Dennis Connelly: A Fictional Narrative

th coming in stuttery little gasps. Dennis Connelly was coming. How did he find us again? I raced to my locker—the combination, what’s the combination?—and cleaned it out, stuffing everything into my bag. Flew down the stairs. Dashed down the hall, almost colliding with a girl carrying an armful of books. Sprinted past the office, reached the exit— “Hey!” A security guard, belly hanging over his belt, grabbed my arm. “Where’s your pass?” My brother darted over, lugging his bookbag and saxophone. “Let her go,” he said, his calm and firm tone betrayed by the terror in his eyes. He pulled me away, and when I stumbled, he pushed me out the door. “Tessa, run!” We were in public, but Logan used my real name. We no longer needed our aliases. I glanced behind me. “Where’s Jillian?”
Its engine running, our getaway car waited in the pickup lane with our dad holding the back door open. We ran and dove in. Dad jumped in the passenger seat, slamming his door closed as