"Free period?" Lydia asked, her fingers absently tugging at the hem of her dress. Stiles paused, his hand hovering over the knob of his locker. "Econ, actually," he muttered, "I just need to get out of here. I can't – I don't think I can…" he faltered, his words hanging in the air like a deflated balloon. Lydia nodded slowly, watching as Stiles slid in his combo and opened his locker. He knelt and began shoving books and spirals into his backpack, scanning the locker's contents slowly and methodically. Deciding against feigning disinterest, Lydia analyzed the locker intently, searching for any clues that would help unravel the complicated boy in front of her. The metal interior was surprisingly neat and clean, decorated only with three glossy photographs taped up in the corner.
The first was of Scott and Stiles hugging with their lacrosse sticks in hand, their faces red and sweaty. Behind them, the lacrosse field was filled with masses of students in red and white, their faces splattered with paint, and victory ablaze in their eyes. Lydia recognized the scene from the night of Stiles' first playing time since making the team.
Next to that was a shot of Stiles and Lydia on the night of the Winter Formal, standing arm in arm in the entryway of the school. Scott and Allison could be seen photo-bombing through the glass doors behind them, eyes crossed and middle fingers raised. Lydia felt her mouth twitch, trying to contain a smile. The memory of that night swept over her, like a wave sucking her underwater. She had begged her mom to leave the camera at home. "No pictures, Mom, or I swear to God I will pack my bags and move in with Allison," she threatened, glaring at her mother's reflection in the visor mirror. She deftly swiped her lipstick across her bottom lip, staining it deep red. Satisfied with the effect, she tucked a few stray curls into place, and then stepped out of the car with effortless grace, never once stumbling in her towering heels. Lydia scanned the parking lot, her eyes landing on Stiles' blue jeep. She was distracted from the strange cocktail of emotions swirling around in her stomach by the tell tale click of a camera shutter. She spun on her heel, sending her dress fluttering up around her in a circle of pale pink. "Oh no, Mom, you're not coming anywhere near me with that. I asked you not to bring it!" she seethed, her hand resting on her hip in exasperation. She felt a light tap on her shoulder, and found herself staring up at Stiles. He grinned down at her, his eyes shining with a drunken buzz, though Lydia could smell no alcohol on him. Mrs. Martin shook Stiles' hand, and then hinted at snapping a photo of the two of them. Despite Lydia's red face and frantically shaking head, Stiles whole-heartedly agreed. "Don't you want to remember how alarmingly sexy I look tonight?" he had asked her, his eyes round and sincere, drawing a light laugh through her lips. Seconds before the camera flashed, Stiles had gently slid the white and gold corsage onto Lydia's wrist, his long fingers carefully arranging the delicate flower so that it rested just right.
In the photo, Lydia was gazing down at her wrist, her eyes warm and her red mouth parted in a surprised circle. Stiles was smiling down at her, clearly pleased with her reaction, his eyes filled the spark that Lydia knew only lit when he looked at her. Lydia wished he would look at her like that right now. She would gladly endure the humiliation of Stiles' puppy love, just to be consoled that he still felt that way. Just to know that Stiles – the irritating, quirky, sincere Stiles she had grudgingly come to acknowledge as a friend – was still there underneath the shadow of himself.
Lydia only caught a quick glimpse of the last photo as Stiles stood and carefully shut the locker, but the image brought weight to her heart. A much younger Stiles, with a fuzzy buzz cut and a black gap between his front teeth, standing under the arms of the Sheriff and a woman with bright blue eyes and dark, wild curls. His mother.
