"AH! Fuck me!"
Thankfully, my dad isn't home to hear me swear as I stub my toe into my dresser. He doesn't like it when I swear.
I give the incomparably inconsiderate piece of furniture a heavy smack over the top, just for good measure. In case it didn't realize the waves of fury rolling off my body were directed at it. I like to make myself very clear.
"Where is that damn phone?" I half-groan, half-whisper to myself, really. I hear it ringing from some far-off land. It's most likely the special ringtone I have for Scott. However, given that he's one of the few people that ever call me his ringtone has practically become the usual one.
"Hello?" I answer as soon as I find it under a pile of clothes. I literally just got home from school, emptied my pockets and took off my shoes before going to use the toilet. How did it even get under there?
"Hey, Stiles, what's up?" he asks me cheerily.
"Uh, not much since twenty minutes ago, when we left school."
"Is everything alright? Why are you all… Bitchy?"
"Really? 'Bitchy'? That's the word you're going for?"
"Did you trip over your own feet again, or something?"
"No…" I reply reluctantly. "I gracefully stubbed my toe."
"Ouch. Listen, it's my mom's birthday on Sunday, and she told me to invite you and your dad for lunch."
"Really? Just us two?" To be honest, I'm expecting something more. Me and my dad, only? Melissa McCall might very well be the nicest, most caring person I have ever met. She's bound to have lots of people who care about her, and love her. At least people at work.
"Is anybody else going to be there?" I press on.
"Uh… Not that I know of. Why?"
"I don't know, I mean, it's her birthday. Doesn't she want to spend it with someone else besides her son's best friend and the town sheriff?"
"Stiles, you and your dad are as close to a family as me and my mom are ever gonna get. It would mean a lot to her if you could come, I'm sure."
"Okay, sure." Scott's pretty good when it comes to the emotional speeches and everything. I wish I were more in touch with my feelings like that. Not in a melodramatic way, it's just that I would like it if my knee-jerk reaction at any kind of emotion weren't to bottle it up inside me until I can't take any more and have a panic attack of varying degrees. "I'll make sure to tell my dad as soon as I see him."
"Alright, thanks. Come over later today."
"I will, bye."
Well, at least it's Friday, which means I can pull the old "I've just missed a lot of sleep throughout the week," and head home early, because if I know Scott—and think I do—he's going to bring Allison tonight wherever we go. There's a reason the words "third wheel" have a negative connotation. Here's the harsh truth kids: it sucks being the third wheel, while the other two romantically hold hands.
I'm not saying that I'm desperate for affection, I'm really not. I'm just sick of being the kid who's on the sidelines while everybody else gets their way.
I yank my MacBook open. A pop-up ad for a kinky adult website remained open from last night.
I swear, that's not the reason I haven't got anybody yet, either. I'm definitely not kinky. I'm open-minded, but not kinky. Then again, what is kinky? Having a few kinks and twists. Makes you special, doesn't it? And to have someone understand and embrace them and love you anyway, unconditionally. It must be something.
It must really be something.
I guess I should also mention that I don't actually suffer from depression, or anything. I just like saying deep, pretentious stuff like that. I like to think that I've got a way with words. They still decide to go galloping out of my brain every time I try and be even remotely flirty with anyone, but I've got a way with them.
Either way, I close the pop-up and remind myself to be a little more careful with what I leave on my computer for my father to accidentally see. I bring up my Facebook homepage and heavily consider deleting my account for just about the millionth time this week. I honestly use it for nothing. I've always thought that phones are a much more useful means of communication than social networking sites.
But, wouldn't you know it, that's the moment when the stars choose to align and I stumble across a notification which said that Scott McCall just became friends with some Derek Hale person. I click on his profile and try to get a decent look at the guy. Unfortunately, most of his pictures are hidden from people that he does not consider his "friends".
"He's probably that new kid," I think to myself. Scott may have mentioned something about some Derek or Dale or whatever joining the lacrosse team. Damn, quitting the team is the best decision I've ever made. Of course, now looking at this guy, I'm beginning to wish I were back on the team, or better yet, on him.
I wonder if my hormones are ever balancing out. The constant horniness, I could do without. I can just see the business cards.
Stiles Stilinski: Perpetual Horndog.
What should I call this, anyway? I've been thinking about "Stiles Stilinski: A Memoir". It has a ring to it. Then again, everything has a ring to it when you add the word "memoir" after it.
Steaming Turd: A Memoir.
Wait, where was I? Right, Derek. I send him a friend request. Not because I'm being a creep and I'm wishing he'll accept my request ASAP so I can look at all his photos, but because I want to make the new kid feel welcome. I'm such a considerate person.
Suddenly, two hours have gone by and it's almost six and I haven't done anything productive except expertly poking around the Internet. My phone lights up.
"You on your way?" the message from Scott reads.
"Yeah," I lie and grab everything that I'll find necessary during tonight. We're probably only going to go to TGI Fridays or something, so my wallet, keys and phone should suffice. I have a fleeting thought about my father still being out of the house before I rush outside, into my Jeep and drive off.
