This is for everyone who has ever felt invisible, and for Bec, whose friendship and late-night chats about boys and falling in love have made the loneliness bearable, the bitterness sweet, and unrequited love a little more beautiful.
I'm still working on my other multi-chapter TW fics, but this is something I'll probably update concurrently. I'm not quite sure where it will lead, but I hope you'll be interested in coming along for the ride! This fic is written in the form of mental love letters, in which a currently nameless girl admits her feelings to Stiles ("you") and shares her fondest memories of him.
One: The First Time
I remember the first time I saw you.
It was a bright day in mid-July, the kind of summer day that makes the whole world a beautiful place and school seems forever away. The sun warmed everything in its golden rays, and even the dust swirling through the air was a thing of wonder. I was riding my bike down Cedar Street. It was dark purple, with a white seat, and covered in stickers. Mom had attached a white and blue basket to the front, in which I used to carry my teddy, Lieutenant Buttons, or a couple apples and a water bottle, or any interesting discoveries I had made on my travels – a smooth, flat rock or a white bird feather; once I even found a red salamander at the park. I scooped him into an empty plastic ice-cream container, filled with grass and a big rock, air holes poked into the top with a pencil, and brought him home.
I was ten years old and happy. On that particular day, I was on my way home from the grocery store a few blocks from my house. Mom had sent me out for milk, oranges, eggs, and bread. These items were packed snugly into my basket, to keep them from crashing about. Loose change clinked in my pocket as I pedalled. I was biking as quickly as I could, because Mom needed the eggs and milk as soon as possible, so she could start making a cake for my sister's birthday party the next day.
As the oldest sibling, I took this responsibility very seriously. I felt the success of the entire party and my sister's subsequent happiness rested on my shoulders. A burden I did not take lightly. I wouldn't dawdle or spend any quarters on gum or candy; I wouldn't stop to admire freshly watered flowers or to pet stray dogs. I would show my mother I was responsible and dependable. And she'd thank me with a hundred kisses and shower me with praises, blessing herself that she should have such a perfect daughter.
So I was speeding along, my back tire bumping wildly over cracks in the sidewalk. It was a pleasurable feeling – that brief moment when your butt left the seat, the air surrounding you as if you had wings and were about to take off. I was steering with only one hand gripping the handlebars, the other resting on my thigh. I thought this made me look cool and talented, maybe even grown up. I had taken to doing it a lot lately; I was very good at it, and didn't wobble at all. Soon I wanted to start practising biking with no hands at all, like I had seen the older kids doing in the school parking lot. For some reason, I usually used my left hand to steer, even though my right hand was stronger and more dexterous, and I used it to do everything else, like writing or peeling a banana.
I was driving fast, with only one hand, enjoying the wind as it whipped past me and tangled my hair, singing some song I had heard on the radio earlier that morning under my breath. Unfortunately, I had – and still have – the unlucky tendency of being easily distracted. Mrs. Hammond had added a couple new pieces to her collection of tacky lawn ornaments, and as I craned my neck back to get a second look, I didn't notice the huge gap in the concrete where a chunk was missing.
My front tire caught. My bike jerked to a halt. My momentum flipped my body right over the handlebars, onto the waiting pavement. The air was knocked from my lungs. I was disoriented by the blue sky and the sudden change in my field of vision. For a moment, I was too shocked to feel any pain. My palms and knees were badly scrapped, like someone had taken a cheese grater to my flesh. Bits of dirt were mixed in with my blood. There was a nasty gash on my elbow that was embedded with gravel. My mouth tasted coppery. I ran my tongue over my teeth, and found one of them was wiggly. I turned my head to the side and spit. My saliva was red.
