It all started when Glory had the sudden urge to lick Scott McCall.
He was awfully close, in the row ahead of hers, and he smelt really, really good. Like pine trees and mint gum. It was a jarring thought that made her snap the tip of her pencil. And when he stretched, tilting his head left and right, Glory almost whimpered; she wanted to bury her head into the crook of his neck and breathe in all the little things he smelt of and stay there for hours.
She tried to listen to the teacher's review of syntax and tone and two other important devices that she couldn't remember. She even tried to copy Cam's notes so she could avoid looking anywhere near Scott McCall. Glory was squirming so much that Cam elbowed her with a harshly whispered, "Knock it off!".
Glory knew she was in the doghouse when the boy smelling stupidly of pine trees and mint tensed his shoulders for briefest of seconds and his jaw stopped working the piece of gum in his mouth.
"Sorry," she told Cam, heart beating absurdly fast and blood pounding in her ears. She couldn't concentrate.
This urge wasn't like the others. It was stronger. Too strong. Made her feel out of control. Glory scooted closer to Cam and wound her legs between his. She heard him let out a weary sigh.
She left English with a lip gnawed raw and bloody, and no clue about the difference between tone and voice. But she definitely knew how many freckles were on Cam's arm (twelve) and that Scott McCall thought she was a complete and utter nutcase—if the weirded-out glances had told her anything.
"What is wrong with you?" asked Cam as he wrenched open his locker. The smell of stale gym clothes, cigarette smoke, and Febreeze wafted out. She watched him swap his textbooks for a soda and a brown paper bag.
Glory tugged at her braid, grimacing. "No clue—I just really kind of had a sudden need to, uh, lick him? Scott McCall. Yeah. Wanted to lick him."
Cam sent her an incredulous look and she quickly stumbled to correct herself.
"Not in a, uh, sexual way. More like a…Well, I'm not really sure what kind of way." Her face lit up as she found the right words. "Like it is with you," she told him.
"Like it is with me…" Cam repeated slowly. "You have the urge to lick me?"
Glory shrugged. "Only sometimes." She received a nasty glare.
"Look," she said, "it's not like I intend to jump him in a broom closet." Now the thought was in her head. And it sounded like a really good idea.
Cam saw the look on Glory's face and he thrust the paper bag at her. "Don't even think about it."
She distracted herself by rummaging through the baggie as they sauntered off to the cafeteria. Two PB&J sandwiches, some peaches, and a small carton of apple juice. There was even a sticky note wishing Cam a great day with lots of x's and o's.
"My mom made it," said Cam. "Don't get any ideas."
Glory pictured him in a "Kiss the Chef" apron, cutting the crusts off the bread and writing nice little things on sticky notes. She wished her mother would write her notes. Especially ones with x's and o's.
"Okay."
It was only once they were squished at the end of a table in the cafeteria and with their backs to half the lacrosse team did Glory start to panic. She felt very hot, as if the a/c had broken—which it hadn't. She couldn't think; her head was full of cotton balls and the smells of pine trees and mint gum.
She watched Cam finish his silly caricature of their English teacher as they munched on Mrs. Rocha's PB&J sandwiches. His drawing wasn't very good, but she didn't tell him that. He was better at drawing things rather than people.
"Want to skip the rest of the day?" Cam asked. Glory knew he was itching for a smoke.
She almost declined, but then the smell of pine and mint magnified tenfold as she remembered how close he was. A roar of laughter rose up from the lacrosse players' table. Even though they weren't, she felt like they were laughing at her.
"Yes, please," she said through clenched teeth. Scott McCall's laugh stood out vividly.
Cam raised an eyebrow. Usually, Glory made sure to drag her feet and whine about missing important lessons and reviews. She'd have to return for yearbook though. Scott wasn't in yearbook. He had lacrosse on the other side of the school and practice lasted for hours more than yearbook.
"Is it really that bad?"
Nodding furiously, Glory leaned close to him and whispered, "Can't stand it. He smells so good." Invigorating. "Pine trees, Cam. And he's chewing gum—mint. Nngh." She buried her head into her arms, only lifting it when she heard pencil scratching quickly on paper.
Cam slid the empty paper baggie toward her. "I think they can hear you," it said and Glory's stomach dropped. She didn't bother pondering how they could hear her and who "they" included. She stood up, clutching her juice box, and practically bolted out of the cafeteria.
