Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I glance at Easton. Maybe he has some brilliant plan to get us out of this mess?
Nope. He looks just as freaked out as I am.
His eyes are wide with that kind of desperate panic that makes it clear he has no idea what to do.
“Shit,” he mutters. “What now?”
My brain spins at a mile per second for a solution.
“Oh! Maybe we can use some acetone or something,” I suggest, trying to sound confident and in charge.
“Acetone?” Easton’s nose is scrunched up as if my idea were the lamest thing he’s heard all day. “You honestly think that art dude carries around poison in his bag of tricks? No.”
“That’s arsenic, not acetone, genius. And I’m throwing out ideas. It’s not like you have any!”
He gives his head a shake. “Nope. Not a single one.”
We sound more panicked by the second.
Easton tries to tug his arm away, the tips of his fingers pulling my skin with them.
“Ouch!”
It’s no use—the glue is holding fast because it’s skin on skin. Every time one of us moves, the situation feels more impossible.
He tugs again.
I gasp. “Could you not do that?” I ask, wishing I could smack him. “It hurts!”
“Sorry.” Easton rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I’m hurting you on purpose. Stop moving.”
“I’m not moving—your hand is stuck to my chest. What do you expect me to do?” Smart-ass.
He cranes his neck, checking for onlookers, appearing more culpable and guilty than he did the night he stole that rhino head from Parker Lane Prep.
“Would you please act natural? Stop looking around!” I sneer, doing my best not to draw attention. Everyone has been given a task and seems pretty intent on getting their work done—but that doesn’t mean that at any moment, one of our classmates won’t look over and see what’s happening between us.
And draw their own conclusions about the hand near my boob. Then it’s bye-bye to my reputation, my dignity—gone in an instant. Poof!
“How are we supposed to act natural when we’re literally glued together? What if someone sees us?”
“Oh, people are definitely going to see us.” I snort. “Anyone with a set of functioning eyeballs is going to notice. Plus we’re causing a scene with our bickering.”
“I don’t bicker,” he counters. “You’re the one complaining.”
This keeps getting worse.
“You really need to stop being so dramatic,” I tell him. “We won’t be stuck like this forever.” There has to be a solution.
“Let’s Google how to get this off.”
“Finally! A useful suggestion.”
I reach for the back pocket of my shorts and retrieve my phone, holding it to my mouth and speaking quietly into it. “Siri, how do you get superglue off skin?”
Easton shakes his head. “Don’t ask it that—tell it you’re stuck and ask it how to get unstuck.”
I shush him while my cell phone thinks. “I’m not telling it that.”
Guys are so dumb.
The screen on my phone lights up and my cell begins speaking. “I found the answer you are looking for. To get superglue off skin, there are several options. One: Soak the skin in warm soapy water to loosen the glue, then simply attempt to peel the glue off. Two: Apply lemon juice. Lemon can be used as a substitute for soap. Three: Apply butter or olive oil…”
“Oh my fucking god,” Easton whines. “This is hopeless. Where are we going to get butter?”
Butter? Is he for real?
“Seriously, Easton? Stop. We’re not using butter.”
“But the search said—”
“Unless you want to get in my car and drive with me to the store, butter is not an option.”
He’s quiet a few seconds. “What about lemons?”
I hold up my hand. “Easton. Stop.”
Please.
“ ’Scuse me—sorry I’m the only one freaking the fuck out!”
“It’s not necessary for you to be acting like a damn drama queen.”
Easton scoffs. “I’m only acting this way because you’re starting to rub off on me.”
“Are you implying that I’m dramatic?” Is that what he’s saying? “This is what happens when you’re not paying attention, you don’t listen, and you use all your strength to squeeze a tiny bottle the size of a…a stick of gum!”
“A stick of gum?” He cocks a brow.
It’s the best comparison I can come up with at the moment, and of course that’s his takeaway from that entire tangent.
“It’s not my fault you’re freakishly strong.”
“Freakishly strong?” He lets out a low whistle. “Why, Harper Conrad, that sure does sound like a compliment.”
I ignore him, scanning the supply kit Mr. Grazz set down nearby us. It’s similar to a tackle box that you’d use for fishing, but instead of lures and hooks, it’s filled with small art tools.
Scissors, ceramic sculpting tools, painting knives, box cutters, and—
“Reach over and see if you can snag that pair of tweezers. Or a putty knife.”
We scoot in tandem and Easton reaches into the tackle box, rooting around until he can get his hooks on the tool we need.