Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.


A huge thank you to FetusPosey3, Lojo2014o, JustCallMeWhatever, TameTheGhosts, Atomicity, stilinskisgirl, monkeygonetoheaven (periods excluded because it makes the name disappear), Guest 1, musicalenigma19, Roxu, Exuberance of Youth, Emmalee Adams, TWsos1245, getlostinthisparadise, jinkiestrap, Savannah, CourtneyxWolf725, useandabuseme, ArgentOir, Guest 2, Guest 3, Bronzelove, CoffeeShopWriter, ellsosaurus, Lady Shagging Godiva, SophieArianne, Guest 4, Trance20666, Iste, chibi-Clar, Kristen, farahsbc, TeacupTango, and AnonymousWriter5859 for reviewing! You guys are awesome.

And a separate huge thank you to BrittWitt16 for being a glorious human being and writer. Truly an inspiration to us all!


Chapter 2 - Car Trouble


According to Lydia, the first day of school set to tone for the rest of the year. Like it was some bizarre type of audition. Style your hair, make sure you have nothing but good angles—primped and polished. God help you if there's something stuck in your teeth. The way she spoke, Charlie was surprised there wasn't a TV crew around, stalking the student body in search of the next big reality show. Would it air on MTV or TLC? That didn't matter. It was the first day of school—she didn't have time to plan out her hypothetical reality TV show persona.

The point was, according to Lydia your wardrobe had to be stylish, your makeup immaculate, and your heels needed to meet or exceed the mandatory two inches. The higher the heel, the more serious the contender. Thanks to Lydia's tireless efforts—some of which may or may not have violated the Geneva convention—Charlie had lived up to those high standards. Unfortunately that was about as far as she managed to get because the other 'suggestion'—arrive in style—wasn't exactly going to plan.

"Come on girl, you can do it," Charlie whispered as she twisted her keys in her car's ignition. The combination of spluttering and groaning that issued forth from the engine was not in the least bit encouraging. The goddamn spark plugs were breathing their last. Apparently that quick fix she had used a few days back—electrical tape on the arcing wires—wasn't lasting quite as long as she had hoped.

All the signs pointed to the fact that she should let that car go, but she couldn't. It was just too damn pretty. It was her freaking vehicular soulmate—had been since she saw the posting on eBay: 1966 Chevrolet Impala, black, needs engine and body work. One look, and it had been love. She bought it for cheap and fixed it up with her dad—car up on cinderblocks in the sweltering summer heat. Sweat and rust, the smell of sunscreen and copper. After a few months of work, the hood gleamed and the engine had started to sing.

No, that was a lie. The hood never gave off anything more than a dull sheen. And that engine? It sounded like a Scooby Doo episode in there, haunted by a bitter old ghost wielding clanking chains. It worked, but there always seemed to be one small extra project—one last thing that needed fixing. The passenger door stuck, the back seat belts didn't work, the fenders were rusted, and now the spark plugs were dying on her. She preferred to think of it as the car forcing them to maintain a relationship. As long as she took care of it, it would take care of her. Symbiosis. And despite the multitude of things wrong with that car, it had never let her down before. It sure as hell wasn't going to start today.

"Come on, baby," Charlie cooed soothingly, twisting the keys again. All of the sudden, an image of a pissed off Lydia entered her mind, smoke coming out of her ears and making it look like her head was on fire. It was a pretty terrifying thought. "Alright," she whispered again, "unless you want me to be beheaded by a freakishly intelligent social climber, you're going to start right…now."

On cue, the spluttering stopped, replaced by a loud roar. Charlie smiled to herself and mouthed a silent 'thank you', running her fingers over the slightly cracked leather covering the steering wheel. A couple of punched buttons and cranked levers later, music was blaring out the speakers, the windows were down, and she was backing out of the driveway. That car would never let her down.