"Do you have a thing for Scott?"
Glory wheezed. The reedy, pale boy had popped out of nowhere, without a care for just how close he was to her. She could almost count the freckles on his nose. His breath smelt like a familiar mint.
"—Because I always see you with that scruffy-looking guy—what's with the leather pants, anyway?—and you guys seem awfully close," the boy continued in one breath. She barely caught half of it.
"Uh…who're you?" she asked, wondering at the same time if she could outrun him. He had gangly limbs that could make for a fast sprint.
The boy frowned. "Stiles. Stilinski." Glory squinted. Stiles groaned. "C'mon, we've been in the same schools since, like, kindergarten."
"Oh. Right." She didn't remember him. It didn't matter.
He looked at her expectantly. "So? Do you?" he asked.
"Do I what?"
Stiles rubbed his temples and grumbled to himself. "Like him! Romantically," he exclaimed, tossing his hands up.
"…No, not really," she told him sincerely. She couldn't see herself dating Scott McCall. Not really. "But he does smell nice," she added as an afterthought.
Stiles did not seem very satisfied, opening his mouth to say more, but a shadow loomed over the both of them and a voice asked, "is there a problem?"
Stiles turned pale and dithered a bit before saying a quick, "Nope-not at all," and high-tailing it in the other direction.
Glory turned to Cam. He had dark circles under bloodshot eyes and was looking fairly murderous.
"You look awful," she said.
"It's your fault."
She had the decency to feel guilty. She cast him a sheepish look. "Sorry."
Cam shrugged. He grabbed a few beat-up textbooks. "My mom says you've gotta stop coming over so late," he said without a glance at Glory. "You know, exams and all."
That bothered Glory. Cam never cared about school. "Fine. Whatever." It wasn't fine. She changed the subject anyway. "I want ice-cream. Let's get some after school."
"Can't," said Cam as he fussed with his hair using Glory's compact mirror. "Meeting the guys."
"Again? I'll bet your mother doesn't mind them staying late," Glory snarked. She felt a little hurt. It felt like he was pushing her away—too many excuses.
Cam didn't catch her irritation. "She thinks I'm studying with you."
"Fine. I'll be in the library at lunch if you need me. Don't."
Cam heaved a weary sigh. "Glory—"
She bristled like a cat. "Don't 'Glory' me, Cam. See you in English." Glory huffed. Clutching her textbooks, she barrelled through the crowded halls. She didn't know why she was friends with him. He had no tact and he only cared about hanging out with his cigarette-smoking, non-law-abiding, school-hating friends. But she didn't have anyone else who would let her snuggle them at three in the morning without expecting anything in return, and no one else would stick up for her like he did, even if he blew her off a lot.
When the last bell of the day rang, Glory grabbed her camera from the yearbook room and trudged to the bleachers on the practice fields. If there was one place Cam didn't go, it was the fields. He hated sports. Glory didn't like them much because she had terrible coordination despite years of ballet when she was a kid.
A shrill whistle pierced her ears and much to her dismay she saw Uncle Bobby on the field, squawking insults at the lacrosse players. She dawdled for a moment and debated jumping off the back of the bleachers.
Another whistle blow. "Glory! Get over here—Greenburg! Stop touching yourself on my field!"
"Coach, I was only scratching—"
Skree. "Don't care." Skree. "Glory, front and center!"
With a long-suffering sigh, Glory dragged herself off the bleachers, making each step long and obnoxiously loud.
"Afternoon, Sunshine," Uncle Bobby said once Glory made it to his side. "Come to grace us little people with your presence?"
She held up her camera. "Yearbook. Lacrosse has a two-page spread this year."
"Oh, wow. A whole two-pages," he scoffed. "How generous."
"The soccer team didn't make it to the championships this year. So lacrosse gets theirs—" She faltered. Pine trees and mint gum.
Skree. "McCall! Get your ass in the nets!"
"I have to go," Glory said abruptly. She wracked her brain for an excuse as she struggled to breathe properly.
"You're not still hanging out with that boy, are you?" asked Uncle Bobby, eyes not moving from the players.
Glory cast him a sidelong glance. "Yeah, what of it?"
He frowned. "Don't like him. Who wears leather pants in ninety-degree weather?" Skree! "Greenburg, for the love of God, save it for your bedroom!"
