The Stoic Nurse's Obsession: My Secret Queen

The air in the Grand Hall of St. Jude's Prep tasted like old paper and anxiety. It was a thick, suffocating atmosphere that usually made teenagers sweat through their starch-stiffened shirts, but Dallas Ruiz just felt cold. She pulled the cuffs of her faded gray hoodie down over her knuckles, the fabric thinning and frayed at the edges. It was a stark, almost offensive contrast to the sea of navy blue blazers and plaid skirts surrounding her.

She kept her head down as she walked down the center aisle. She could feel the eyes on her. They felt like tiny, prickling insects crawling over her skin.

Trash.

Scholarship waste.

Public school charity case.

She didn't need to hear the whispers to know what they were saying. The words hung in the silence between the scraping of chair legs and the shuffling of feet. Dallas found a desk at the very back, in the corner where the shadows from the high vaulted ceiling pooled the darkest. She dropped her backpack onto the floor. It landed with a heavy, wet thud, sounding nothing like the lightweight designer leather bags of her peers.

Mrs. Higgins stood at the front of the room on a raised platform. She looked like a bird of prey scanning for a field mouse. Her eyes, sharp and bead-like behind rimless glasses, snapped to Dallas immediately. Her lip curled. It was a micro-expression, there and gone in a fraction of a second, but Dallas saw it. She saw everything.

Sit down, Ruiz, Higgins said, her voice projecting effortlessly across the hall. Try not to disturb the students who actually have a future to worry about.

A ripple of laughter moved through the room. It wasn't loud, just a low, polite murmur of amusement. Dallas didn't react. She didn't stiffen. She didn't look up. She simply pulled the wooden chair out. The metal legs screeched against the parquet floor, a high-pitched wail that made three students in the row ahead of her flinch.

Dallas sat. She slumped, actually. She slid her spine down until her neck rested on the back of the chair, her legs stretching out under the desk.

Boone Faulkner was sitting three rows up and to the right. He was the golden boy, the quarterback, the student body president. He was currently twirling a Montblanc pen between his fingers with a dexterity that spoke of years of piano lessons or perhaps just nervous energy. He turned his head, just slightly, catching Dallas in his peripheral vision. His brows knit together. He looked confused, as if he were looking at a puzzle piece that had been forced into the wrong box.

The papers were distributed. The Placement Exam. The test that would determine the academic trajectory of every freshman for the next four years. It was the Holy Grail of St. Jude's.

Dallas flipped the booklet open.

She scanned the first page. It wasn't standard math. It was a series of complex non-linear logic puzzles and pattern recognition matrices designed to test cognitive processing speed rather than rote memorization. Abstract sequences. High-level probability scenarios.

It was adorable.

It was the kind of mental gymnastics she did in her head while waiting for the bus, just to keep the noise of the world at bay. The answers presented themselves to her instantly, floating over the paper like augmented reality. The sequence converges at prime seven. The probability is negligible. The pattern is a Fibonacci variant.

She picked up her cheap plastic ballpoint pen. She spun it once around her thumb.

Then she yawned.

It was a loud, cracking yawn that stretched her jaw. She dropped the pen. She folded her arms on the desk, creating a pillow. She pulled her hood up, tugging the strings until her face was hidden in a tunnel of gray cotton.

And she closed her eyes.

Around her, the scratching of pens began. It sounded like a thousand termites chewing through wood. The frantic energy of three hundred students trying to prove their worth vibrating in the floorboards. Dallas tuned it out. She regulated her breathing. In, four counts. Hold, four counts. Out, four counts.

Time dilated. The darkness inside her hood was safe. It was the only place in this school where she wasn't Dallas the Charity Case. She was just a mind, floating in the void.

The sharp click of heels on wood brought her back.

Click. Click. Click.

The rhythm was angry. Staccato.

Mrs. Higgins stopped right beside Dallas's desk. The smell of expensive, cloying perfume-lilac and old money-invaded Dallas's sanctuary.

