Chapter Text
Disclaimer: The Faculty and its script and its characters are without prejudice to the property of David Wechter, Bruce Kimmel, Dimension Films, and Los Hooligans Productions. Teen Wolf and its characters are without prejudice property of Teen Wolf by Jeph Loeb and Matthew Weisman, Jeff Davis, Marty Adelstein, René Echevarria, Michael Thorn, Tony DiSanto, Liz Gateley, Russell Mulcahy, Joseph P. Genier, Tim Andrew, Karen Gorodetzky, Adelstein Productions, DiGa Vision, First Cause, Inc., Lost Marbles Television, Siesta Productions, MTV Production Development, MGM Television, Eric Wallace, Graham Vanderbilt, Blaine Williams, Tyler Posey, and Ross Maxwell. I own only my own original characters and ideas.
Chapter One:
As with everything else, this was all Stiles’ fucking fault! You sat on the beat-up leather couch in the den, arms crossed and glaring at your blood, who was shrinking into your dad’s old La-Z-Boy, trying to disappear, or at least keep as far away from Derek Hale and his teeth as possible. Speaking of the Sour Wolf, he was in a partially shredded leather jacket over a t-shirt that was more scraps and very pretty abs than fabric. The fruit was definitely hanging out of that loom, and if there weren’t healing gashes and drying blood, you would be happy to stare. But right now, the Alpha looked like a walking crime scene, and it was sparking your germaphobia.
Lydia Martin, with her normally perfect strawberry blond curls, that Stile had written many sonnets about, that you had been forced to endure, was matted with leftover kanima gook that had been clinging to her ex-or not you didn’t fucking know anymore or care-boyfriend, who had died a lizard and reborn a puppy, was curled on the ottoman. Great, you were all for a happy ending, especially since that ending came after Stiles had rammed Lizard-Jackson with his Jeep.
You had been wanting to back over that fucker since kindergarten. He was a prick of the highest order and deserved to be temporarily smooshed. Isaac Lahey and his ubiquitous scarf was sitting on the floor by your legs. His back pressed against the base of the couch, hovering at Allison’s side like a loyal pup. Even though she had spent her night putting arrows into his pack mates. Unlike Scott or Isaac, you were not so forgiving. First, her mother had tried to kill Scott, then the woman got bitten, turned, and then committed suicide. You had offered your condolences, even if you were not mourning Mrs. Argent and her murderous ways. Allison had lost her mom, and you had gritted your teeth through the funeral since Scott was playing martyr and refused to tell his girlfriend the truth. You had even gone to the funeral of her child-killing aunt. But grief was not an excuse to use people for archery practice.
Boundaries. It was a thing. And one she could use a refresher course on. On the next cushion, Allison Argent was fiddling with her bow. Her grandfather was somewhere in Beacon Hill, leaking black blood. That you could accept as karma. Scott, despite his secrecy, had been very Machiavellian; you were so proud.
Resting on the arm of Allison’s side of the couch was the crooked-jawed puppy, himself. Looking everywhere but at his mother, who was in the middle of the huddle of parents. Chris Argent was at the center, no doubt breaking down the supernatural world that would leave you forever locked in your room, with salt on your windowsills. Your Mom and your Uncle Noah stood side by side. Both of them were wearing grim looks that easily denoted their blood relation.
Any hope that your parents and Uncle would think all of this was insane was lost when your Uncle came blaring onto the scene in his squad car, with the school principal leaking black blood, Derek’s alpha red eyes, and fangs on full display had been hard to explain. He had gaped, hand hovering over his gun, and demanded to know what Stiles had done. Stiles had squawked and spun toward his sheriff father and indignantly demanded to know how any of this was his fault! When Uncle Noah had fallen into a very Stiles-like rant, waving a hand at Derek. While Chris Argent was busy cursing his DNA, his leaking father had escaped.
Stiles piping up that Derek had really bad hay fever had not helped anything. From your place by Scott, you had given Stiles a horrified look, but had been unable to fix what her cousin had just unleashed.
"Hay fever," Uncle Noah repeated, his voice dangerously low. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture Stiles had inherited down to the exact millimeter. "Stiles, there is a teenager who temporarily turned into a giant lizard, an old man is leaking black ooze out of every facial orifice, and you are telling me he has hay fever?"
"It's a very aggressive strain, Dad!" Stiles squeaked, his voice cracking. "Global warming, you know? The pollen count in Beacon Hills is off the charts this year."
