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“Ms. Romero!” Dingle snapped.
Isabella fumbled her phone, and it crashed to the floor. “Yes, sir?”
“Some of us are trying to learn.” He whacked his workbench with the flat of his hand. The poor frog flinched. “Phone. Here. Now.”
“But my kid’s sick. I was just check—”
“Now, Romero.”
I fisted my hands to keep from flipping Dingle off as Isabella slunk to the front and deposited the phone. Dingle-the-Dick got off on embarrassing people. He’d tried that crap with me once, but this small-minded asshole couldn’t touch me. I’d been through hell and back.
After she returned to her seat, Dingle droned on about the differences and similarities between human and frog internal anatomy. I felt safe enough tuning out since I’d seen more human organs than this guy ever would. Much more important was the issue of the frogs. If anyone could liberate them, it was me.
My gaze went to the door. The science building had been built in the fifties and never been modernized—which meant there were still transoms for ventilation.
The plan came together in my head. I shot my hand up.
Dingle glared at me. “What is it, Ms. Crawford?”
“I need to use the restroom.”
“You should have taken care of that before class.”
“It’s a female problem!”
His eyes narrowed while I put on a desperate and horrified expression. But since I was undeniably female, he could hardly insist I was lying.
“Go.” As he snarled the word, I activated a dose of combat mod.
It slammed through me, charging every cell with hyper-potential. The hardest part was walking at a normal-hurry speed to the door while the modified and concentrated parasite stimulant coursed through my body. But the instant I closed the door behind me—and made sure there was no one in the hall—I used every fucking molecule of that mod.
I
sprinted to the end of the corridor, breaking every Olympic record for the next twenty years. At the supply room door, I jumped and caught the top of the jamb, then did a one-arm pullup and held myself there while I propped the transom open with my other hand. With the ease of breathing, I pulled myself up and through the transom, twisting in midair to land in a crouch. I was winning all the Olympic medals.
I’d been in here before, so I knew there were several five-gallon buckets in the corner. At super-speed, I grabbed one. Uncovered the tank. Scooped frogs and water. Placed the lid on loosely. Opened the window. Set the bucket against the wall outside. Closed and locked the window. All in the span of about fifteen seconds.
Getting out was simple—jump up, make sure the coast is clear, dive through, twist and land, another one-arm pullup to close the transom. Then sprint like hell back.
I stopped before the lab door and slowed my breathing, ran my hands over my hair to smooth any scraggly bits, then walked in nice and calm-like.
Dingle broke off mid-word and narrowed his eyes at me. My pulse quickened in response. Did I have frog goo on me somewhere? Had he heard me running?
“That didn’t take very long,” he said. “I thought you were having female troubles.”
“False alarm,” I said with a cheery shrug. “You know how it is. You feel a bit squishy, and you’re not sure if it’s just crotch sweat or—”
“I do not require an explanation,” he gritted out. Someone tittered, and his scowl deepened. “If we are quite finished learning about Angel Crawford’s reproductive system, perhaps we can commence the lab portion of this class. Everyone follow me.”
I summoned a placid expression and dutifully marched after him to the storage room. Dingle pulled a set of keys from a pocket, unlocked the deadbolt, and marched into the room. “You will enter one at a time and take an empty container from the shelf,” he announced. “I will place your frog in your container and then the next student . . .” He trailed off as he came into view of the tank and its distinct lack of frogs. “What the fuck.” He whirled, scanning the room as if hoping they’d taken up residence elsewhere. “This . . . this is impossible. I checked the tank right before class.” His mouth tightened. “Crawford! Did you do something to the frogs?”
I widened my eyes in shocked innocence, but the rest of the class leaped to my defense.
“She was only gone a minute,” Curly-headed Guy said.
“The door was locked,” another student pointed out.
Dingle slowly turned. “The transom. You could have climbed in over the transom!”