Lydia remembered meeting Mrs. Stylinski only once, when she was very young. Mr. Martin's old dog Bruiser had ran away for the umpteenth time, and Lydia and her mother were driving up and down the dirt roads on the outskirts of town, scanning the forest for the scrappy mutt. Just as they rounded the corner in the road, the front right tire burst with a loud bang and a flurry of shredded rubber. Mrs. Martin clumsily pulled over to the side of the road, frantically dialing her husband for help. When the sun began to set and he still hadn't answered his phone, Lydia began to wonder whether she and her mother would be camping out in the car for the night. Just as she had resigned herself to search the trunk for blankets, a slight figure with a head of raven curls loped through the trees, seeming to appear from nowhere. The woman's head turned at Lydia's call, and she jogged over towards the car with the form of a practiced runner. When she reached them, Mrs. Martin seemed to recognize the runner's open, heart-shaped face and deep blue eyes. "Oh, Claudia. You have no idea how embarrassed I am…" Mrs. Martin said, her cheeks slowly turning pink, "We seem to have popped a tire, and I have no idea how to replace it. I've tried calling my husband, but he hasn't picked up. We've just been a pair of sitting ducks, haven't we Lyd," she finished, her voice hitching in a breathy laugh. Mrs. Stylinski laughed warmly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Don't be so hard on yourself. I've been there, trust me," she said benignly, "Do you have a spare in the back?" Mrs. Martin nodded, and led Mrs. Stylinksi around to the trunk. Within minutes, Claudia had hoisted the tire out, rolled it around to the front, and rested it against the bumper. Lydia gazed at the slight woman with awe, surprised by her apparent strength. Claudia ran to the back and retrieved a wrench, then proceeded to make quick work of removing the flattened tire. Once it was completely off, she fitted the new tire, the muscles in her back working as she screwed in the silver bolts. After the last bolt twisted into place with a satisfying squeak, Claudia rose to her feet, wiping her hand across her brow, dragging a black line of grease across her forehead. "How's that?" she asked, loading the gear and old tire into the back of the trunk. "Claudia, I can't thank you enough," Mrs. Martin gushed, wrapping her slender arms around Mrs. Stylinski's shoulders, "If you ever need anything, just give me a ring. I'd love for you to come to brunch with the ladies next weekend. I'm making coffee cake. Don't you like coffee cake?" Mrs. Stylinski nodded politely, trying to keep up with Mrs. Martin's babble. "That sounds lovely," she said, raking her hair back into a messy ponytail. "I hate to break our time short, but I think I'd better be going. I don't want to be late coming home. I promised Stiles that we could watch The Return of the Jedi after dinner tonight," she said with a warm smile in Lydia's direction. And with that, she jogged back into the darkening forest, slipping behind a tree with a flip of her black ponytail.
The slam of the locker door jolted Lydia out of her reverie. Her vision cleared just as Stiles threaded his arms through the straps of his backpack, his shoulders sagging as if he were lifting the world onto his back instead of ten pound of books. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to catch up to him. Lydia took a hesitant step forward and lightly placed her hand on Stile's arm. She had to resist drawing back from the shock of how piercingly cold his skin was. The cold seeped through his t-shirt and hoodie, sending goosebumps up Lydia's forearm. "Stiles…" Lydia whispered, her breath catching in her throat, "you're… you're freezing cold." Stiles pushed away from the wall, his face scrunching up in frustration. "I'm fine Lydia," he said forcefully, his eyes still shut tight, as is he were squinting against a bright light. Lydia let her hand fall back to her side, her eyes narrowing in suspicion and concern.
This was not the Stiles who waved to her every morning as she walked into her third period class. Not the Stiles who had taught her how to fake a convincing nosebleed to get out of class. Not the Stiles who carried sarcasm and a wooden baseball bat as his only defense. Not the Stiles who had held her tightly as she screamed in fear and clawed at the cloudy ice during one of her first banshee screams. Not the Stiles who let her cut in front of him in the line of cars pulling out of the school parking lot. Not the Stiles who had pined for her ever since the third grade, vying for her attention with slightly irritating yet strangely endearing compliments and attempted conversations. Not the Stiles who had tied that corsage around her wrist and demanded that she take his hand and give him a dance.
She needed to bring that Stiles back, for her sake as well as his own. "You know what," she said, playfully tugging on the string of Stiles' hoodie, "I'm not really feeling College Prep Lit at the moment. Care for some company on your ditch day?" Stiles' fists slowly unfurled, his fingers shaking ever so slightly. "You don't have to do that, Lydia," she said, his voice low and dejected, "You don't have to join the pity party."
"I wasn't asking for an invitation," Lydia responded, one thin eyebrow cocked higher than the other, "The fact is, I've been dying to escape Doyle's class for days now. I've already read A Separate Peace at least five times over. And the kids in that class are no fun at all. They never read outside the lines; way too literal for me." A ghost of a smile bloomed against Stiles' pale jaw, pulling taut the dark circles under his eyes. The bell for sixth period rang shrilly, echoing down the hall. "We'd better hurry. Wouldn't want to get caught out here, now would we?" Lydia said, turning on her heel and praying that Stiles would follow.