Derek’s eyes flashed a vibrant, bloody crimson again, a low rumble vibrating in his chest. Whether it was at the former Kanima, the Argent patriarch, or just Stiles’ general existence was a toss-up.
You had turned toward Allison, and even miffed at her, you grunted out: “Just shoot me. Put me out of my misery.”
Scott, sweet, lovable Scott, had furrowed his dark brows and asked what misery. You scowled up at the lanky teen wolf. “That I share DNA with a spazy moron, who quotes Star Wars at me and tries to pass lycanthropy off as hay fever.”
Finding out Uncle Noah had followed Stiles there had made the adderall fueled teen freeze, then wince. Not only had he led his father and the town's sheriff to a supernatural smackdown, but he also came up with the worst excuses.
Uncle Noah had kept the secret of the things that went bump in the night and howled at the moon for three days. In that time, Jackson’s parents were sending him to school in London. When Lydia had told you that you had been mid-bite of a honey mustard chicken wrap, jaw practically unhinged, you had frozen, eyes wide, mouth empty, showing off your uvula to all in view.
I had cleared my throat, wiped drool off my chin, and set my lunch down and nodded. “Ah, I’m sure that will work out well. And not a disaster at all.”
Lydia had snorted and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “My life has become a B-horror movie cliché.” Then scowled when the strand stuck to her fingers. She hissed. Apparently, Kanima slime did not come out with shampoo.
Then the Alpha’s had left their calling card on the door of Derek’s burned-out childhood home. But you suppose Hallmark didn’t carry that kind of gift card. The assilmalte or die greeting card would probably not be a big seller anywhere with democracy. But you would bet Fidel Castro had a desk drawer full, right next to his Christmas cards. Feliz Navidad, ya filthy animals. Remember the Bay of Pigs, from your beloved Dictator.
You shook your head to clear the spiral from your brain. This is what lack of sleep did to you. It merged history class with current events and sent you down endless rabbit holes. Once Scott had rushed into Stiles’ living room as you were kicking his ass at Mario Kart, blurting out about the pack of feral alphas without checking the room. After that, your Uncle would process no further and had spilled the beans.
The parents and Derek, who apparently had made contact with the Alpha pack and gotten his ass kicked, had been summoned to your family home for a tribunal.
You shifted on the couch, the leather sticking to the back of your thighs. The silence stretching across the room was suffocating, punctuated only by the sound of Chris Argent dragging across the hardwood as he paced.
Suddenly, you felt a damp, warm puff of air against your kneecap.
You looked down. Isaac had leaned over from his spot on the floor, his nose twitching as he took a deep, invasive inhale of your knee.
Smack.
Your hand connected with the back of his curly head in a swift, practiced motion. "Bad dog," You scolded, not even bothering to lower your voice. Isaac yelped, rubbing the back of his head and looking up at you with wide, wounded puppy-dog eyes. "I wasn't doing anything! You smell like... anxiety and... and fabric softener."
"I smell like I'm about to hit you with my bat if you don't respect my personal space," you retorted. "Seriously, Lahey, buy a candle. Or a stress ball. Stop sniffing people. It’s rude. And weird."
"She's got a point, dude," Scott mumbled, though he wisely shrank back when Allison glared at him. “I’m just saying. People in school are starting to talk.” He protested weakly, as his bottom lip pushed out in a pout.
"Enough," Uncle Noah said, his voice carrying the full weight of the badge pinned to his chest. He turned to look at my mom, then at Chris Argent, then at Mrs. McCall and Mrs. Martin. It was like a very strange PTA meeting in my parents' den. Except that instead of discussing bake sales for the softball team, they were breaking down murderous lizards and werewolves. They seemed to have an entire conversation through a series of exhausted, traumatized eye twitches. Finally, my dad—who had been standing near the kitchen archway looking like he was debating the merits of a strong whiskey versus a religious awakening—collapsed into a chair entirely done.
“We have made a decision.” Uncle Noah said sternly after your father had waved a hand at him, as if to say, " Go ahead, I’m still buffering.” Since your dad didn’t even believe in ghosts, but somehow believed in little green men, he was having an existential crisis. And was mentally sourcing wolfsbane and a rifle.
Uncle Noah was bout to continue when my mom’s composure, which held much longer than you thought, imploded. Her limbs flying out in wide sweeping, frantic gestures. It was where Stiles had gotten it from.
