The cafeteria was a cavern of noise and social hierarchy. The popular kids sat in the center, the athletes near the windows, and the outcasts at the fringes near the trash cans.
Arleen sat alone at a corner table. Her lunch was a free-meal ticket sandwich-dry turkey on white bread-and an apple that had seen better days.
She took a bite. It tasted like cardboard.
She felt him before she saw him. The air pressure changed as a group approached.
Bryce Vaughn. Flanked by two of his linemen. And hanging on his arm was Kaycee Glass.
Kaycee was beautiful in a manufactured way. Blonde extensions, perfect teeth, eyes that held nothing but malice. She was holding a tray of spaghetti with marinara sauce.
"Hey, Arleen," Kaycee chirped. Her voice was sugary sweet. "You look so pale. You really need some iron. Or carbs."
She "tripped."
It was a theatrical stumble. The tray launched from her hands, arching perfectly toward Arleen's head.
Time seemed to slow down.
Arleen didn't turn around. She didn't gasp.
She simply shifted her weight. She slid her chair back six inches.
The tray hit the table where her head had been a second ago.
SPLAT.
Red sauce exploded outward. It missed Arleen completely. Instead, the splashback hit Kaycee.
The marinara coated the front of Kaycee's white designer cashmere sweater. It looked like a gunshot wound.
Kaycee shrieked. "My sweater! You ruined my sweater!"
The cafeteria went silent. Everyone turned to watch.
Bryce stepped forward, his face turning red. "You did that on purpose!"
He grabbed a metal tray from the table next to him. It was heavy, industrial steel.
"You think you're funny?" Bryce roared. He swung the tray at Arleen's head like a discus.
It was a dangerous swing. If it connected, it would cause a concussion, maybe a skull fracture.
Arleen stood up.
She raised her left hand.
CLANG.
She caught the edge of the flying tray. Her palm stung, but her grip was iron.
The room gasped.
Bryce blinked, shocked that his projectile had stopped in mid-air.
Arleen held the tray. She looked at it, then at Bryce.
"You have poor form," she said.
She stepped forward.
Bryce threw a punch. A clumsy, haymaker right hook aimed at her jaw.
Arleen didn't block. She slipped inside his guard. She moved faster than anyone in that room had ever seen a human move.
She brought the edge of the metal tray down.
Hard.
It connected with the bridge of Bryce's nose.
CRACK.
The sound was wet and sickening.
Bryce howled. He staggered back, clutching his face. Blood poured through his fingers, dark and copious.
"Get her!" he screamed, his voice bubbling with blood.
The two linemen charged. They were big boys, 250 pounds each.
Arleen dropped the tray.
She kicked the first one in the kneecap. A precise, snapping kick to the patella. He went down screaming.
The second one tried to grab her in a bear hug.
She grabbed his pinky finger. She bent it backward until it touched the back of his hand.
He shrieked, his knees buckling from the pain compliance.
She spun him around and shoved him into a table, sending trays and milk cartons flying. As she shoved him, her other hand, a blur, brushed against his jacket pocket, the motion so fluid and integrated into the attack that no one noticed the tiny, adhesive listening device, no larger than a grain of rice, that she left behind.
Three seconds. Three varsity athletes down.
Arleen stood in the center of the carnage. She wasn't even breathing hard. She smoothed the front of her blazer.
She walked over to Bryce, who was on his knees, crying and bleeding onto the linoleum.
She crouched down.
"Look at me," she whispered.
Bryce looked up. His eyes were wide with terror. He was looking at a monster.
"If you ever touch me again," Arleen said, her voice devoid of emotion, "I won't use a tray. I'll use my hands."
Kaycee was sobbing in the corner, trying to wipe the sauce off her sweater. She looked at Arleen and scrambled backward, crab-walking away in fear.
Arleen stood up. She looked around the cafeteria.
"Anyone else?"
Silence. Absolute, terrified silence.
She picked up her backpack.
"Good."
She walked toward the exit.
As she pushed the doors open, the school alarms began to blare.
