The cafeteria at St. Jude's was a study in social stratification. The athletes claimed the round tables in the center. The socialites took the booths by the windows. The academics huddled near the kitchen doors.
And the outcasts... they floated.
Dallas held her tray. It was light. A bowl of wilted lettuce, an apple that looked bruised, and a glass of water. She moved through the aisles, her eyes scanning for a gap, a space where she could disappear.
She was passing the table where the football team sat. Jett Sterling was there. He was the son of a billionaire tech mogul, loud, brash, and currently leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out into the walkway.
Dallas saw the leg. She knew he saw her coming.
She didn't stop. She didn't walk around.
She kept her pace steady. Just as her boot was about to make contact with his shin, Jett shifted his foot, trying to trip her.
It was a clumsy move. Amateur.
Dallas didn't trip. She adjusted her center of gravity in mid-stride. She brought her heavy combat boot down. Hard.
Right on the toe of his limited edition Air Jordans.
Gah! Jett yelped. He jerked his leg back, nearly tipping his chair over. He grabbed his foot, his face twisting in pain.
The cafeteria went silent. The chatter died instantly.
Whitney, who was sitting next to him, jumped up. Are you blind? You just stepped on Sterling! Do you know how much those shoes cost?
Dallas stopped. She turned slowly. She looked down at Jett, who was rubbing his sneaker.
Apologies, Dallas said. Her voice was flat. Your legs were obstructing the flow of traffic. I assumed they were detachable, given how little you seem to use the brain connected to them.
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room.
Jett looked up. His eyes were wide. Shock replaced the pain.
Did you just call me stupid? he asked. He sounded genuinely baffled.
I called you anatomically inefficient, Dallas corrected.
Whitney shrieked. You little freak!
She lunged. It was a telegraphed move. Whitney reached for Dallas's tray, intending to flip it onto her.
Dallas didn't dodge. She simply rotated her wrist. A subtle, fluid motion.
As Whitney's hand hit the edge of the tray, the glass of ice water didn't fall toward Dallas. It launched forward. A perfect arc.
Splash.
The water hit Whitney square in the chest. It soaked her white blouse instantly, rendering it transparent. The ice cubes slid down into her cleavage.
Whitney screamed. It was a sound that shattered glass. She looked down at herself, horrified.
My hand slipped, Dallas said.
Jett Sterling stared at Dallas. He looked at Whitney, dripping wet and hysterical. Then he looked back at Dallas.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Damn, Jett said. He let out a low whistle.
Boone Faulkner was watching from the table over. He had a sandwich halfway to his mouth. He lowered it. He looked at Erika, who was sitting beside him, her face pale with embarrassment.
Your sister has aim, Boone murmured.
She's an animal, Erika hissed, gripping her fork until her knuckles turned white. A feral animal.
Mr. Henderson, the Dean of Discipline, came running. What is going on here? Ruiz!
Whitney was sobbing now, pointing a shaking finger at Dallas. She threw water on me! She attacked Jett!
Henderson turned on Dallas, his face purple. Is this true?
Jett stood up. He towered over Dallas. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers. He was looking for fear. He found none.
Actually, Sir, Jett drawled. Whitney bumped into her. It was an accident. Gravity, you know?
Whitney stopped crying. She stared at Jett, betrayed.
Dallas didn't say thank you. She held Jett's gaze for a second longer, her expression unreadable.
Dean Henderson looked confused. Well... clean this up. Ruiz, go to the nurse's office and get an ice pack for Miss Whitney. Now.
It was a punishment disguised as an errand.
Dallas put her tray down on the nearest table. She turned and walked out of the cafeteria.
As she passed Jett, he leaned in.
Nice vocabulary, trash, he whispered.
Dallas didn't break stride.