"You are teenagers!" my mom exploded, throwing her hands up. "You are not the Avengers! You are not the X-Men! You have algebra homework and a curfew!" She took a deep, shaking breath. “It is not your job to fight—mangy wolves with dental problems!”
Derek’s head snapped up from where he was trying to peel a piece of his t-shirt out of a gash on his side. His eyes narrowed, and his lips curled in a silent snarl at being called mangy and implying he practiced poor oral hygiene. But he didn’t snarl. Even the sour wolf knew better. With the state your mother was in, she would take the fire poker to his knees. And if she ever found out it was Derek’s uncle that had dragged you into this cluster fuck, she was going to hunt Peter Hale through the preserve in her slippers. Not that anyone would object.
"And you are not staying here to be cannon fodder for a gang of super-wolves." Your mom declared firmly, and you blinked, not doubt missing the middle half of her rant as you were picturing Peter running for his life from an angry Philly-born Polish woman.
Stiles blinked. "Wait. What does that mean?"
"It means," Uncle Noah said grimly, eyeing his sister to make sure she was not about to erupt again, "that we are implementing a tactical retreat. Your aunt and uncle here," he gestured to my parents, "have been debating a temporary relocation for his firm. Specifically, a branch in Ohio."
"Ohio?" You said slowly, turning your head slowly to look at your slumped father. "Dad, nobody goes to Ohio on purpose unless they're fleeing a federal indictment."
"Or a pack of homicidal werewolves,as it were," Dad deadpanned with a blank look on his face. Twenty minutes ago, the world had made sense to him. Now you had a feeling he was going to be sleeping in the hall with you, aluminum bat. In case a werewolf or vampire climbed in through the window.
"Wait, we?" Stiles asked, his arms flailing, his knobby elbow sending a picture of Great-Aunt Madge to the floor. Eyes snapping around the room. "Who is we?"
"You, your aunt, your cousin, Lydia, Scott, and Isaac," Uncle Noah rattled off. Looking unimpressed by his son’s panic. "Melissa, and Mrs. Martin, and I agreed. Chris is taking Allison to France for a few months to... deprogram, or whatever it is hunters do.” He waved a hand toward the stoic hunter, not at all caring if their definition of healing was hunting unicorns through the woods of Europe. France was well out of his jurisdiction and officially someone else’s headache, and he currently had supernatural creatures running through his woods. He had enough problems.
Lydia gave a horrified gasp and turned icy eyes on her mother. “Ohio, Mother!” She vaulted up off the footrest, sending it sliding back and slamming into Isaac’s legs. “Why not Eichen House!” She cried out shrilly. “It would be more humane. I can not live in a cornfield!”
Then Lydia’s giant, magnificent brain caught up, and she desperately looked at my mom. “Do they even have Prada or Chanel? Or is it all Levi's and flannel?”
While Lydia spiraled about designer wear, you thought about your life being uprooted. Here in Beacon Hills, you had your starting spot on the varsity softball team, your favorite nook in the library. People, for the most part, left you alone after you kicked Greenberg in the balls. In the opinion of the student body, you were the more dangerous Stlinski, so most gave you a wide berth.
For someone who had no filter and zero tolerance for stupid, this had worked out well for the last three years. You had expected the same for your senior year. But voicing that now would do you no good.
“Lydia, sweetheart," your mom said, her tone carrying that same dangerous, falsely sweet edge that Lydia used when she was gearing up for a tirade that would crush her victim's self-esteem or will to live. "I promise you, they have malls in Ohio. And if they don't, God invented circulars and the internet for a reason. You will survive without a daily trip to Nordstrom."
Lydia looked like she wanted to argue, her glossed lips parted, but she caught the look in your mom's eye. The Polish wrath was simmering just beneath the surface. Lydia wisely snapped her mouth shut and sank back onto the ottoman, crossing her legs at the ankles and looking like a martyr bound for the stake.
"Wait," Scott interjected, his golden retriever brain finally processing the logistics. "What about Derek? And Peter? We're just... leaving them?"
Derek uncrossed his arms, the shredded leather of his jacket squeaking. "I don't need teenagers to protect me," he growled, though it lacked its usual bite. He looked exhausted. The Alpha pack had done a number on him, and beneath the brooding exterior, you could tell he knew he was outgunned. "But," he added, his jaw ticking, "tactically, staying here is suicide. If the Sheriff is organizing a retreat, I'm... coming. To supervise. You're my betas."