Dallas didn't move.

Are you ill, Miss Ruiz? Higgins asked. Her voice was dripping with false concern, loud enough for the entire back section to hear. Or have you simply accepted your inevitable failure?

Dallas opened one eye. The fabric of her sleeve was rough against her cheek. She slowly sat up, her spine popping. She blinked, looking at the clock on the wall. Forty-five minutes had passed.

She looked down at her paper. It was pristine. White. Empty.

Not ill, Dallas rasped. Her voice was rough from disuse. Just bored.

Mrs. Higgins snatched the paper from the desk. She flipped through the pages, the paper snapping aggressively. Blank. Blank. Blank.

A zero, Higgins announced, holding the booklet up like a piece of evidence in a murder trial. You have handed in a blank placement exam. This is an insult to this institution.

The scratching of pens stopped. The room went dead silent. Heads turned. Necks craned.

Dallas stood up. She hooked one strap of her backpack over her shoulder. She adjusted her sunglasses, sliding them onto her face to shield her eyes from the glare of the high windows.

"I didn't want to waste the ink," Dallas said.

She stepped out into the aisle.

You sit back down! Higgins shrieked, her composure cracking. You will finish this exam or you will be placed in the remedial track! Do you understand? You will be with the... the slower students!

That was the plan. The remedial track meant study halls. Study halls meant the basement computer lab. The only place in the school with hardline ethernet ports that bypassed the student Wi-Fi firewall and connected directly to the district's backbone.

I think I'll fit right in, Dallas said.

She walked away.

Mrs. Higgins stood trembling with rage, clutching the test booklet so hard the paper crinkled. She stormed down the aisle, intending to report this immediately. As she passed the third row, her grip loosened slightly, and the back page of the booklet fluttered open, swinging near Boone Faulkner's face.

There, in the bottom right corner, was a drawing. It wasn't a doodle. It was a hyper-realistic, anatomically perfect sketch of a skeletal hand raising a middle finger. The shading was exquisite. The perspective was flawless.

Boone caught the image just before Higgins swept past. He looked at the retreating figure of the girl in the gray hoodie. He stopped twirling his pen.

Dallas pushed through the heavy oak doors and into the blinding sunlight. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out.

Mother calling.

Dallas stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the red button. She pressed it, hard.

A group of senior boys in varsity jackets walked past her on the steps. One of them, a linebacker with a neck as thick as a tree trunk, slammed his shoulder into hers.

Watch it, trash, he muttered.

Dallas didn't stumble. She absorbed the impact, shifting her weight so that he was the one who bounced off slightly. She brushed the invisible dust off her shoulder.

She walked down the steps, alone.

The Art Building was a glass and steel monstrosity that looked like it had crashed into the classic brick architecture of the rest of the campus. It was named the Bentley Center for the Arts, a constant, looming reminder of who owned this school. Who owned this town.

Dallas walked across the manicured lawn, the grass so green it looked painted. She needed to cut through the building to get to the dorms without being seen by the administration.

She heard the violin before she opened the door.

It was fast. Aggressive. Paganini's Caprice No. 24. A piece that required fingers to move like spiders on caffeine.

But something was wrong.

The notes were there, technically. But the rhythm was jagged. It sounded frantic, breathless. It sounded like someone running for their life, not someone making music.

Dallas slipped inside. The hallway was cool and smelled of turpentine and clay. The music was coming from the main recital hall. The double doors were cracked open just an inch.

Dallas stopped. She peered through the gap.

Erika Bentley stood center stage. She was wearing a silk blouse that probably cost more than Dallas's entire wardrobe. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She was sweating. Beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead. Her bow arm was sawing back and forth violently.

She missed a shift to third position. The note screamed-a sharp, ugly sound that echoed in the empty hall.

Dammit! Erika shrieked.

