Emma raises a brow and the tension on her face eases. “You scared?”
This is just like her, always suggesting ways to get us killed and needing a voice of reason to tame her wild ideas.
“That’s not safe.”
“Fine,” she says, climbing onto the table. “I’ll do it.”
I grab her arm. “Do not go up there.”
She shakes me off like a defiant child. “It’s not even that high, and there isn’t that much paint up there. It’ll take me two seconds.”
“I want to do it,” I say, knowing it’s the only way to stop her.
Emma’s face scrunches up and she gives me a look of disbelief. “You do?”
I nod. No matter how frustrated I am with her, for some reason I can’t let her get hurt. My annoying habit of protecting her resurfaces, but just because I don’t want her to fall doesn’t mean I hate her any less.
“Okay,” Emma says, stepping back. She gestures toward the chair. “It’s all yours.”
I rest my hands on the desk and climb up. I know this is a bad idea, but I step onto the chair anyway. A shiver runs down my spine as it wobbles slightly. “Hold the legs.”
“No, I don’t want—”
“Just do it.” I know she isn’t particularly fond of being helpful, but I’d like to believe there’s a smidge ofreasonableness in her brain. Even if she doesn’t want to admit it, it’s obvious this isn’t safe. The least she could do is steady the chair.
She groans. “Fine.” Her hands land on my legs, not the chair’s.
I swallow, shocked by her confusion and thrown off by how gentle her touch is compared to her aggression of the last two days.
I clear my throat. “The chair.”
“What?”
“The chair’s legs. Not mine.”
“Oh.” She jerks her hands away and wipes them on her skirt like I made her hands dirty. Her face burns red. “Right. I knew that.”
She didn’t, but I don’t argue. I wait for her to hold thechair’slegs. Then I reach up to scrub the paint off the ceiling.
“Do you hear that?”
The only sound is the hum of Ms. Simon’s computer. “What are you talking about?”
“Hush. Listen.”
I ignore her and keep scrubbing. As usual, she’s being dramatic. Thankfully, the paint comes off easily and doesn’t take too much elbow grease. I flip over the rag to get the last spot when I freeze. I hear it.
A faint buzzing sound zips past me.
“There’s a bee,” she says.
My pulse spikes and my eyes widen. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” she says, spinning around as her eyes dart around the room. “I don’t hear it anymore.”
That’s because it isn’t flying. It’s walking, its tiny feet working their way from my hair to my forehead.
My blood drains, and I force myself to breathe slowlyeven though I want to freak out. I want to swipe it off me, but I know better. What if it stings me?
