Nobody completely sane challenges a queen. And that's who Lydia Martin is. Queen Bee, goddess, certified genius (although very few people knew that). So no one actively pursued Jackson, for fear of retaliation via angry girlfriend. They made eyes at him for sure, but there was no flirting, unintentional or otherwise.

Lydia made sure of that. Her reputation was not going to be ruined by imbeciles throwing themselves at her best friend. She'd trained him well, too; Jackson played the part of asshole-jock easily, just as she was the image-oriented mean girl. She had no use for friends that used her.

Call her petty, but there were more than enough of those so-called "friends" in preschool. All little Lydia wanted were friends to share her stuffed pony with, and instead she got miniature devils who wanted the pretty ribbons that were gifted from her distant parents.

The suck-ups at least learned their lesson… mostly. Let it be heard that Lydia is a manipulative bitch. But more importantly, a genius. Scratch that, no one needs to know her genius. She'll win a Fields Medal first, so she can laugh in the dumbfounded faces of the ones who take her at face value.


There's a student transferring in to Beacon Hills High, and Lydia wonders if she can get her claws into the new kid, to see if they are worthy of her attention, before they are swept away by the gossip and rumors.

"Hi, question," Lydia is thrown out of her thoughts even as she idly flips through a magazine, waiting for her nail technician. "How do you maintain your hair? I've never touched a curler, straightener, or even a hair dryer, and my supposedly straight hair is as frizzy as can be."

Lydia makes a split second decision to be herself, no masks on. Everyone recognizes her on sight, therefore the speaker must be new. Turns out she might actually be able to sink her talons in. Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder and smiles slightly, "It's all natural, thankfully. I would have no idea how to deal, otherwise."

"God, you're lucky, then. I've tried everything—," the poor girl stammers when Lydia finally looks up. "Oh, no, you're pretty— I mean— it's not a bad thing, I swear— Of course it's not— I just—"

Cataloguing the features of the rambling girl, Lydia decides she is worth the time. It's adorable, really. The rapidly increasing in intensity blush, and the way the girl talks is like she's speaking to her idol. The girl's eyes are striking, actual amber eyes, although her brown hair and the lighting make them seem brown.

"I'm Lydia," she says, holding out her hand, taking pity on the girl who looks like she's about to run out of air.

"Cynthia," the girl wheezes out, shaking Lydia's hand firmly.


Aside from nearly passing out from fear of a pretty girl, Cynthia is remarkably easy-going and nice to talk to. She's worth friendship, at least, Lydia thinks. Or at least she thinks so up until they walk out of the salon and she watches Cynthia get into a Jeep.

The Jeep is in impeccable shape, shiny and new, not a single scratch on the bright blue paint job or on the glass. There's obviously nothing wrong with driving a Jeep, but something about Cynthia reminds Lydia of someone. (That someone might be a person she callously ignores because they seem just like the rest of the sheep at school.)


Maybe-friend Cynthia is the less annoying and much more female version of Stiles Stilinski. Ten-year-plan-Stilinski. In-love-with-Lydia-Stilinski.

What has her life come to?


This.

Actually having a female friend, having someone to complain to, instead of being the one complained about.

No deep secrets are spilled, of course. If Cynthia can be friends with her for a long enough time, maybe. Or Cynthia will figure some out herself. She's smart enough, and incredibly witty, thank god. The only thing that's missing is a sense of actual fashion, not just jeans, a t-shirt and some (surprisingly nice) shoes.


"Honestly, I really only go shopping for shoes, you know," says Cynthia. "I've never found a reason to actively look for nice clothing to go with."

Lydia scoffs, "No, I don't know. If I had your shoe collection, my closet would be the greatest one in the country."

"Compared to what it is now? I'm pretty sure your closet could dress at least 500 other people—," teases Cynthia, trying on a pair of chunky burgundy leather ankle boots.

"—and you could provide the shoes for the rest of the world, what's your point?" snipes Lydia as she eyes a pair of black velvet sandal stilettos.

"You should try those on," Cynthia encourages. "If you like them, I may or may not have a pair in my collection you can borrow. We have the same shoe size, right?"

"Five or five and a half depending, yes," murmurs Lydia stooping down to pull the heels on. She purses her lips and looks in a mirror.


"No."

"I'm sorry, would you care to repeat that?" Lydia hisses, eyes flashing.

"…no?" Cynthia whimpers, sensing the danger and inching away slowly.

"Nothing bad is going to happen, Cynthia!" Lydia snaps exasperatedly. "I just want to style you and let you meet—"

"—that's the problem, Lydia—"

"—that's not even a minor issue! Do you want to be accosted by the welcome committee when you get to school on Monday?"

"How does dressing me up even help? I understand meeting your friends, but why can't I meet them like this?"

"First of all, it's 'friend', not 'friends', plural. Everyone else is an alliance, an acquaintance at best," starts Lydia. "Secondly, I have an image to maintain. Be grateful I'm talking to you like a plebeian."

"You're the untouchable queen at school, aren't you?" sighs Cynthia resignedly.

"Yes, thank you for noticing."

"Are you Regina George? Does this make me Cady? Please—"

"—don't be ridiculous—"

"—thank god—"

"—I'm making you Gretchen and Karen."