Glory took her chance to slip away, ears ringing from Uncle Bobby's obnoxious whistle. Well, more like stumble a bit and look like she was leaping over hurdles. Anything to get away from Scott McCall.
Within the week, it had spread to others, and Glory knew she was royally screwed if she didn't do something about it.
Jackson Whittemore was the second. He smelt of sandalwood and cinnamon and a musky, earthy scent that sent her absolutely reeling. Then it was Erica, whose citrus hair-wash made Glory dizzy, and then Boyd and Isaac and even Lydia Martin.
By then, she really couldn't pass it off as whacked out hormones.
And with every day, Cam looked more and more tired and miserable. Glory knew he had a hard time getting enough sleep when she woke him up in the middle of the night to crawl into his bed, but she needed to hug and touch and nuzzle someone or else she would go crazy.
"I'm sorry," she told him, but he wouldn't hear it. He was starting to ignore her.
One night, she knocked on his window. He never came to unlock it.
Another week passed and Glory was a mess. She could barely sleep, and yet she was exhausted. She couldn't concentrate; her mind was riddled with thoughts of Lydia's perfume and pine trees and Isaac's body-wash.
Cam looked better. Brighter. He was dating Penny Kimble.
Her mother noticed. And that terrified Glory.
"Honey," Mother said as Glory was leaving for school. "Are you all right? You don't look well."
Glory rubbed her eyes. They were slightly puffy from crying at some point in the night. "M'fine. Just stressed about exams, mom."
Mother didn't look convinced. "Remember, we have the benefit for the children's hospital tonight at seven. Your father will meet us there after he finishes work."
Glory nodded. That gave her something to think about. "Okay, I'm off. Love you."
Her mother turned to the sink. "Have a good day at school. Work hard."
There was a tiny pin that pricked Glory's heart. She ignored it.
Cam sat with Penny Kimble in English. Glory took up a seat at the back of class and dozed off until the bell rang. As she walked out, Mr. Anderson stopped her.
"If I catch you sleeping in my class again, it'll be detention for you," he admonished, and suddenly Glory realized she couldn't go on like she was. She needed to do something.
"Sorry, Mr. Anderson. Won't happen again. Ever." And it didn't.
Glory knew it was wrong. She knew it was a terrible idea.
The yearbook meeting had ended rather late, and Glory stayed even later to work on the lacrosse team's spread. Several of the photos were ruined with some sort of glare—a bright light—and she had even less of a selection to pick from. Terry had the same problem.
Her idea was simple. Get one of them alone and stop trying to stifle the urge. Oh, it was terrible. But she'd never, ever fallen asleep in class before. And her mother knew something was up. Glory knew she couldn't endure another one of her mother's episodes. Not after the last time. She still had small scars on her feet from where the broken pieces of glass had sliced her feet.
She left the clubroom. Almost immediately, she was overwhelmed by a medley of scents-like several had converged into one person. Her eyes found a skinny, gawky body. Stiles. She hadn't realized it before.
He was alone. Her heart beat fast and she felt lightheaded. She staggered and hit the lockers. The metal felt cool against her cheek; she tried to calm her breathing, but the scents were suddenly so close.
"Hey. Glory." A hand on her shoulder. It was warm and she was so starved for comfort, Glory found herself leaning towards him. "You okay?" She wasn't. Something snapped. It was Glory's self-control.
In seconds, she had him up against the lockers, hands around his wrists. He let out a soft, "Oof" as his shoulder-blade hit a lock. "Oh, o-okay, you just did that," he stuttered.
Glory breathed deeply, savouring all the scents. Scott's was the most prominent, and yet an unfamiliar one almost overpowered it.
"Are you sniffing me?" His voice was incredulous, eyes wide with confusion.
"You smell like them." She buried her head into his chest. He was wearing a worn, red hoodie. She liked it.
"Oh my god—but you're not…Scott said you weren't-"
She ignored his ramblings in favour of nuzzling the crook of his neck. His muscles tensed. Glory felt awake. She hummed, deep in her throat. She did what she'd been longing to do with the rest of them. Her tongue snaked out and flicked just behind his ear. He tasted kind of salty.
Stiles shivered, and a strangled sort of groan escaped his mouth. The sound was musical to Glory, and she was practically purring. Loosening her grip on his wrists, she moved her hands to grasp at his sweater, trying to get as close to him as possible.
