.” Harper’s smile was warm and genuine. Her gaze moved to Spencer’s name tag. “You go to Rosewood Day? One of my best friends went there. Did you know Tansy Gates?”
“She was on my field hockey team!” Spencer cried, thrilled for another connection. Tansy was one of the girls who’d petitioned Rosewood Day to let seventh graders on the JV field hockey team, hoping that Spencer would be chosen. Ali had been picked instead, and Spencer had been relegated to the lame sixth-grade squad, which let anyone play.
Then Spencer looked at Harper’s name tag. It listed the activities she was involved in at Princeton. Field Hockey. The Daily Princetonian. At the very end, in small letters, were the words Bicker Chair, Ivy Eating Club.
She almost gasped. She’d done a ton of research about Eating Clubs since she’d been caught unaware at the cake-tasting. The coed Ivy, which boasted heads of state, CEOs of major companies, and literary giants as alums, was at the top of her must-join list. If Harper ran Bicker, that meant she was in charge of picking new members. She was definitely the person to know.
Suddenly, someone started clapping at the front of the room. “Welcome, incoming freshmen!” a gangly guy with curly reddish-blondish hair yelled. “I’m Steven, one of the ambassadors. We’re going to start dinner, so could everyone take their seats?”
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
“She was on my field hockey team!” Spencer cried, thrilled for another connection. Tansy was one of the girls who’d petitioned Rosewood Day to let seventh graders on the JV field hockey team, hoping that Spencer would be chosen. Ali had been picked instead, and Spencer had been relegated to the lame sixth-grade squad, which let anyone play.
Then Spencer looked at Harper’s name tag. It listed the activities she was involved in at Princeton. Field Hockey. The Daily Princetonian. At the very end, in small letters, were the words Bicker Chair, Ivy Eating Club.
She almost gasped. She’d done a ton of research about Eating Clubs since she’d been caught unaware at the cake-tasting. The coed Ivy, which boasted heads of state, CEOs of major companies, and literary giants as alums, was at the top of her must-join list. If Harper ran Bicker, that meant she was in charge of picking new members. She was definitely the person to know.
Suddenly, someone started clapping at the front of the room. “Welcome, incoming freshmen!” a gangly guy with curly reddish-blondish hair yelled. “I’m Steven, one of the ambassadors. We’re going to start dinner, so could everyone take their seats?”
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
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