Her dress is poofy, pink, red hearts placed strategically randomly around the skirt. It matches the cards she's handing out perfectly. The cards – valentines – that Stiles heard come with a special loving note to each of them. She glides down the first row of the classroom, lovely little fingers carefully delivering her cards to their recipients.
Stiles feels the wings of his firefly heart flapping dangerously inside of him. Feels the light from its bulb illuminate his chest and its heat radiate all the way to his cheeks. She's at his row. He imagines what his note will say.
Dear Stiles,
I have loved you since the first day of school. You are so funny and smart and cool. Thank you for pushing George McCann in December when he said I was mean and no one liked me. I'm sorry he hit you and you got a black eye. You are still the most handsome boy in school. Will you be my valentine for the rest of forever?
Love,
Lydia
She stops two seats in front of him. She hands Roberta Sike her card. Stiles is jiggling his legs, impatient, tapping his foot against the hardwood floor, wondering if this is how earthquakes begin – with the lovestruck shakes of an 8 year old boy.
She is one seat in front of him. She smiles at Danny Mahealani. Her pouty pink lips stretch across her apple cheeks, shoot sparkles into her eyes, reveal a crooked toothy grin, and it's too imperfect, too human for an angel, to be anything but genuine. She hands Danny his card.
And then she's there. She's in front of Stiles. His elbow brushes against the hem of her dress and electricity crackles along his spine, currents sizzle under his skin. He tries to speak, say thank you, you're pretty, I like you, I like you, but he's been shocked. He can't even lift his head to look at her. And then the moment is gone and Lydia Martin, patron saint of his pulmonary system, is one seat behind him.
Roberta Sike's hand shoots into the air, hard, furious, high, demanding to be seen. Stiles ignores it and looks down at his valentine. A wolf, cute, cartoony, is howling at a blushing moon. It reads "you make my heart howl!" in bubbly, pink letters. They look how Stiles feels. Bubbly. Pink. He flips the card around.
To: Stiles
No one knows how to spell your first name, but I do! I can pronounce it too. Happy Valentines Day.
From: Lydia
Their teacher, Ms. Dunne, asks Roberta what's wrong. Stiles does not pay attention. His ribs are glass, the walls of his fish tank chest. His filter lungs are not working right. He's a freshwater discuss in saltwater. His heart hurts.
"LYDIA." It's Ms. Dunne. "Can I speak to you outside?"
Stiles watches Lydia, calm, cool, collected, smug, as she places the remaining cards on her desk and walks to the door where Ms. Dunne and Roberta are waiting. They exit the classroom. Danny snatches Roberta's valentine from her desk. Stiles reads it over his shoulder. It's notebook paper, crumpled, jelly stained, nothing like his or Danny's. There are only four lines.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Your faces looks like pooh
Your breath smells like it too
Ms. Dunne is back in the room. She sees the paper in Danny's hand and storms over, sticks her palm out, asking for it. Embarrassed, Danny hands it over.
Stiles sits back in his seat. Exhales. Wonders how a person is more than they appear. How they can have red hair, green eyes, pink dress, green venom, dark soul. How they are more vicious than they are pretty. How a smart mind can be more beautiful than the skin it's wrapped in.
Stiles swears right there he loves Lydia Martin more than Roberta Sike loves shaming people for being clever.
Because, well, not everyone can spell his first name.