I frowned at the bag. “This is a terrible idea…”

“Come on,” she said with a pout, batting her mascara-coated lashes at me, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Don’t make me do this alone, Bev.”

I hesitated. Dad was at work. Mom was out with her friends. I had no plans for the rest of the night. I also wasn’t about to let her do this alone. And, honestly? The idea of seeing Tiffany not curled up in misery sounded pretty appealing.

“…Fine.”

Her grin was instant. “Knew I could count on you.”

We sneaked into the kitchen like we were about to rob a bank, even though Mom and Dad wouldn’t be home for hours. Tiffany dumped the brownie mix into a bowl, then pulled out the weed.

“How much do we put in?” I asked.

She paused. “No clue.”

I squinted at the weed. “Do we…grind it up?”

Tiffany shrugged. “Probably?”

I stood there with my arms crossed, staring at her. “You know, we really should’ve done some research.”

“People have been doing this for centuries, Bev. I’m sure our ancestors weren’t out here measuring grams with a food scale.”

I wasn’t convinced, but she looked so determined that I just sighed in resignation and grabbed a spoon.

We ended up just kind of…dumping the weed in. A completely unmeasured amount. Vibes only. Then we stirred it up, and there were definitely still chunks floating in it.

“Do we… Do we leave those in?” I asked, peering into the pot.

Tiffany shrugged. “Extra fiber,” she said, stirring aggressively.

That didn’t sound right, but I wasn’t about to argue with her. Once we mixed everything together, we poured the batter into a pan and shoved it in the oven.

Five minutes later, the scent of chocolate filled the air.

“Do you think Cameron will regret it?” Tiffany asked quietly, hugging her knees to her chest.

I nudged her shoulder. “I know he will.”

She looked at me, searching my face for something, then nodded. “Yeah. He will.”

Then we waited.

Then we got impatient and took them out too early.

“Are they supposed to look like that?” I asked, eyeing the slightly undercooked mess on the counter like it might explode.

“It’s not about how they look. It’s about the experience.”

That was another way of saying stop asking questions and eat the damn brownie. “Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Here we go.”

Tiffany whooped and clapped her hands together before stuffing half of one into her mouth.

I took a much smaller bite, chewing slowly.

It just tasted like chocolate. No sign of its impending effects.

We waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened. We stared at each other.

“Do you feel anything?” I asked.

“Nope.”

We headed to my room and collapsed onto the bed.