"You smell like them," she whispered again. Licked his neck. Nibbled at his earlobe.
"Who?" Stiles panted, his voice strained.
"Them," Glory whined. "Doesn't matter. Mine now." Glory didn't know what she meant.
A locker slammed and echoed through the halls.
Glory jolted. Feeling like she'd been plunged in ice-cold water, she lurched away from Stiles and was on the opposite side of the hall in a split second.
"I'm sorry," she blurted. "I don't know why—so sorry," she said as she watched Stiles catch his breath. He gingerly touched his neck, looked at his hand, then at Glory.
She blushed a violent red, and bit her fist. "Sorry," she choked out before sprinting away.
As she ran, Glory realized two things.
One. She felt better than she had in months.
And two. She was late for the benefit.
Her mother didn't say much when Glory sidled into the benefit forty minutes late, besides sending her a withering glare which changed into a pleasant smile the next instant.
"Sheriff Stilinski—it's wonderful to see you. Thank you for coming." Mrs. Finstock extended her hand and shook the Sheriff's. Glory wanted the ground to swallow her whole.
Sheriff Stilinski—father to Stiles Stilinski—nodded amiably. "Glad to make it." He turned to Glory.
"Sheriff, this is my daughter, Glory," said Mrs. Finstock. She never mentioned that Glory was the youngest anymore. Her mother didn't like to talk about Trudy.
"Hi." Glory offered her hand and the Sheriff took it.
"I remember you," said Sheriff Stilinski. "You go to school with my son." Stiles. The son she had molested in the school hall barely an hour ago. Oh dear.
"I do."
Mrs. Finstock and Sheriff Stilinski talked some more and Glory half-listened. The benefit was a bore: the food tasted gross, all anyone did was make small talk for three long hours (with intermittent speeches), and her mother kept Glory on a tight leash during every one. Her dad was somewhere off by the buffet table. The hall was filled with muted waves of chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses and the lingering smell of the dinner Glory had missed.
Glory could still taste Stiles on her tongue. She could still smell him and the other scents that had clung to his clothing and skin.
"—Glory, Glory, Natalie asked you a question."
Glory blinked and looked at her mother. "What?"
Mrs. Martin was standing before them, and both older women were staring expectantly at Glory.
Mrs. Martin smiled politely. "I was wondering what your plans were for after high school," she said.
Glory blinked again, waiting for her brain to catch up. "Um… Probably university," she offered. "I don't really know what I want to do."
"Not many do at your age," said Mrs. Martin. "You will figure it out."
Glory could only nod. She hadn't given it much thought, and now the question was digging away at her mind. What did she want to do with her life? What should she major in? Where would she go to school? She thought of her sister Trudy. Trudy did the smart thing and got far away from Beacon Hills as fast as possible.
But Glory had more pressing matters. Like having just mauled the sheriff's son and wanting to do the same thing to half a dozen other students.
Oh god.
Had she left a hickey on him?
She had.
Come Friday morning, Stiles was sporting two purple blemishes on the side of his neck. He wore a plaid, collared shirt, that did practically nothing to cover up the bruises. She hadn't even realized she'd been that…rough with him. What was wrong with her?
They were in the same chemistry class and every few minutes, he would glance over his shoulder, and every time Glory would get hot and flustered and knock over a vial or pour too much solution into the beaker. It was even worse when Scott sauntered into class after a dentist appointment and Glory almost fainted.
"Glory, geez," said her lab partner, Terry. "Do you need to see the nurse?"
"Nope!" Glory managed to wheeze out. "M'fine." She coughed. "Wonderful."
Terry eyed her for a moment, then shrugged. "Did you see Stilinski? Damn. Looks like he got some action last night," she laughed.
Glory died a bit on the inside. "Totally," she squeaked. Terry didn't seem to noticed Glory turn several different shades of red and pink.
"Penny said she saw some blonde all over him yesterday after school," Terry continued.
Glory was blonde. She hoped Terry wouldn't put two and two together.
"Penny Kimble?" Glory asked, voice wavering a bit.
"Yeah, talked to her in Math. Didn't see much apparently. She was running late for a guidance appointment."
"Oh."
Terry jotted down something in her workbook and Glory copied it.