As Charlie drove down one of the multitude of heavily wooded roads that seemed to cut through Beacon Hills, her eyes fell on the tiny silver ornament that dangled from the rearview medal, catching the sunlight. It was a Saint Christopher's medallion—the patron saint of travelers. She and her dad had never been religious—she couldn't remember the last time either of them had been to church, and she had probably been wearing pigtails at the time. Still, though, the first time she had climbed into that car on her own, her dad leaned in the passenger-side window and hung it there 'just in case'. He called it 'hedging his bets'.

She chose to ignore both the loud bang of the car backfiring and the cloud of smoke issuing from the tailpipe that immediately followed that thought. It kind of cast a shadow on the sentiment.

By the time Charlie pulled into the Beacon Hills High School, Lydia was already there, leaning against her gleaming black VW bug, arms folded across her chest and eyebrows raised in reproach. Charlie rolled her eyes and pulled into the empty spot next to hers. Turning off her engine and putting her car into park, Charlie gripped the steering wheel for a moment and took a deep, steadying breath.

"I've been waiting here ten minutes," Lydia sniped as Charlie clambered out of the car. Her voice came out in a strange, high pitched growl. "We left at the same time. What the hell took you so long?"

"Jesus, Lydia, untwist your panties," Charlie mumbled, reaching into the passenger seat and grabbing her faded green canvass messenger bag.

"My panties are not the topic of this conversation," Lydia shot back, pointing a well-manicured finger at Charlie. "If we want to get the year started right—"

"Yeah, I know," Charlie interrupted with a groan, slamming her car door shut behind her. "Punctuality is key, grand entrance, swagger, strut, walk, walk, fashion baby, blah, blah, blah. I had car trouble—there's not really a way of getting around that."

Lydia flipped her curtain of glossy, curled hair back over her shoulder and let out a loud scoff. "Well we could have gotten around that if you just got a ride with me like I wanted."

"Oh, no way," Charlie replied, shaking her head definitively. "I am not walking into a situation where I can be held hostage by default because I lack my own independent source of transportation. I always give myself my own out."

"You say that like you don't trust me," Lydia whined, sticking out her lower lip in a pout.

An indelicate snort forced its way out of Charlie's nose. "When it comes to transportation and my ability to exercise my own free will?" she shot back. "Yeah, I 100% do not trust you. Not at all."

Lydia just narrowed her eyes and flicked her hair over her shoulder again. "You sound like one of those crazy survivalist types who build bunkers out in the woods to prepare for the apocalypse."

"Be nice to me or I won't invite you to my bunker when the end of days is nigh," Charlie deadpanned. "You'll never survive on the surface. You don't have any training or practical footwear. Also, I have Chef Boyardee."

"Oh, wow, a personal chef," Lydia drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Forget the Ritz, your bunker is the place to be!"

"Yup," Charlie responded with a nod. "We're gonna party like it's 2099. Which is when the radioactivity of the earth will have faded enough for us to walk on the surface again."

Lydia stared at her blankly for a few moments, probably evaluating Charlie for potential indications of some grave mental affliction or another. "Whatever," she snipped, brushing the topic aside. "Just don't come crawling to me when you need a ride. That rust bucket of yours belongs in a junkyard anyway."

"Do not talk like that in front of her!" Charlie hissed angrily, placing a protective hand on the hood of the car and stroking it gently.

At that, Lydia's lip curled slightly and she looked at Charlie like she was a lunatic. "It's a car," the red-head replied, derision coloring her tone. "It can't hear me. Calm the hell down about the car and get excited for the school year."

"Oh, I'm excited," Charlie drawled out sarcastically, waggling her eyebrows. "I'm all kinds of excited—school spirit has taken up residence in the very core of my being. Go Direwolves!" She pumped her fist in the air theatrically and brought her fingers to her lips for a loud wolf-whistle.

"Put your arm down," Lydia growled, roughly grabbing hold of Charlie's hand and yanking it out of the air, glancing around to see if anybody had noticed. "What the hell is a Direwolf?"