A police cruiser flashed its lights once and pulled up to the curb beside me. Your father threw open his door, raced over, and knelt down beside me. Even in the heat, he was dressed in full uniform. Beads of sweat adorned his forehead. His eyes were crinkled in concern, and I could see the first traces of crows' feet. I didn't know it was possible to describe eye colors as kind, but his were, and I knew instinctively that I was face-to-face with one of the few remaining genuinely good men in this world. "Are you okay?" he asked, and his voice sounded like a brook rippling over wet stones.
That was when I noticed my bicycle, laying on its side, groceries littering the ground. The oranges were scattered along the sidewalk, their skins bruised; the milk carton had burst on impact, and milk was curdling and evaporating on the hot pavement; the pack of eggs was soggy, dripping yellow yolk. I knew better than to hope any of the shells were still intact. It was this food catastrophe, more than my own injuries, that caused me to burst into tears.
"Stiles, grab my first-aid kit! It's okay, sweetie. My name is Sheriff Stilinski, and I'm going to get you cleaned up, alright?" I sniffed and nodded, allowing your father to pat my shoulder. He checked my limbs for possible sprains and fractures. He had such nice hands, and a gentle touch, just like my mother's, and he smelled like coffee. As he checked me over, he asked me questions – if I knew my name and the date, stuff like that – to make sure I hadn't sustained a concussion. He dug a lint-covered tissue out of his pocket and handed it to me.
The passenger window was rolled up to keep in the air conditioning. You called out, but we couldn't hear what you said. Your dad motioned for you to roll down the window. I couldn't see you, but I could hear the creaking of the crank as you rolled the glass partially down. "Dad, I can't find it."
"Check under your seat."
"Got it!"
At that age, I had not yet felt any romantic desire or any real interest in boys. I had a few male friends who I played soccer with after school, or who traded their lunches with me, or rode their bikes with me to the edge of town, to catch frogs in the pond and wade out into the cool water up to our knees, dragging our hands along the bottom and coming up with fistfuls of clay. Boy friends were the same as girl friends, except that they never wanted to play Barbies, they sometimes did weird and stupid things, and they could go pee just about anywhere and they could do it standing up. Outside of the few male friends I had, boys meant absolutely nothing to me whatsoever.
But when you stepped out of the car, my whole world shifted. In one quick second, my perspective changed. I suddenly understood why some of my female friends gushed over celebrities and threw out nonsensical words like "cutie" and "hunk" and "dreamy"; why Christy would pause the dvd of her favourite boy-band and kiss the screen; why Jenna had drawn a big heart with Dallas' name on it, and given it to him for Valentine's Day, much to the shock and embarrassment of many. I finally understood what my mother meant when she said someday I'd grow up and fall in love and I'd like it, when I told her that her and Dad's public displays of affection were gross; and why the women in the television shows my grandmother watched in the afternoons were always chasing after men in the rain and kissing for unbelievable stretches of time.
You were clutching a brown paper bag in your right fist, a white first-aid kit gripped in the left. On your wrist was a flaking temporary tattoo, like the kind you get out of packs of bubble gum. It was mostly gone, and I couldn't tell if it was supposed to be a man or a beast. You were wearing a Batman t-shirt two sizes too big, blue plaid shorts with grass-stained knees, and mismatched socks inside sneakers with neon green laces. I figured you had dressed yourself, and there was something very admirable in that, in the way you didn't seem to care what colors went together or if your socks clashed. You dressed the way you wanted. My mother was always fussing over my clothes, which were limited, telling me this didn't look good with that, and whatever.
Your brown hair was shaggy and messy, sticking up in odd angles all over your head. A bright red sunburn covered your nose and cheeks, making your freckles and the mole on the left side of your mouth more apparent. Though you weren't smiling, I could see the traces of dimples, and knew you were the kind of person who laughed often. Your eyes were large and worried, the color of tarnished pennies. I hadn't known it was possible to fall in love with someone's eyes.
God, I thought you were the most beautiful boy I had ever seen.
