Graduation Day (The Testing, #3)(43)

“Yes, but we won’t be able to take our bikes.” It will be hard enough to reach all the people on the president’s list without also having to travel on foot. I wrap my arms around myself and pick up my pace as a drop of rain lands on my forehead. “Maybe we can lure some of the officials away from their posts.”

“A distraction might get them to leave their posts long enough for us to get by, but it won’t take them long to figure out they were duped. The minute they do, they’ll be after us. How long do you think we’ll last out in the open city streets? We’re going to need a place to hide at least for a few hours until the initial search dies down.”

“I’m pretty sure I found one. Remember the street I asked you about yesterday?” The drops begin to fall harder as we race up the path toward the residence. A streak of lightning illuminates the horizon as we step inside.

“Well, that was just about perfect timing,” Raffe says, wiping the rain off his nose.

“Perfect for what?” I ask, tucking a damp piece of hair behind my ear.

“For having dodged the deluge.” He laughs as he shakes the water from his hair like Scotty Rollison’s dogs do back home. “I guess I’ll think of an umbrella next time.”

“If there is a next time.” The sound of Will’s voice makes us both turn. “Enzo and I were wondering where the two of you went. He wanted to talk to you about the History assignment you got today. He just went to grab a book from his room. He’s going to meet me back in the common room.”

“If you see him before I do, let him know I’m going to change into something dry,” I say with a deliberate look at Raffe. “I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.” I head down the hall. Behind me I hear Raffe say that he’s going to change clothes, too. He’s right behind me as I start climbing the steps.

A loud bang echoes in the building. My foot misses a step as the source of the sound slams home. Not thunder. An explosion. I regain my footing and run up the stairs, not caring about the pain that streaks through my leg.

I hear shouts. Doors slam as students who were in their rooms come out to see what has happened. I hit the third-floor landing. Raffe is still right behind me. The smell of smoke and sulfur is heavy in the air. Raffe yells for everyone to go downstairs until someone checks to make sure everything is safe. That this must have been caused by the storm. A dozen girls exit their rooms and hurry down the stairs. A few cast glances at me as I disregard Raffe’s suggestion and race down the hall.

Smoke rises from the crack at the bottom of my door. The small piece of paper I used to warn me of another’s entrance lies on the floor. The lock is engaged, and I fumble with the key until it slides home and the knob turns. Smoke pours into the hallway. I cough as I step into the room. Through the smoke, I spot the outline of someone writhing on the floor of my bedroom as his clothing is eaten by flames.

I drop my bag onto the floor and hurry to see if I can help Griffin. Because it has to be him. He’s the one who has been following me. Who hates me. Who was enlisted by Professor Holt to find a reason to remove me from this school. I yank blankets off my bed and throw them on top of the whimpering form to smother the flames and realize the body beneath the covers is too small to belong to Griffin. And the voice that screams for help . . .

I pull the blanket away and see dark hair that has been burned away at the front of the scalp. A hand blistered by the explosion reaches out to me as I look into eyes glazed with pain and whisper, “Enzo.”





[page]Chapter 12


CONFUSION. SORROW. ANGUISH. Tears fill my eyes as I run to the bathroom and douse a towel in water. Enzo broke into my room. He went through my things and failed the test that was intended for Raffe. After our Induction experience and the way he tried to protect me after Damone’s death, I don’t understand how this could be. Placing the cool, wet fabric on his angry, red-looking arms, I want to ask why, but the pain on his face and the way his body begins to shake make that question fade. All I want to do is stop the pain. To turn back time so I can dismantle my test before Enzo can find it.

“Cia.” His voice is barely audible through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry. I thought . . . Stacia said . . .” He coughs, takes a shallow breath.

Stacia. Did she think I was taking too long to make a choice? Did she decide this should be Enzo’s test, or is this her way of drawing attention to me so that my plan to help the president—our plan to end The Testing—will fail?

“It’s going to be okay,” I say, because he needs to hear the words and I want to believe them. But it isn’t. Because here he is, burned. Maybe dying.

I dig through my bag for the ointment I have been using on my leg. It won’t be enough to heal these kinds of wounds, but it might make them more bearable. Once I find the small tube, I have no idea where to begin. There are red blotchy patches on his face, arms, and hands. Other burns can be seen through the holes singed into his shirt and pants. There is a charred black area on his cheek that looks as if the skin has been seared beyond repair, and the tissue around his eyes has already begun to swell, making his eyes look small and incredibly vulnerable. The bomb I built did what it was designed to do. Stacia drove Enzo here, but I am to blame for this.

A pulsing, high-pitched sound makes me jump. Someone has activated the residence’s emergency siren.