Free The Boarding School Experiment by Emily Evans Page A

said.
    Declan shook his head and backed away. Gloved hands crunched against crumbling rocks as the third climber followed the path of the second. His jumper leaned in and tagged him the moment he crested. The third guy chose the ramp. He ran with fast, long legs and pumping arms.
    “I’m not jumping,” Declan said.
    While he dithered, the thump of the fourth climber’s shoes landing on the grass reached us.
    “Do something,” I screamed.
    Declan turned back to the edge, looking down.
    I shook my head, ran at him, and pushed him over.
    His feet skidded on the rock, resisting, and his scream filled the habitat, echoing hollowly then was drowned out by the sound of a loud, flopping splash. The remaining divers laughed, but I ignored them, staring over the side.
    Declan popped up, coughing, spitting water and outrage with the fervor of an underwater politician.
    With the splash, Geneva started her swim, using an Australian crawl while Declan paddled to the side, and lifted free from the pool. Standing on the edge, he aimed a glare up at me. I folded forward and flipped him off, then looked for Geneva.
    Geneva’s swimming was economy in motion, minimal splash, maximum speed. Her long strokes ate the distance between her and the other swimmers. It seemed as if they slowed, and her talent moved us into second, letting me breathe again.
    She tagged Thane. “Go.”
    As soon as she did, the screen lit up with his task. “Follow the arrow-marked path. Run to the finish line at the bottom of the amphitheater.”
    Thane didn’t hesitate. He tore off at the first flash of the word. We already knew his destination. The mystery task had appeared for the first contestant. Ours was the same. Run down the ramps, through the amphitheater, and to your spot on the stage. First one in wins.
    Thane hadn’t been on the track team, but he played football and soccer, so at least he had the stamina to go the distance.
    The next climber tagged his teammate, the guy who’d helped me up. The good sport moved fast. He ran to the ledge and leapt. Arms and legs pumping, he overran the central drop point and was going in at an angle. I leaned over to watch his progress. He hit the water feet first with a clean splash, but his arm swung out and smacked the side of the pool.
    I winced. Ouch.
    His swimmer took off, and I waited for the jumper to propel himself to the top. Nothing. I waved at the contestants below me. His runner stood at the other end of the pool, bent low, ready to tag the swimmer the second he surfaced. Geneva stood near him, holding a towel, wiping water from her face. From that end, they lacked my vantage point and were so busy concentrating on the next leg I worried they couldn’t see what was going on at this end of the pool.
    I sucked in a deep breath, held my nose, and jumped off the edge. The falling sensation lit up every nerve in my body. My feet kicked, like they could grab purchase, and then the almost solid smack of the water reverberated through my shoes. I sank. The weight of my clothes and the force of the fall sucked me to the bottom.
    I sprang off the floor and opened my eyes to the sting of chemicals. A blur emerged a few feet to my left. I pulled through the water toward the jumper, kicking, resisting the urge to surface for a breath. My fingers brushed fabric. I strained and caught him. Lungs burning, I crossed my arm over his chest. My shoulder wedged against the side of his chin. While fearing I was choking him, I didn’t know how to adjust the hold and I had only one priority—kick.
    My free arm scooped while the pressure built in my lungs and face. I blew out though I was dying to inhale. Swiping at the water, I broke the surface with a gasp, sucking in air, and turning the jumper so his face was clear.
    Other contestants ran along the deck, shouting something at me, and they dove in to help. They took the jumper, swiftly maneuvering him to the side and out of the water. He coughed a huge gagging sound.