“Babe!” Veronica calls by way of greeting. She calls all her clientsbabe, probably to avoid forgetting names.
Veronica fixes her shark-black eyes on me and grips me by both shoulders. “Listen up. I had to buy Ms. Gruberthreeboxes of chocolates to get the first showing appointment to give us a chance in hell of leasing this spot. There is a lot of interest, babe. Alot. One potential tenant has been courting the city manager formonthsnow.”
“Do we have a chance?” I swallow, already feeling the disappointment of losing our dream spot clump in my throat.
“Of course we do. I didn’t buy fifty dollars’ worth of nougat for nothing! But you have to be prepared to move. None of your overanalytical anxious girl bullshit today, okay?” Her dagger-tipped nails press into my skin. “You want this place? Youtake it.”
The pressure on my arms intensifies until I realize I’m supposed to nod, which I do vigorously.
God. Real estate agents areterrifying.
The listing agent arrives, which turns out to be Lexi Holmes, the hot, popular girl from my senior year at Sparrow Nook High. She’s got shiny blonde hair, a raging personality disorder if you ask Eve, and even longer nails than Veronica, hers bejeweled. Veronica’s eyes narrow as she takes them in.
“Right this way,ma’am,” Lexi simpers as she unlocks the front door and holds it open for Veronica. It’s been two minutes, and Veronica’s ready to cut a bitch.
I gasp as we enter, making Lexi titter. “It’s something special, right? After the city council took ownership, they began years of restoration efforts. They put a lot of money into this place.”
It shows. The original green-and-cream checkerboard floor tiles look new, the long counter painted the same meadow green, topped with a shiny metal cap. The chrome barstools with their wine-red vinyl seats pop, drawing the eye. The pièce de résistance, though, is the red neon sign hanging behind the counter against the white tiled walls. In large block letters, it statesstrange drugs.
“Oh my God, does that still work?” I feel like I might stop breathing and keel over from pure joy.
“It’s actually a re-creation, so it works perfectly.” Lexi beams at us. “The idea was to fully restore the historic pharmacy and set up the town museum here, but then the old courthouse came open, and it was a better space for the city council’s vision. That’s why this beauty’s on the market now!”
It’s meant to be. For me to open my modern-day pharmacy in this historic one that prioritized both healthandproviding a space for customers to socialize, it’s one hundred percent my destiny.
And thank God, my destiny’s finally here. When I first got sick, it felt like some disinterested overlord pressed pause on my entire forward trajectory. Me and food always had a rocky relationship, but halfway through senior year, it went fromit’s complicatedtoit’s Crohn’s disease. After meals, it felt like I was walking around with a stomach full of loose knives, stabbing me over and over until the cramping would begin and I’d race for a bathroom where I’d moan and rock and wonder if, this time, I was actually dying. It got so bad, I’d refuse to eat for entire debate tournaments, subsisting off nibbles of protein bars and adrenaline for days at a time to avoid the next brutalizing attack. The doctors back in Georgia claimed it was the physical manifestation of my anxiety, but after we moved to Sparrow Nook, Mom took me to Dr. Appa, and he listened. After an hour of talking through every symptom, Dr. Appa suspected the true identity of my personal boogeyman. He referred me to a gastrointestinal specialist at Philadelphia General Hospital to confirm the diagnosis with testing, and my battle against Crohn’s officially began.
It was a long time before my condition stabilized. After winter break my senior year, I didn’t come back to school. Not right away, at least. They put me on Hospital-Homebound, which meant that a grizzled teacher came to my house once a week to drop off assignments and proctor my tests. I’d already snagged valedictorian, but it killed me giving up debate. Julian and I had just swept the state tourney and qualified for nationals, but after my doctors found out how I’d been coping with the intrinsic stress of tournaments, i.e., by developing disordered eating, debate was forbidden. I was so ashamed of what was wrong with me, I never told him why I quit. What would I have said?Hi Julian, thanks for all the amazing kisses after we won first at state, btw I’ll be spending the rest of my life in the bathroom because I have a diarrhea disease!
No way. So, I hid from Julian and debate and the stressful life I left behind. It was easier that way, and when I finally did go back to schoola few months later, Eve Ionides, the sardonic queer girl who perpetually wore beanies, punched me in the shoulder and asked if I wanted to sign up for Crew. The drama club was short a lighting operator for the spring production, and I said yes. Crew was easy, and drama kids were hilarious sluts, Eve the best of them all. Smoking up with her and laughing our asses off in the theater’s balcony was a welcome relief after the intensity of debate and Julian and, surprisingly, a relief physically, too. Weed brought back my appetite. When a flare-up knocked me out, it was the only thing that eased the horrible pain.
The prescriptions emptying Mom’s bank account couldn’t do that.
Pot was how I got through life from that point on, which was terrifying since it was illegal then, but I couldn’t give up the one solution I’d found. When Eve and I scraped up enough money to go to Amsterdam for spring break our senior year of college, the coffeehouse culture there showed us what life could be like in a legalized future, where cannabis was appreciated for all the good it can do. We wanted to bring that peaceful, harmonious vibe back home.
And now, we finally can.
I yank Veronica to the side.
“I want it,” I growl. “Make it happen!”
“Are you sure?” Veronica stares me down. “The city council hasn’t approved your license to operate the dispensary yet.”
“It’s in the bag,” I reply with more confidence than is strictly warranted. “The final vote is next week.”
“What if they don’t give you the cigar bar exception to the no-smoking indoors ordinance?”
“The back lot then.” I lick my dry lips. “It’ll be the perfect smoking patio.”
“They’re asking five hundred over your upper limit.”
I wince, but nod again.
Veronica’s predator eyes flash with approval. “They’ll want the down payment today—three months’ rent. Can you handle that?”
I swallow, stomach bottoming out. While Eve’s my partner, she’s even broker than I am since part-time baking and self-publishing lesbian erotica isn’t a fast ticket to the easy life. This part of our endeavor all comes down to me. I’ve been saving up for years, opting to drive my rattling Subaru into its grave, and living for cheap. The fact that a huge chunk of all those years of sacrifice is about to pour out of my bank account is both terrifying and exhilarating, because I’ve never bet on myself before. But Strange Drugs is undeniably perfect, and it’s either move now or lose it.
“Let’s make an offer.”
