8 run (8)

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"HEY, GIRL. YOU okay?"

Margareth nudging my shoulder in a not-so-gentle-manner made me snap to attention at once.

We have just been dismissed for the final subject for the day and were currently making our way to the lockers area to put away our books. When I met her gaze, curiosity and a little bit of worry were evident in her eyes.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm great!" I bobbed my head enthusiastically to let her know I was telling the truth because she raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Really, Margie, I am. Stop looking at me like I need professional help because I don't. I'm very much okay, okay?"

"Okaaaaaay," she drawled, crossing her arms over her chest. "If you're so okay, then would you mind telling me why, the moment we left the room, you've been scanning our surroundings like a frickin' fugitive ready to bolt the moment the cops appear?"

"What?" My eyes widened innocently. "No, I was not! And, fugitive? Me?" I scoffed haughtily, but even to my ears it sounded forced. "A fugitive is someone who had done something bad and against the law and is now running away from his crimes. I am not guilty of such thing!"

Really? a deep, condescending voice that sounded suspiciously like my father's piped up at the back of my head. You didn't break someone's bejewels last year, Clare-bear? Because that is actually tantamount to causing severe damage to 'private property', which is a crime that is punishable by the law. Do you really plead not guilty, Mary Clare Delamar?

I swallowed loudly but ignored the taunting voice, instead walking over to my locker when I spotted it then turning the combination. Margareth chuckled amusedly as she followed suit.

"Oh, I know why! It's our 'new classmate', isn't it? It's bothering you that he transferred to our section." She only smiled wider when I shot her a warning look. "And based on your reaction, I would bet my life that I'm right."

"Can we please not talk about him?" I told her tiredly, arranging my books inside. "You know what they say about the devil and I'm not in the mood to deal with him. Not now, not ever."

Her expression turned serious. "Speaking of him. Do you think he'll do something after, you know, the stunt you pulled at Beafleur's birthday last year? Are you scared, is that it? Because I can be your back-up just in case. I pack a pretty good punch."

She made a fist and punched into the palm of her other hand in a demonstrative manner.

I snorted, slamming the locker shut, then faced her. "I'm not scared, silly. Just a little...apprehensive. He might have kept his distance after what I did, but I'm pretty sure he hasn't forgotten. And I wouldn't put it past him to still take revenge, you know? He's not the devil incarnate for nothing."

"So in short, you're scared he'd do something."

I rolled my eyes at her stubbornness. "Please, Margie-girl. It would take more than a vengeful France-freaking-Kinsley to scare me, you know that. If there's anyone who should be scared, it's him. Because if he ever tried anything—"

Suddenly, Margareth's eyes focused on something behind me then went as wide as saucers. "Oh, my god," she whispered urgently. "France is coming this way and he's carrying a baseball bat! Shit, he's coming for you, girl! Quickly! Run for your life!"

Oh, gods. This cannot be happening.

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