He shifted, wincing as he pushed off the wall and sank into an empty chaise, slumping back against the wall and hand protectively over his ribs. “As for Peter, we are definitely leaving him.”
The group of teens as a whole nodded in unison. No one wanted to be around Derek’s freaky ass uncle, who used a teenage girl to resurrect his psychotic ass.
Across the room, Stiles grumbled. “Maybe the Alpha pack will eat him.” Your cousin suddenly looked a bit more upbeat. “He would definitely give them indigestion.”
When everyone stared back at him, he flared his arms defensively. “Hey! Don’t give me that look. He’s the reason I have acid reflux!”
Stiles vaulted up onto his feet, starting to pace across the hardwood floor. Arms flinging out in dramatic outrage that made his father sigh. “I was just your average awkward nobody! Then Sour Wolf’s extra-crispy uncle starts biting people!” He paused, spinning toward Chris, nearly tripping over his own feet as they became tangled together, and pointing an accusing finger at the hunter.
“Technically, it was your crazy family’s fault.”
Chris didn't say a word. He just stood there, his jaw locked so tight you could practically hear the molars grinding together, looking like a man who knew he couldn't argue with a teenager fueled by sheer, unadulterated panic and a disturbingly accurate grasp of recent history.
"Let’s review the tape, shall we?!" Stiles yelled, his voice cracking on the last syllable as he started pacing again, his arms windmilling. "Because I feel like we’re glossing over the origin story of my impending stress-induced ulcer! Let's go back to the beginning. The pilot episode of my nightmare!"
Stiles spun around, leveling a finger at Derek. "Your sister comes back to town to look for your psycho uncle, and what happens? She gets chopped in half! Sliced and diced like a supernatural julienne salad!"
Derek let out a low, warning growl, his eyes flashing a brief, dangerous red.
"Oh, save the glowing eyes for the Alphas, Sour Wolf. I have the floor! And low blood sugar!" Stiles shot back, entirely too hyped on adrenaline to care about his own mortality. He pivoted back to Chris Argent. "And why was your uncle psycho, Derek? Oh, right! Because your sister," Stiles jabbed a finger in Chris's direction, "Kate 'I use arson as a valid conflict resolution tool' Argent, decided to burn down a house full of people! Including kids! Which, by the way, has the moral compass of a Batman villain on a bender!"
Your dad’s hand dropped from his eyes and surveyed the man who was scowling in the center of his den.
“Jesus Christ, how is this my life?” He muttered to himself, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “An hour ago, I was watching the Phillies-Dodgers game. Now I have teenagers with glowing eyes and fangs in my house.”
Stiles ignored your father’s existential crisis and continued on his rant.
Fixing his manic, red-rimmed eyes on Derek. “And what did Uncle Creeper do?” He holds his arms out as if expecting his class to answer.
Your Uncle Noah sighed, dragging a hand down his tired face. “Stiles, how much adderall have you had today?”
The twitch that was flicking away beneath Stiles’ left eye answered for him: a lot. You groaned and flopped back on the couch. This was going to be a long fucking night.
Your brain checked out as Stiles, put the final nail in the coffin. There would now be no avoiding the exile to Ohio. When you finally checked back in, it seemed Stiles was chugging toward the final confrontation with Peter, like an out-of-control train.
“We already solved the Peter problem—mostly by lighting him on fire, which, again, you're welcome—what happens next? We don't get a break! We don't get to go to the winter formal and just be awkward teenagers! No!"
Stiles threw his hands up to the ceiling, appealing to a higher power that had clearly abandoned Beacon Hills long ago.
“So the moral to my story. We already killed him once! Let the Alphas have him!”
Stiles was huffing and puffing in the center of the room, arms thrown wide like a televangelist. The room was eerily silent. You could hear the slow tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Your eyes landed on your mother, her lips were bleached white, her blue eyes narrowed into slits, and the wine glass she was holding in a white-knuckled grip, shattered. Along with what little normalcy you had left.
But you also had to admit he had a point, which was why, as Allison glared at your cousin, you felt an almost feral need to back him up even if you were already planning his demise.
"He's out of line, but he's entirely historically accurate. The Argents are basically the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of this entire clusterfuck. They started World War Wolf, and the rest of us are just freezing in the trenches."
"Thank you!" Stiles threw a hand in your direction, looking vindicated. "See? She gets it. And she’s terrifying, so you should all listen to her."
But if you wanted to see terrifying, he need only turn around and look at my mother. Who was wearing a look so murderous she could only be plotting a spectacularly violent demise. Rest in hell, Peter Hale. You shan’t be missed.
