Mondays are always cursed.
I knew that the second I spilled coffee on my white hoodie and missed the bus. But the real disaster didn't begin until fifth period Chemistry, when Jason Ryder decided that the Bunsen burner looked like it needed a haircut.
Yes, you read that right. A haircut.
He lit the end of a mop on fire and waved it like a magic wand while the whole class screamed. I yelled the loudest—mostly because my lab report went up in flames with the mop. And because I don't like fire. Or chaos. Or Jason Ryder.
Mr. Fulton gave us both detention. Jason for obvious reasons. Me for "panicking loudly and flinging lab materials across the table." Whatever that means.
So now I'm stuck in Room 204 with him after school, sitting in silence while he balances a pencil on his nose and hums "Bad to the Bone" like this is a movie and he's the main character.
"This is your fault," I mutter, arms crossed.
"Really?" he grins, tilting his head. "Because I remember you shrieking like a banshee and throwing a beaker at me."
"I was aiming for the fire!"
He shrugs. "Same thing."
I want to scream. But instead, I pull out my planner and pretend I'm not imagining what it would feel like to glue his sneakers to the floor.
Only 13 more days of detention to go. How hard could it be?
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