Later, as Glory was heading to pick up a few pages from yearbook to get the principal's approval, she was ambushed by two brawny figures and the next thing she knew, Glory was in the boy's locker room with Scott and Jackson. She gulped. Her hand twitched, and she knew that they saw it. She sat on her hands on a bench.
"What do you want?" she whined. She was trying very hard not to jump either of them, despite how much she really wanted to do the same thing to them that she had done with Stiles.
"What did you do to Stiles and why?" Scott asked.
Glory found herself getting annoyed. "It's not like I meant to do it! He just-he just smelt like you and the others." She closed her eyes and inhaled. She must have looked off her rocker. And out. "—So good."
Jackson crossed his arms. "Scratch her, see what happens," he told Scott.
Glory's eyes flew open. "Scratch me?" she repeated.
Scott gritted his teeth. "We're not scratching her," he hissed.
"Definitely not," Glory agreed. Jackson shot her a look.
Scott turned to her and knelt down beside the bench. "Glory, right?" She nodded numbly. He continued. "Look, I'm real sorry about this. It's-well, Stiles is my best friend, and he tells me everything, including what you did to him. Last night."
Jackson scoffed. "It's kind of hard to hide it," he said. "Like a leech attacked his throat."
Glory winced.
Scott rolled his eyes at Jackson. "Not helping." He spoke to Glory again. "We just want to know what's going on and if there's anything we can do to help." He seemed sincere enough as Glory searched his eyes—they were warm and kind and not at all like Cam's. She wanted to confide in him, tell him everything. Everything about her mother's episodes and her sister's estrangement and Glory's own weird urges.
She tried to bolt. Jackson caught her easily and firmly pushed her back onto the bench.
All thoughts of escape had gone out the window as soon as he had touched her, and she practically melted in his hands. They were calloused and strong and hot. She felt dizzy. There was a buzzing in her ears and muffled talking.
Someone was snapping their fingers in front of her face. She jerked back and glared at them, and then to their owner, Jackson. "What?" she growled. He lifted an eyebrow. "I have to be somewhere," she wriggled. "Lemme go."
Scott glanced at Jackson. "Well, we can't keep her here," he said. Glory took that as a sign of freedom. She sprinted away, tripping over lacrosse sticks and duffel bags. She made it to the hall, puffing like the Big Bad Wolf, and didn't stop until she made it to the safety of the yearbook room.
A week went by and Glory felt no better or worse. A look in the mirror on Monday morning told her it was worse.
Her ears.
They were pointy.
She looked like an elf.
Oh, hell.
Glory hadn't worn pigtails since the third grade, when Colin Bradshaw would pull them so hard he'd make her cry. They did the trick in covering up her little problem—for now. She'd added a beanie and tugged her hood over her head for good measure.
"What's with the hat?" Terry asked in Chemistry. Glory had grown rather attached to Terry in the past couple weeks. Terry didn't seem to mind Glory's touchy-feely neediness nor her other strange antics.
"Bad hair day."
"Ah."
They worked on the assignment in silence.
"Want to get ice-cream after school?" Glory asked.
"Sure."
Glory planned to get the largest sundae she could get her hands on.
The diner was crowded, so Glory and Terry ordered two hot fudge sundaes to-go and walked across the street to a small park. Glory swirled her spoon into the chocolatey goodness while Terry talked about an art and design school in Chicago. Glory mentioned wanting to go to Florida.
"Florida's nice," said Terry. "They've got some good schools."
Glory nodded. "My sister lives there. I'd like to be closer to her."
"You'd be closer to me, too," Terry declared, digging into her sundae with zeal.
Glory smiled into her ice-cream sundae. "Definitely." Glory swung her feet back and forth.
Her mood quickly deflated when she caught sight of Penny Kimble and Cam strolling hand-in-hand at the other end of the park. Cam had a cigarette between his lips as he gave Penny a smirk. She was laughing at something he said. They seemed happy. Glory felt as if a hundred fingers were pinching her heart. She glanced away and down to her half-eaten sundae. It was a puddle of soup now.
"Let's go," she told Terry, standing up and speeding away from her ex-best friend and his cheery girlfriend.
"Huh?—but I'm not done…" Terry started to protest, until she noticed Glory's reason for wanting to leave. "Bad break-up, huh?" she said as they tossed their plastic bowls into the trash can and exited the park.
"We were never together," Glory mumbled.