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It was not even a full two weeks before you were crowded into the backseat of your parents’ van. You were pressed against the back seat passenger side window. Scott was wedged in behind the driver's seat, and Stiles, whom you had spent the better part of the last two hours glaring at, was squashed into the middle seat on the bench.
“Scott, can you move your knobby elbow? I need that kidney!” Stiles snapped, trying to shift closer to your side, but froze when you gave him a seething look.
He squeaked and violently shoved himself into Scott’s side, accepting the elbow in his internal organs to avoid certain death at your hands. Since Stiles’ rant about setting a feral alpha werewolf on fire, you had been under house arrest. You were only allowed onto the back deck when taking out the dog. (The dog currently snoring on his small corner of the back bench and stuffed with luggage—most of it Lydia’s)
Saying goodbye to teammates from the softball team had to be done over e-mail, and that was only after your mom had interrogated you if they hunted little girls in red capes, or like Isaac sniffed people. Through the small bit of exposed glass of the back windshield, you saw Lydia’s Bug following close behind. The Queen Bee of Beacon Hills High was the only one driving solo, as he tiny car held her precious dog, Prada, boxes of books that she did not trust to the movers, three large designer suitcases, and a large duffle bag filled with shoes. Another two of her suitcases were weighing down the back of your mom’s van.
Isaac and Derek were leading the caravan of cars along the interstate in his shiny black Camaro. A large U-Haul bringing up the rear. Derek had paid extra for one of the moving company drivers to carry the necessities. Not that Derek needed many for his own comfort, as he had spent the better part of a year living in an abandoned subway tunnel.
You rolled your eyes. You had only seen Derek load four duffel bags into the trunk of his car, and you knew for a fact that two of them were filled with books from his family vault and had placed nothing in the U-haul. No doubt he and Isaac were going to be sleeping in sleeping bags.
It took more hours than you had bothered to count to reach Herrington, Ohio. The day you arrived in town, you had joined Lydia in her car, Prada happily sleeping on your lap, because if you spent another second listening to Scott and Stiles bicker, you were going to tuck and roll directly into oncoming traffic.
The housing had been worked out in a weird dance between Derek, your Mom, and his firm. That had been horrifying to watch. An emotionally constipated werewolf is discussing real estate with your extremely passive-aggressive mother, who was laying the blame for at least a third of this mess at his boots. But eventually, Derek’s agent had been able to secure a quaint colonial for your parents, you, and their two charges: Stiles and Lydia.
You had actively fought to take Scott, but Derek had given you a dry look and given your cousin a life expectancy of two days if he was forced to share a living space with him.
“Plus, he’s your blood.” Derek pointed out with a slight grimace as if that was somehow your fault. “Which makes him your mom’s problem.”
Then he gave you an exhausted look. “I’m going to be spending my time hitting Isaac with a rolled-up newspaper when he tries to sniff the neighbors. And keep Scott from getting himself into any more life and death situations.”
You had grimaced, nodding slowly. You loved Scott, just like you loved Stiles, no matter how often you wanted to punt him to the moon, but both Scott and Stiles had a way of bumbling into shit. Sure, most of the blame probably lay with Stiles and his spastic curiosity. But Scott had a helping people problem. Like the over-eager puppy, he was, all he wanted was to help people. Despite the stitches, it might cause others.
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Herrington was the quintessential American suburbia. Neatly manicured lawns, identical mailboxes, and strip malls boasting a Piggly Wiggly and a Blockbuster Video that looked like it was clinging to life by a thread.
"Welcome to Herrington," You read aloud, squinting through the windshield at the cheerful wooden sign on the edge of town. "A Great Place to Grow. Grow what?”
“Probably weed or despair,” Lydia murmured tightly, her jaw clenched and her eyes no doubt narrowed into slits behind her Dior sunglasses. She had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as she followed the leader. As if using every ounce of her self-control not to jerk on the wheel, pull a frantic U-turn, and make a break for the border. “Certainly not my will to live. I’d rather take my chances with the Alphas.”
Spring Lane was an average street with large brick homes, wide driveways, and a roster painted on the mailbox. No doubt that was the first thing your mom would be getting rid of. The house was two stories with an attached garage, and peach and pink rose bushes growing wildly under the front windows. The door was a mournful deep blue. Very apropos.
Lydia pulled slowly up into the driveway beside your parents' van. She looked at the house and then fixed you with a piercing gaze. “Thirteen.”