You handed the kit to your dad, and he rummaged inside. I could tell he knew what he was doing, had probably done this before, with you. It's funny that should be the first commonality we shared. The sheriff ripped open a packet with a wet antiseptic pad inside. He touched it gingerly to the wounds on my hands, but it still stung. I hissed in pain. "I'm sorry, hon, but we need to clean the cuts so they don't get infected." I nodded. He puckered his lips and blew gently on the cuts as he continued to disinfect them. The cool air from his mouth helped alleviate the pain. I wasn't crying anymore. Your father's voice and touch were soothing, reminding me of fresh-baked cookies and blanket forts, lying in the sun on warm afternoons with a glass of iced-tea. He was the nicest policeman I had ever met, and I felt safe with him there beside me. I wondered vaguely if you knew how lucky you were to have such a dad.
As he cleaned and bandaged the rest of my injuries, you retrieved the loaf of bread – the only item that remained unscathed – and the oranges, picked my bike off the ground, and repacked my basket. I watched you, your awkward and gangly movements, like you were still getting used to your own skin, the shape of your body after yet another growth spurt. I wasn't sore anymore, watching you, and I almost didn't feel it when your father put the next antiseptic wipe on my knee.
"I like your bike." You ran your fingers along the crossbar, admiring the stickers. "Some of these are really cool! Hey, there's a Batman one! I've never seen that one before!" I was rather proud of my sticker collection. I had everything: animals and dinosaurs, superheroes and Barbie, My Little Pony and Hot Wheels, Scooby Doo and Pokemon, Disney characters and clowns, glittery flowers and hearts and stars, and words in bold and fancy text, like LOVE and DREAMS and HOT STUFF. I even had stickers on there from school, that teachers gave us when we did well on tests or to encourage us to do things like brush our teeth or stop racism or prevent forest fires. I even had this one of a tooth wearing sunglasses riding a wave of blue mouthwash on a red toothbrush surfboard. I thought it was pretty cool.
"Thanks. I get most of them from bubble gum machines." They cost me a quarter, and would come rolled up in transparent plastic domes, shaped like half an egg. "Or sometimes I get sheets and packs of them, and just put on my favourites. Those ones there, of the animals reading books, I got as a prize from the library for reading twenty books for the summer reading program." You were impressed. You smiled and it was impossible not to smile back.
"There we go, all done." Your dad helped me stand. "Lucky we were driving by when we did. We saw you go right over the handlebars. Good thing you were wearing that helmet." I blushed a deep crimson, suddenly feeling shy and very silly. How embarrassing! You had witnessed my colossal wipeout! And I was usually such a great cyclist too. "Can you get home okay, or would you like a ride?" My knees were aching, and it hurt when I bent them. I felt sore all over. But I didn't want you to think I was weak, that I couldn't handle a few scrapes and bruises. I wanted you to think I was strong. Plus, I knew, if I showed up in a police vehicle, the explanation wouldn't matter, my mother would have a conniption fit and probably pass out. Then I'd really be embarrassed.
"Thank you, sir. I'm okay. I can walk home. It's not far from here." I couldn't help but wince as I moved towards my bike and claimed it from you. I knew I'd have to push it home; there was no way I could ride it without killing myself. Your dad eyed me doubtfully.
"I'll walk her home!"
The offer surprised both of us. "Can you get home alright?" your dad asked, glancing around. "Do you know where we are, where to go from here?" I figured you probably didn't spend much time in this neighbourhood.
You rolled your eyes. I'd never have dared such a thing with my parents. "Don't worry, Dad. I know this town like the back of my hand. We drive around enough."
Your dad smiled at you fondly – did you notice? - and checked his wrist watch. "Okay. But go straight home. I expect you there for dinner."
"Yes, sir!" You gave a mock salute that made me giggle. Your dad shook his head but chuckled. He climbed back into the cruiser and waved goodbye. I yelled my thanks after him until he was out of sight. You picked the egg carton off the ground and opened it up. "Hey, look!" There were two eggs nestled safely inside. "What do ya know?" I removed my helmet, put it in the basket, and then tucked the two perfect eggs inside.