Driving is good. It's great. It's… Swell. I'm going with "swell". I don't care who you are, where you live or what you're going through, whenever you have some kind of issue just get into your car and stop right about never, or at a red light—provided, of course, that you have a license. Thankfully, I don't have any particular qualms to ease, so this time driving is just a few carefree minutes from my home to Scott's.
I pull up outside his house, and there he is, standing with Allison. Only they're both a little bit over-dressed for TGI.
They climb aboard.
"Hey, guys. What's with the outfits?" I ask them immediately. I'm rocking the homeless/hipster look while being surrounded by my well-dressed friends. I'm either about to get Punk'd, or stranded in the middle of a flash mob. It doesn't matter which of the two possibilities transpires, I will still want to drive off a cliff.
"It's for the party. Did Scott not tell you?" Allison squeaks. Apparently, there was a third, unforeseen scenario, which also makes me want to drive off a cliff.
"What? No! Whose party?"
"Sorry, dude," Scott murmurs, and yet looks undaunted.
"Well, what you're wearing is fine, Stiles. We weren't planning on staying for too long, anyway," Allison provides.
"Staying where?" I press on. Why is nobody telling me where they're expecting me to drive them?
"Ah, you wouldn't know him," Scott announces dismissively while waving his hand around. "He's a new kid, I only know him because of the lacrosse team. His friends are throwing him some kind of welcoming party."
"Derek Hale?"
"Yeah, how did you know?"
"I saw that he added you on Facebook."
"You checked out his Facebook?" Allison snorts from the backseat.
"No, the notification just popped up on my news feed!" I'm telling the truth; why am I so nervous?
"He's pretty handsome," she says in a singsong voice. Nothing else is said for the entire car ride, expect directions. Scott stares at me incessantly with absolutely no grasp over the wonders of discretion. Allison sits quietly, satisfied with the bomb she has dropped. It has apparently become her personal agenda in the past few weeks to claw her way into my life and drag me out of the closet.
Here's the thing: Scott's my best friend. He's my brother. I've known him for as long as I can remember and our relationship has done nothing but grow and flourish as time passed. Why add so much stress to the delicate balance of things, especially with something as mundane as the truth?
Or maybe I'm just scared of what he'll say, even if I do know he will have absolutely no problem with anything. Or maybe I just haven't accepted it myself yet, and I'm simply not ready. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Sometimes life likes to play tricks with me like that. Whenever I catch myself thinking "maybe both, maybe neither," I know I'm in some deep shit.
Am I too young to be talking about life like that? All I know is that I'm going to some random person's house party, and I'm way underdressed. Hopefully we can leave early.
Okay, so, something is happening.
Everybody is wearing classy dress shirts—except me—and sleek leather shoes—except me—and looks pristine—except just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-drove-over me. All the girls are equally as appreciative of the dress code. Why is everybody in their best outfits for a freaking house party? This isn't the White House Correspondents Association Dinner or something! Most of us are below eighteen!
"Why do you have your freak out face on?" Allison whines. Apparently, my brain hasn't registered that showing complete and utter displeasure with my expression is not exactly polite.
"I am, way, way underdressed for this!" I hiss angrily. I can feel judgmental glances. "You could have given me a warning."
"Oh, come on, don't be like that. Probably nobody cares about what you're wearing," she tries to brush me off. What the hell is she up to tonight?
"Yeah, because I don't know any of these people's names, and I didn't know that I was coming to this party until I was actually coming to the party! Also something you could have warned me about." I can feel my eyes trying to pop out of my skull, smack her across the face and roll across the ground.
"Well, I told you as soon as we got into the car," she replies pathetically. I almost demand an explanation for something else she said in the car, but thankfully Scott shows back up to stop the word vomit.
"Here you go, guys," he says ecstatically and hands us our cups. It's punch, fruity but no alcohol. Just as well, I'm going to be driving and I have just about zero percent self-control. It occurs to me that Scott is amongst all of his lacrosse buddies, and somehow Allison knows quite a bunch of the girls, like they're in some kind of high school version of a basketball wives' clique. The point is, people are mingling, and as if I needed another way to stick out, I now have nobody to talk to while Scott chats the night away with some Jackson person and Allison is fervently discussing something with a shorter, beautiful girl with almost red, curly hair.
"Screw this," I murmur to myself. I'm still somewhat pissed at those two for giving me absolutely no warning about the party, but it's an exceptionally weird move, so I'm willing to let it slide by once they provide some reasonable explanation, hopefully tomorrow. If they still think this was absolutely normal of them to do… Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
In the meantime, I make the professionally precise decision to head over to the tables and indulge myself in some free food.
As I'm piling finger food onto my plate, preparing to eat my feelings until I'm prepared to grovel to get Allison and Scott to leave, somebody talks to me from the opposite side of the table. However, I have been thinking that I am invisible to every well-dressed person, and the sudden recognition catches me off guard, causing me to drop a pig in a blanket on myself get covered in crumbs.
"Hey! Stiles, right?"
This would be where said pig-in-a-blanket-dropping happens.
"Damn it," I mumble and set my plate on the buffet to pat my clothes down. I look up at my new acquaintance. Damn indeed. He's ridiculously good looking, and his arms are bulging through his shirt, I'm melting in his eyes. I want to jump him.
And suddenly it hits me. He's—
"Oh, hi! I remember you!"