I take off my shoes and sit them in the corner between his bed and the doorway. He kicks away anything strewn on the floor; clothes, extra string, or books from the library. "You can sit on the bed if you want. Get comfortable." I stretch out on his bed, worn out from racing around the school all day. I can tell he's still strung out about the shrapnel bomber. "Stiles, your dad is going to do what he feels is right. He isn't as involved in this as we are."
"I know. It's just…you know…he said-he said he believed me. I want to help him bus he's not letting me." Stiles grabs a spool of yarn and unravels it. He's grabbing his hair as he does, talking louder.
"You can't force this on him, Stiles. I wouldn't have believed it if it weren't for Peter. I mean, what if your dad is right? I got you in trouble for nothing.
"No you didn't. I know you were right. I know you feel it."
"I'm not sure of a lot of things but I can't ignore this. The buzzing was just-just so loud. I-."
"I believe you." Stiles turns to me and his mouth pulls at the corner. It's one of those small smiles that make you unsure. Is it a smile or a frown? "I know we all believe you, Lydia. But I believe you."
"I know." I pick up the three spools of yarn on his bed while he strings red from Barrow's picture to the school.
"What is blue for?"
"Blue's just pretty." Of course.
"What about red?" He's a blown out candle, giving up but still hinting at a left-over flame.
"Unsolved." He's discouraged. Every string on the board is red. I take the red string and fiddle with it. Stiles brings himself over. "Listen to me. He was there. You're right, Lydia." I wrap the string around my index finger.
"No one knows why I'm like this, Stiles. I don't even know and I feel like this every day. That- that constant feeling of being afraid. The suspense actually hurts sometimes. I can't find the body too late again. I can't. I just don't know why I'm always late. I tried, Stiles."
"We'll figure it out. We always figure it out." He grabs my hands, drawing my attention down to the purple tip of my finger, the string cutting off my circulation. He unravels the red yarn from my finger, bringing the blood back into it.
He looks up and twiddles his marker in front of his face. His eyes pull at the sides and I can see his mouth turn up. He's smiling.