“You have got to be freaking kidding me,” I groan. “I told you to be careful! Now look!”
He looks.
Down at the exposed skin of my collarbone, his hand pressed where it shouldn’t be: on my clavicle, next to my neck, just above my boobs.
We are officially stuck together. The superglue has done its job a littletoowell.
“Oh fuck!” His voice sounds panicked. “That was an accident, I swear.”
“I realize that.” I breathe in and out, praying for patience. “I told you to be careful.”
I cannot stop myself from reminding him, though none of this should be a surprise. He has a short history of glitter bombs and mistakes.
My cheeks burn as I stare down at the spot where Easton’s hand is stuck to my skin. The sensitive skin beneath it burns.
This has to be some kind of cosmic joke.
When I told him to be careful, did he listen? No! No he did not! And now here we are, glued together, his fingers pressed against my collarbone in a way that is definitelynot okay.
I try to remain calm, which is difficult, considering my brain is screamingTHIS IS SO BAD, HARPER. Really, really bad.
What if someone sees us like this? What if they get the wrongidea?
What if?
If? Ha!They totally will.
My heart races as the reality of the situation sinks in. We’re surrounded by our classmates; any one of them could turn around and see us glued together like this. Not to mention Mr.Grazz, who remains blissfully unaware of our predicament.
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!”