My scalp was sweaty, and I knew I must have helmet hair. I smoothed my hair back, and raked my fingers through it to untangle some of the knots. I had never cared about my appearance in front of a boy before. It was a very disconcerting feeling.
We walked in silence for a couple minutes, suddenly at a loss for words. You were walking so closely I could feel the heat coming from your bare skin. The beads on my spokes made a clicking sound as the wheels turned. You opened your paper bag and shoved it in my direction, offering me its contents. It was full of different kinds of penny candies. "Do you want some?"
"Sure!" You dumped some into my hand, and I popped half of them into my mouth. The explosion of multiple flavors on my tongue was sugary and sweet, and a little exhilarating. I could taste each tiny, individual candy and all of them simultaneously. This is what love must taste like, I thought foolishly. What did I know of love at ten? (You will forgive me for being cliche and silly, won't you? I was only a child after all.)
You dumped a handful of candies into your mouth, and as you chewed you started to ask me questions about where I lived and went to school, my family and what I liked to do for fun, what television shows I watched and what I liked to read. Even though I was shy, I didn't mind answering your questions. You made me feel relaxed, at ease, like we'd known each other for years. You had an inviting and friendly presence that instantly made me like you.
We took turns walking my bike. You pushed it all the way up the big hill near my house. I knew we were getting close, but I didn't want to ever arrive. You talked and talked, and made all kinds of jokes. I was laughing so hard I had to clutch my side to keep my internal organs from bursting. You told me about your parents and your best friend, Scott; about the time the two of you had climbed onto the roof of the firehall and gotten in trouble, because your dad had spotted you while he was patrolling, and had discovered that heights made Scott queasy. You recommended I start watching a TV show I had never heard of and maintained that comic books were better than chapter books, though I vehemently disagreed. You explained all your theories on why Batman would beat Superman in a fight, why DC Comics were better than Marvel, and listed the Star Wars movies in order of preference, though I had never seen any of them.
We soon reached my house – a little white bungalow on the top of Willow Street; the front yard was littered with toys, many of which were broken; there was a pile of old tires to one side, and at the top of the driveway was a Chev truck from 1974 that had been in that spot since 1980; paint peeled off the front step, and our Christmas lights were still up. I hadn't learned yet to be ashamed about my house – I loved it; it was mine, my home – that kind of shame would come later. I felt like you were my dearest friend in the world, and you'd never judge me on something as trivial as where I lived, or the fact that I didn't go to a school as nice as yours.
"Thanks for walking me home."
"You're welcome. Maybe we can play together sometime. I like talking to you. And there's this great secret place Scott and I found in the woods that I would love to show you! They say it's haunted."
"Sure! That would be fun! You know where to find me."
"Yeah." You took a stick of bubble gum from your pocket, the kind that came with a sticker wrapped around it. You broke the gum in half, and gave me the larger portion and the sticker. "For your bike," you said. It was a picture of a girl with pink hair, and a boy with green hair, facing each other and blowing blue bubbles that combined to form one giant bubble.
It was the single best thing anybody had ever given me.
"You can put it on," I offered. You considered my bike, peeled off the sticker's backing, and stuck it right in the exact middle of the handlebars. You smiled a wide, toothy grin.
"Now, whenever you see it, you'll think of me."
"Yeah." I smiled too.
"I guess I should go now."
"Yeah."
"Okay, well, bye."
"Bye." We were children, and hadn't yet learned all necessary social graces, like the art of saying goodbye. It was sudden and abrupt, neither of us considering the possibility that we might never see each other again. You waved to me as you walked down the street. I waved and watched until you disappeared over the crest of the hill, a mere speck no bigger than an ant.
It wasn't until later that night I realized you had forgotten to ask me the most important question of all: my name.
