Chapter 7
seven
LIZZY
Ask and ye shall receive.
Not without a lecture on the dulling of the mind, the declining accountability of today’s youth, the dangers of chemical dependency, just say no, yada yada for the entire walk home.
But when we got back to the portal, Dr. Sutherland shot me one more admonishing look (very hot), sighed heavily (also hot), scribbled something onto a piece of paper, dropped it into the portal, and shazam!
The portal flashed, and up came a silver box, which he handed over at once, muttering something about Oliver the Bad Influence, whoever that is.
Inside, I found the most perfect, juiciest pile of Mary Jane a girl could ever fall in love with, and I proceeded to make out with it. Figuratively, of course. And if Dr. Sutherland was a hugger, he would’ve gotten some of my appreciation too. His loss; I have amazing boobs.
Either way, we said our goodbyes, all of his lecturing was forgiven in a single puff (this is really good shit), and then I was off to my old bedroom to finish my Upstate New York fall wardrobe shopping order and snag a few hours of sleep.
By the time I rolled out of bed this morning, my clothing had been delivered and my sisters were already gone.
I found a note in the kitchen in Kate’s loopy handwriting, complete with a flower doodle next to my name, informing me they were heading to my mother’s plant shop for an eight a.m. walkthrough with the landlord.
She asked me to join them when I was “up and about.”
Why no one bothered to knock on my door or send a text is a mystery, but I’m pretty sure it’s because Rachel wanted another excuse to scold me.
Well, she can have it. I took my time getting “up and about,” and now I’m refreshed, adequately stoned, and outfitted in a very cute off-the-shoulder sweater and wide-leg jeans combo.
Which is good, since I agreed to meet Professor Sutherland later, back at the cemetery.
He’s got a theory he wants to test, and I’m all for being his apt little pupil (glasses, hotness, etcetera, etcetera).
I missed the walkthrough—only a sadist would schedule a meeting for eight a.m.—but I figured I should make an effort, even if I am two hours late.
Kate said the town square is just a short walk from the house, so off I go, ready for Graves Hollow to impress me with its full-on small-town charm offensive.
Such high hopes!
Yeah. Instantly dashed.
Where are the quaint cafés? The friendly yet quirky passersby?
The street-side palm readers and random black cats and campy yet adorable outdoor decor?
Everything is gray and drab and dead, despite the watery sunlight trying to break through the trees.
There aren’t many people out and about either—just the mailman stuffing bills into mailboxes and a few passing cars honking at the one traffic light, which seems to be on the fritz.
The vibe is super grumpy, and instead of the welcoming whiffs of pumpkin spice I envisioned, all I smell is gasoline and disappointment.
Zero stars, do not recommend.
God, I miss the sunshine and the ocean and cute shirtless boys on Vespas and Trader Joe’s pickle hummus, and once this portal situation is under control, I’m taking my magical ass back to California, land of happiness, where I can put my newly acquired mojo to good use whipping up some quick cash and maybe a cute boy of my own.
One who doesn’t have a taste for his housekeeping staff.
After a grueling half-mile hike, I finally see the sign Kate mentioned, announcing in trendy, all-lowercase letters on a cream-colored background:
petal beneath all that bluster, she’s got delicate wiring.