The Fields Medal.

She thought about it all the time. When she got up in the morning. When she went to bed at night. When she was bored in class because she was miles ahead of her classmates. When she ate lunch alone.

All of it. Every last solitary second of high school was going to be worth it when she got into MIT, worked her ass of, and won the Fields Medal.

But still, it would be nice to have some friends.

Friends are a distraction she would remind herself every time she felt lonely. Friends keep you from working. Would you rather be Homecoming Queen or on your way to getting your PhD?

But when a new girl started school and was seated next to Lydia in first period, she pounced.

Allison Argent was nice. She didn't notice that Lydia was an outsider, and if she did she didn't pull away. She didn't make fun of Lydia for how focused she was on her school work. Allison seemed to genuinely want to hang out with her. Even though it was against her policy, Lydia was excited at the prospect of having a friend. Unfortunately, she wasn't the only person who noticed Allison.

Popular was the wrong word. Stiles preferred well liked. Popular made him think of bad guys in eighties high school movies who pushed people into lockers and gave them swirlies. That wasn't him.

People knew Stiles and they liked him. That's how he saw it. And why not? Stiles was funny, charming, some girls even said handsome. Top that off with lacrosse star and sophomore class president and you wouldn't be wrong to say popular.

But he didn't.

Stiles' popularity, or well like-edness, made him accustomed to getting what he wanted. So, when his best friend, Scott, was nervous to ask the new girl out, he didn't get it.

"I don't see the problem here," Stiles studied his friend's anxious face.

"You don't get it," Scott replied, shifting nervously.

"You're right. I don't."

"She's cool," Scott glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"And her coolness terrifies you?" Stiles couldn't help but smile.

"Not her coolness, her mysteriousness," Scott took a bite of his lunch, struggling to find the words. "No one knows anything about her. The only person she's really talked to is that Lydia girl."

"Who?"

"Her," Scott nodded his head in Allison's direction. Stiles turned to follow his gaze.

"Don't look!"

"How am I supposed to know what you're talking about if I don't look?" Stiles asked.

"Kinda... glance," Scott suggested.

Stiles did his best covert glance. He saw Allison, he could see why Scott liked her, she's beautiful. The girl who sat across from her, talking animatedly, was different. She had bright eyes and long red hair. Her hands gestured emphatically as she talked a mile a minute. Stiles turned back to face Scott.

"Have you talked to her?"

"Lydia doesn't talk to anyone," Scott told him.

"She talks to Allison," Stiles pointed out. "And more importantly for you, Allison talks to her."

"I don't know..." Scott trailed off, looking at Allison.

"You really have it bad for her," Stiles watched his best friend blush.

"Shut up, Stiles."

"No, dude, this is adorable. I'm gonna help you."

Lydia was at her locker, trading books. She strained under the weight of her overflowing backpack. Academic success did not come without some costs.

"Lydia?"

Her head snapped up and she saw him. Stiles Stilinski. Every time Lydia saw him she could help but think of every popular guy villain in every teen movie she'd ever seen. Stiles could get away with everything, get anyone, and do anything he wanted. Lydia was not predisposed to like him.

"It is Lydia, right?" he asked with an eager- but she could help but feel, slightly patronizing- smile.

"Not interested," she told him, rummaging to find her history notes.

"Sorry, what?" Stiles ran his hand through his hair. Lydia rolled her eyes.

"I'm not interested in whatever prank you're trying to pull on me," she looked him dead in the eye. Confrontation was not her strong suit, but something about him set her on edge just enough.

"Prank? It's not a prank. I-"

"Just like it wasn't a prank when Jackson Whitmore asked me to winter formal, or when Cora Hale threw my lunch away when I went to the bathroom last week. Why don't you just say what you want and get it over with?"

Stiles paused, he seemed actually shocked by what she's said. She couldn't tell if it was because he didn't know about the pranks or because he was not used to people talking back to him. Maybe both.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I don't need your apology," Lydia snapped, slamming her locker shut.

"Then I'm sorry for saying sorry," Stiles gave her what he must think was a winning smile. Lydia stifled a chuckle.

"Anything else?"

"Umm, no." Stiles shook his head.

"Good."

Lydia turned on her heel and left. For once, she got the last word. And it felt good.