"Oh." Terry was quiet for a moment before speaking up again. "Did you want to be?"
Glory stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk. Terry swiftly hooked her arm under Glory's, and they continued on. It was an odd question. Sure Glory had thought about it, but she had never felt much more than a strong fondness for him. The love she had for him, platonic maybe, was stifled underneath a blanket of hate and anger.
"No," she growled. "He dropped me."
Terry made a face. "I had a friend who did that freshman year. She got a girlfriend and suddenly everything was about Sarah." She tightened her grip on Glory's arm. "Anyway. We don't need them."
Glory hummed. "Definitely not."
"Woah, those are freaky," said Terry, reaching out a tentative hand to touch the pointy tip of Glory's ear.
"I know!" Glory wailed. It was a saturday and they were sitting in her bedroom (with the door open, of course—after Trudy, Mrs. Finstock wasn't taking any chances), pretending to study for the chemistry exam while Glory had a mini-meltdown.
Terry sat back on the bed and re-crossed her legs. "Well, I looked up your symptoms and figure it was, you know, puberty. But with those things, I don't think it's just teen hormones," she said, nodded her head toward Glory's ears.
Glory dropped her voice to a whisper. "No one can know, Terry. No one—not even my mother."
Terry held up two fingers. "Scout's honour."
Glory opened her workbook. She was feeling more tired than usual—a kind of persistent fatigue that didn't go away no matter how much she slept. Her parents were beginning to notice. She rubbed her eyes.
"Maybe you should talk to those guys—Whittemore and McCall. They seem to know something's up. Maybe they could help you," Terry suggested, doodling a howling Pomeranian in the margins of her chem textbook. It was quite good.
"Maybe," Glory echoed.
Suddenly, Terry stiffened. "Glory, your ears!" she exclaimed.
Glory ran to her dresser's mirror and lifted her hair into a ponytail. Before her eyes, the points shrunk away, revealing perfectly normal, rounded tips.
Just after her ears went back to normal, Glory's mother walked by the bedroom. Mrs. Finstock's face was expressionless. That frightened Glory the most.
Glory thought her luck had changed. It hadn't.
Her mother had another episode.
Terry had gone home hours ago, and Glory was trying to fall asleep, though her brain was running a marathon of thoughts. Her bedroom was unusually bright, her curtains not doing much to keep out the moon's light. She stared at the harsh neon figures of her alarm clock, hat still tucked over her ears just in case.
Mrs. Finstock was a boiling kettle—slowly building up until she was screaming and refusing to calm down until removed from the burner. Glory was the burner. This time was different, though. Glory usually left the house while her father reasoned with her mother, but she always came back. Back to a dark house with a light on in the office—her mother worn out and asleep, her father at his desk. He would wait until Glory came back. He would tell her things would get better, that she would understand one day, that life was full of struggles. Then he would rub his face and stubble, bid her goodnight and join his wife in bed. But this time Glory didn't come back.
There was shrieking and wailing and crying. Get out! Dishes were thrown. Get out! Glass was shattered. Get out! And she listened.
She ran, her mother's words hurtling after her. Get out! You're not my child!
She left her keys and her phone. She couldn't call Terry. But Terry wouldn't understand anyway. Glory touched her tender throat. There would be bruises later in the shape of fingers. What have you done with my baby—give her back! Give her back!
The back of her head throbbed from where it had hit the wall. Cam would understand. But he had abandoned her. She hated him.
Glory could see the streets easily; the moon lit them up, casting a silvery sheen. The night was warm and arid. Small pieces of asphalt pricked at her bare feet. She could hear a few crickets chirping, and a lone dog barking; everything else was still. She wandered for what felt like hours—without a phone or watch to tell the time, it was hard to tell.
A car door slammed across the street and Glory jumped. Wondering who would be up so late, Glory took a few paces across the road and watched a dark-haired woman dressed in hospital scrubs pull a couple grocery bags out of the car's trunk. She grunted a little as she yanked down the trunk and hefted the bags up. The woman turned and visibly started, clutching her heart.
"Oh my gosh," she breathed. "Who's—Glory, Glory Finstock? What are you doing out at this hour?" She caught sight of Glory's state. "And what are you wearing? Where are your shoes!"
Glory figured that she looked a little hellish. She was dressed in nothing but a tank top and pyjama shorts, without shoes, and hair a wild, tangled mess.
