Page 39 of Puck Me, Valentine
“Jump,” she whispers, shoving me toward the jagged opening. “I’m right behind you!”
I don’t think. I tuck the rabbit carrier against my chest and leap.
The fall is short but violent. I hit the ground hard, feeling the sharp sting of glass slicing into my palms and my forearms.
A second later, a rain of shards showers down on me as Monica lands beside me, her leather jacket shredded but her arms still full of bird cages.
“Run,” she wheezes, grabbing my elbow and hauling me up.
I look back once. The rescue center is a glowing orange maw in the darkness.
“Gerald,” I sob, but Monica pulls me harder.
“Run, Valentine! Run!”
13
Chapter 13
The midday sun beats down on the campus courtyard, but I feel like I’m standing in a freezer.
“Everything is under control,” I say into the microphone, flashing my most practiced, cheerful smile. “The damage to the East Annex was minimal. Structural repairs are already underway, and our residents—both human and animal—are perfectly safe.”
Liars go to hell, right? Because my pulse is an erratic thrum, hammering against my sternum with a frantic, desperate rhythm.
My skin stings where the glass sliced me, and I’m covered in enough tiny bandages and white plaster dust to look like a half-finished mummy.
Behind the stage, Monica is sitting in the shadows with a bandage wrapped around her head, looking like a disgruntledpirate. I still have to figure out a rehearsal space for her band, and more importantly, I have to find Gerald.
My poor, judgmental turtle is out there somewhere in the debris, and the thought makes my throat tight.
I’m being used as a PR shield. The Vice Principal persuaded me to go through with this speech—originally meant for a completely different occasion—just to manufacture an atmosphere of calm.
Most of the students are still oblivious to the biker raid. The truth is being carefully hidden to keep the peace.
The crowd seems to buy the act. I’m the friendly, sociable biology nerd. I’m the one who makes people feel safe.
Then, I see it.
Across the avenue, the massive white-and-blue team bus pulls to a halt. The hockey team is back.
My stomach drops into my shoes.
They lost their away game yesterday, and Devlin is going to be in a foul mood. I haven’t texted him.
I haven’t told him that while he was playing on the ice, I was jumping through a window to escape a fire.
At least I can be sure he won’t recognize me from this distance.
From where the bus is parked, I have to be just a wheat-colored blur to him. It’s way too damn far for a positive ID.
The microphone screeches—a sudden, deafening feedback loop that makes the front row wince.
My voice booms through the speakers, unnaturally loud for two heart-stopping seconds, before it regulates.
Oh… no.
I see a figure break away from the bus.