She pulled her arm back, her face contorted in a silent scream of frustration. For a second, it looked like she would smash the expensive instrument, but the socialite in her took over. Instead of breaking the bow, she swung her empty left hand and violently swept the heavy binder of sheet music off the metal stand. The pages scattered across the floor like dead birds.

Erika stood there, chest heaving, her violin clutched in her right hand like a weapon. Her face was twisted in a mask of pure, unfiltered rage. It was ugly. It was the face she never showed the cameras or the donors.

Dallas watched, impassive. She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe.

Erika spun around, sensing the presence. When she saw Dallas, the rage instantly evaporated, replaced by a smooth, plastic mask of condescension. It was terrifying how fast she switched.

Dallas, Erika said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetener. You're not supposed to be here. This is for honor students.

Dallas pushed the door open and stepped inside. She didn't look at Erika. She looked at the fallen music sheets.

You were sharp on the ascending run, Dallas said. And your bow hold is too tight. You're choking the sound.

Erika's eyes widened. A flash of genuine hatred cut through the plastic mask.

Excuse me? Erika laughed, a high, brittle sound. What would you know about Paganini? You can't even pass a math test. Go back to your dorm, Dallas. Before I call security.

Dallas looked at her stepsister. Really looked at her. She saw the trembling in Erika's hands. The fear behind the eyes.

Pick up your music, Erika, Dallas said quietly. It looks messy.

She turned and walked out, leaving Erika standing alone in the silence. Behind her, the violin started again, louder, angrier, and even more desperate.

Room 302 in the girls' dormitory was small, cramped, and currently smelled like an explosion in a floral shop.

Dallas pushed the door open. Her roommate, Whitney, was sitting at her vanity, spraying something pink and noxious into the air. Sloan, the other roommate, was sitting on her bed, looking uncomfortable.

Oh god, Whitney said, waving her hand in front of her nose. The smell of public school just walked in.

Sloan looked down at her hands. Whitney, stop.

Dallas ignored them. She walked to her bed-the one by the window, the one with the thin, scratchy blanket. She dropped her bag.

I heard you got a zero, Whitney sneered, turning around. She was applying lip gloss, her mouth making a popping sound. My dad says people like you lower the property value of the school just by existing.

Dallas sat on her bed. She pulled her knees up to her chest. She looked at Whitney.

And people like you raise the collective narcissism index, Dallas said. It's a delicate ecosystem.

Whitney blinked. Her mouth hung open slightly. What?

Dallas reached into her bag and pulled out her headphones. Large, noise-canceling, battered. She put them on. The world went silent.

She pressed a button on the side. Static hissed, then cleared.

...Black Eagle is scanning the nodes... Sector 4 is vulnerable...

The voice in her ear was synthesized, distorted. It was the voice of the underground. Dallas closed her eyes, letting the data wash over her.

Whitney was still talking, her mouth moving, her hands gesturing. She looked like a silent movie actor overacting a scene. She stood up, stomped her foot, and grabbed Sloan's arm. They stormed out of the room, presumably to go complain to someone who cared.

The door slammed.

Dallas opened her eyes. The room was empty.

She reached under her pillow. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of her laptop. It wasn't the clunky school-issued device. It was a matte black beast, customized with processors she had salvaged and soldered herself.

She opened it. The screen glowed with a terminal prompt. Green text on black.

WARNING: External IP detected probing St. Jude's Mainframe.

Dallas stared at the cursor blinking.

Black Eagle.

He was here. In her school.

She shouldn't get involved. She was supposed to be the idiot. The sleeper.

Her stomach growled, a painful, hollow twist. She hadn't eaten since yesterday morning.

Dallas closed the laptop. Not yet.

She pulled a squashed energy bar from her pocket. The wrapper crinkled loudly in the quiet room. She took a bite. It tasted like sawdust and chemicals. She chewed slowly, staring out the window at the campus lights below. They looked like stars, cold and distant.

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.