house I live in on campus. Get a sense of things.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Spencer said quickly, as though if she paused even a millisecond, Harper would rescind her offer. The big house on campus was the Ivy House—as Bicker Chair, Harper got to live there.
“Awesome.” Harper tapped something on her phone. “Give me your e-mail. I’ll send you my number and directions of where to find me. Be there by six.”
Spencer gave Harper her e-mail address and phone number, and soon enough, Harper’s e-mail appeared in her inbox. When she read it, she almost whooped aloud. Sure enough, Harper had given her directions to the Ivy House on Prospect Avenue.
She filed out of the room, walking on air. As she pushed through the revolving door to the street, her cell phone, which was tucked in her purse, let out a muffled chime. When she pulled it out and saw the screen, her heart plummeted like a stone. New text message from Anonymous.
Hi Spence! Think your college friends would let you into their Eating Club if they knew about your appetite for murder? Kisses! —A
7
HANNA GETS STEAMED
The following night, Hanna stood outside the boys’ locker room, tugging down the curve-hugging dress she’d changed into after the final bell. All around her, students bustled to catch their after-school buses, rushed to activities, or climbed in their cars to head to the King James Mall.
Hanna’s cell phone beeped, and she quickly turned down the volume. It was yet another message from Isabel, reminding Hanna to be at her father’s town hall meeting that night a little early to meet and greet some of the donors. Duh—as if she didn’t already know that. She’d helped organize the whole thing. And she’d get there when she got there. The task at hand was the only thing on her mind right now.
The aromas of dirty socks and Axe body spray wafted into the hall. Muffled voices and hissing shower sounds echoed. It just so happened that the boys’ indoor track team had come in from a grueling workout of wind sprints around the iced-over parking lot. It also just so happened that Mike was on the indoor track team to keep in shape for lacrosse. Operation Get Mike Back was about to begin.
The blue door swished open, and two sophomores in track jackets emerged, giving Hanna strange looks as they passed. She glared at them in return, then edged toward the door again.
“It was genius of the gym to introduce a pole-dancing class,” Mason Byers’s telltale gravelly baritone rang out. “Have you seen the girls that take it?”
“Dude, don’t even get me started,” James Freed answered. “I didn’t even work out the last time I was there—I just watched them the whole time.”
“That girl Mike’s dating takes it,” Mason said.
Hanna frowned. Colleen was pole dancing now? For an eighth grade talent show, Colleen had dressed in a Latvian costume and danced her ancestors’ native steps. Hanna and Mona had made fun of her for months afterward.
“I know.” James made a weird boy grunt. “No wonder he’s doing her.” He snickered. “Did you know Bebris means beaver in Latvian?”
Wait. The guys didn’t just say Mike was doing her, did they? Hanna felt a hurt twinge. She and Mike hadn’t done it, and they’d dated for over a year.
Two more guys emerged from the locker room, and Hanna peeked inside. James and Mason were nowhere to be seen, but Mike was at his locker. He was standing in his boxers, his black hair wet and matted against his head, little water droplets on his broad shoulders. Had he always been that muscled?