"Ms. McCall?" Glory's voice came out croaky and scratched. Her neck was starting to feel sore and the places where her mother had dug in her nails stung worse than a bee's sting.
"Oh, honey. Come inside," Ms. McCall crooned, beckoning Glory forward with her free hand.
Feeling somewhat like a stray puppy, Glory warily followed Ms. McCall, dawdling several metres behind. Once inside, Ms. McCall urged her to take a seat at the kitchen table before hastily fetching a first aid kit. She set it down on the table and, with Glory's permission, began cleaning and bandaging the cuts and torn skin. Glory noticed that their home had lots of framed pictures of Scott and his mom. She counted six in the kitchen alone. She liked the one with a young Scott covered in flour on the kitchen counter the best.
Ms. McCall announced she was finished and gathered up the used antiseptic wipes and bandaid wrappers and threw them in the trash.
"Now that that's done," she declared, becoming much more serious. She took Glory's hands in her own with such tenderness and care that Glory wanted to break down and sob in Ms. McCall's arms. "Glory, I need you to tell me who did this to you-"
Glory instantly recoiled. "No, no—I-I can't—" she rasped.
Ms. McCall lifted her hands slowly, speaking in low, soothing tones. "Glory-Glory, it's okay. You can tell me. You're not going to get in trouble—"
Pine trees and mint gum. Glory whipped her head around at the sound of footsteps and saw a sleepy Scott round the corner, scratching his mussed hair and yawning widely. "Mom, what's going on?" He saw Glory. She knew he noticed the bruises on her throat and the bandaids and the red indents where nails hadn't broken skin. You're not my child! Get out, get out, get out!
"It's okay, Scott," his mother told him. "Go back to bed. You have school tomorrow."
Scott didn't budge. Glory stared at him. A brief thought of crawling into his bed and falling asleep in his arms flashed across her mind.
Ms. McCall sighed, "Scott…"
Glory didn't remember what happened next, other than feeling suddenly, emotionally drained and exhausted and wanting desperately to curl up and take a nap. Her eyes fluttered shut and she slumped in her seat. You're not my child. You're nothing to me.
They kept her in the hospital for two days for observation. Ms. McCall checked in on her every other hour, sometimes bringing her snacks and having short conversations about school and Glory's studies. Scott came by with Stiles who gave her a stuffed teddy bear that said 'Get Well Soon' in large loopy letters, making Glory grin for the first time in what felt like months.
Her mother was at Eichen House again, temporarily; Glory had overheard her father talking to the doctor when he thought she was asleep. Mr. Finstock made her talk to a couple police officers as they compiled a report on the incident. That was what he kept calling it: the incident, as if it was nothing more than a small disturbance or temporary issue. That made Glory simmer with ire.
Uncle Bobby came to visit her, too. He didn't have his usual snark, appearing rather uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck and making a variety of disgruntled expressions. "You'll be staying with me for a while, until your mom gets better," he told her. Glory almost laughed. Her mother would never get better; there was nothing wrong with her. It was Glory that was the problem—she was the disease.
"Fine. Whatever," Glory relented. At least she wouldn't have to ride the bus anymore. Some part of her was glad to only be going to Uncle Bobby's and not some other state, country, or even an entire country away—like Jackson Whittemore. From what she'd heard, his parents were shipping him off to England as soon as the school year finished. Then again, maybe it would be better for her to leave as well. She could go live in Florida with her sister, Trudy.
Uncle Bobby opened his mouth to speak, and Glory thought he was going to say something meaningful. Instead, he settled on, "You should try out for track. Heard you're a fast runner."
"Only when I'm running away from my problems, Uncle Bobby," she replied dryly, only half-truthfully. She wasn't fast enough. Her problems always seemed to catch up, knock her down, and run her over again when she tried to stand back up.
Her uncle snorted, rolling his eyes. He told her he'd drop by again before she would be released, and left, muttering about melodramatic teenagers and their inability to respect authority figures.
"I think I'll go to Florida," she announced to no-one in particular.
"That's nice, dear," said the patient on the other side of the curtain.
Recently got into the Teen Wolf fandom over the summer. Thought this would be a fun little (and really weird) ficlet. Will probably be a two-shot or three-shot. Pardon any errors (whether spelling, grammar, or plot-related).