Her pens were always running out of ink. Right at the moments she needed them most. In the middle of a test, she'd be filling in a bubble, trying to keep inside the lines. And. Then. White. The pen wouldn't work. She'd stab at the paper, empty pen struggling to bleed a bit more. And the test would sit still and waiting. And she'd fail, because she was too scared to ask for another pen, and she had a pencil but she hated the idea of erasing things, and she had run out of time, anyways.
It was only natural that on her first day at Beacon Hills High School, Allison Argent would lose her pen.
She figured she must have lost it in her father's mess of a car. The floor was littered with notes that she kept stepping on. There were jackets hanging over each seat. Empty soda bottles. She had been moving a lot, that morning. Kept bouncing her foot. Tapping her fingers on the armrest. If she'd tossed her unzipped bag a bit too carelessly into the backseat, well, no one could really blame her.
Allison, in the past five years, had gone through eight first days of school. She had worn her new favorite dress each time. Tried a new hairstyle. Had a big, usually bad breakfast. And each first day was just as horrible as the last.
"We'll be at Beacon Hills longer than the others," Chris, her father, had assured her. Mostly because it was his home. He'd grown up there in Northern California. Liked the forests. Liked the starry skies.
Allison had been to so many different places that she wasn't really sure what she liked. Maybe that boutique by the sea in Rhode Island. The stray dog in New Orleans. The constant music in New York City.
So far, Beacon Hills didn't have much of anything.
Except for that boy.
Scott McCall. Slacker. Friends with Stiles, who was even more of a slacker. Wore a hoodie. Surprisingly good at lacrosse. Best of all, he had an endless supply of pens. That first day, he'd spun around in his seat, held up a pen and a smile.
Scott McCall, surprisingly likeable.
Allison found that she couldn't stop looking at him, this boy with his quiet laugh and the unsure, yet expert way he held lacrosse sticks. This boy with his messy hair and messy notes. This boy who was always willing to give, whether it was just a pen or a few dollars.
She used his pen to write all these things on the bare skin of her arm, which, thankfully, no one could see. Beacon Hills was cold and windy. Allison could get away with long sleeves and oversized sweaters. And when she was alone, she'd roll up her sleeve and press the pen into her arm, scribbling out a heart with Scott's name in it. The amazing thing was that the pen never ran out. It just kept on going, kept spilling out details of this boy on her skin, painting her like some sort of love story.
Scott McCall:
Good with dogs.
Even better with girls. Or. Well. Me.
Has a stupid yet cute friend that he somehow manages to be even stupider yet cuter than.
Doesn't like to do his homework. Does it anyways because he hates getting bad grades. Gets bad grades anyways.
Gets flowers for his mom. Will probably eventually get flowers for me.
The most wonderful thing about Scott McCall was the way he looked at Allison when she said his name. "Yeah?" he'd say, like he was asking her for everything in the world.
She promised to give him everything, as he had given her.