She flipped her neatly curled hair over her shoulder. While you were wearing an old Backstreet Boys t-shirt, worn jeans, and comfy sneakers for the physical labor of moving the U-Haul furniture into the house, Lydia was in a silk blouse and designer jeans, looking as if she was going to enjoy an afternoon at the country club.
“What?” You questioned, furrowing your brow. As Prada stood up on your lap, she gave a big yawn, exposing an adorably pink tongue and pearly white fangs, and placed her little paws on the door to look out the window.
“Cornfields, Y/N!” She hissed as she threw the car into park. You could almost hear Lydia’s Clinique mostiroized face breaking out in hives. The strawberry blonde had actually whimpered when you passed a Walmart ten minutes ago. You could only hope she had not noticed the Piggily Wiggily, let alone the cows, or you may soon find out where the local hospital was when she fainted.
You looked down at Prada, who was used to her mommy’s tantrums, didn’t even look away from the passenger window as Stiles climbed out of the van, tripped, and went sprawling onto the lawn with a loud ‘Ack!’
Yeah, sharing a room with her for however long this exile lasted was going to be a joy.
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"Okay, game plan," Stiles muttered, wide-eyed. "We go in, we keep our heads down. We do not draw attention. We are average. We go to movies and football games.”
You huffed, shouldering your backpack on one shoulder and your purse on the other. “Stiles, you’ve never been to a football game. You wouldn’t know a quarterback from the mascot.”
He waved you off and very nearly poked himself in the eye with his jerky, uncoordinated movements.
“My point, my dear cousin.” He drawled, “We are boring. We are just like them
"Stiles, you literally have ADHD and no volume control. You are physically incapable of being normal," Lydia pointed out, checking her lip gloss in her compact mirror. "Just don't talk about werewolves, don't mention the Kanima, and for the love of God, don't try to investigate anything. If a kid goes missing here, it's not a sacrifice. They probably just got lost in a corn maze."
"Right. Right. Totally mundane." He took a deep breath. "I can do mundane."
Herrington High School was exactly what you expected. It was a sprawling, brick building that smelled of floor wax, stale teenage angst, and institutional bleached paper. You hadn’t even made it past the front office before the whispers began.
Small towns didn't get an influx of five new students all at once. Especially not a group that included a genius who moved and looked like a model, two boys who looked like they belonged in an Abercrombie catalog, one twitchy caffeine addict who randomly spun in circles trying to take in his surroundings and walked face first into the fireextinguisher, and you, the fat girl who looked like a victim but was a angry badger in disguise.
"Look at the fashion," Lydia whispered in horror, her eyes tracking a girl walking by in a bedazzled denim skirt and Ugg boots. "It's like a fever dream of boy band groupies.”
"Breathe through your mouth, Lydia," you advised dryly. Looking down at your schedule, you found that you and Lydia had the same homeroom.
After handing your slips to the teacher who was streamlining espresso at the desk, you were waved away to claim seats. You followed Lydia down a mostly empty aisle and tried not to laugh when she threw herself into a desk with all the dramatics of a silent film star. Her hair spread out across her arms in an almost styled wave as she face planted on the desk in silent protest.
You placed your purse on the desk in front of her and slipped your backpack off your shoulder. Just as you were about to sit, a voice piped up from your right, making you jump.
"Seat's taken."
Sitting at the desk next to yours was arguably the most beautiful boy you had ever seen. He had dark, messy hair, warm hazel eyes, and the broad shoulders of a linebacker, but he was wearing a worn-out Ramones t-shirt and reading a battered copy of Howard Zinn’s A People's History of the United States.
"Oh," you said, blinking. "Sorry. Didn't see a bag."
"I'm kidding," he said, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. It transformed his features, making him look less intimidating and more... approachable. "You're the new girl, right? I'm Stan. Stan Rosado."
You huffed as you finally slipped into your seat. “Y/N Y/L/N. And only one of the new girls.” You hooked a thumb over your shoulder.
“Scarlet O’Hara back there is either suffering from the vapors or regretting her taste in emotionally stunted lacrosse players. Her name is Lydia.” You looked over your shoulder.
“Say hello, Lydia.” You called out in a sing-song voice.
Lydia let out a long, pathetic moan. Stan’s brows jumped in surprise and eyed the strawberry blonde wearily.
“Is she okay?”
You offered a bright smile, shook your head, and cheerfully said. “Nope.”