"Team mascot," Charlie replied with a shrug. "Or are we the Timber Wolves?"

Lydia's mouth dropped open and she let out an offended scoff. "Cyclones," she corrected. "We're the Cyclones." She paused for a moment, hoping for some flicker of recognition on Charlie's face. Needless to say she was disappointed. "Ugh. You are seriously hopeless—you know that, right?"

"The Cyclones?" Charlie said, scrunching up her face into an expression of distaste. "Seriously, the Cyclones? What the hell kind of mascot is that? How is that going to amp up the crowd. It has literally zero charisma."

At that, Lydia blinked, stared at her for a moment, and wordlessly spun on her heel, marching towards the school. "I'm serious!" Charlie called out, jogging to catch up with her. "I mean what kind of costume would it have? A giant swirl of wind? It can't emote."

Immediately Lydia shook her head. "I refuse to acknowledge this conversation."

"Be real with me Lydia—is the mascot just a guy holding a leaf-blower?"

"I am actively not paying attention to you."

"I'm just gonna keep calling them the Direwolves," Charlie mused absently.

"No you will not," Lydia trilled. "You absolutely will not."

Charlie shrugged innocently and began walking towards the school through the side entrance to the courtyard, dragging her heels with each step. The sound of her heels against the asphalt was grating. The dynamics of stilettos and Converse were completely different. She did not like it. Working theory: stilettos were a tool that, with each scrape against the ground, were digging a massive hole that brought you slightly closer to the fiery pit of hell. Plus there was a distinct possibility that she might topple over with nothing more than a strong breeze. Hell, a draft from an air conditioning vent could send her careening to the ground.

A few moments later, Lydia's arm snaked through Charlie's and she felt herself being yanked along, steered in a completely different direction.

"We don't enter at the side gates," Lydia instructed wisely. "There's nowhere near enough exposure there. If you want to make a good entrance, you have to go directly up the front steps. That way everyone has to look at you."

"Again," Charlie replied sarcastically, "I can not fully express to you how little I care."

"Well then," Lydia chirped though a wide, calculating smile, "I guess it's a good thing you're not making the decisions here."

"It does take a lot of pressure off," Charlie muttered dully. "So are you deciding what I'm having for dinner too?"

"You can't have nachos again," Lydia replied easily. "Three times a week is just too much."

"Ugh," Charlie groaned, stomping her feet petulantly as she walked. "Way to suck the joy out of life."

Soon enough Charlie found herself standing at the beginning of the walkway leading to the front of the school. She glanced at the red-head standing next to her. The frustrated scowl had all of the sudden been replaced by a coy, sultry smile. Lydia unlinked her arm from Charlie's and reached in her black leather Gucci purse, pulling out her compact and a tube of light pink lip gloss. She liberally applied it until her lips glistened almost aggressively and then blew a kiss at her own reflection.

"Gearing up for battle, are we?" Charlie murmured, her voice caught in that weird place between entertained and sardonic.

Lydia snapped her compact closed and turned to face Charlie, her smirk shifting from superficial to genuine. "So you do listen, then?"

Charlie blew out a long breath and shrugged noncommittally. "You talk so much, something's bound to sink in. Involuntarily, of course."

"Yeah?" Lydia quipped back, arching an eyebrow mischievously. "Well let's see if this finds a way to sink in. This, my dear Charlie, is how you make an entrance."

With one last flip of her hair, Lydia stomped down that concrete sidewalk like it was a freaking cat walk—hips swaying side to side and handbag neatly poised in the crook of her arm. Charlie smiled and trailed after her, messenger bag hanging from her shoulder, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, and generally emitting much less 'flair' or 'sparkle' or whatever the hell it was the magazines called it these days. More than a couple of eyes made their way towards Lydia, but none with more enthusiasm than one guy—close cropped hair and wearing a 'The Who' T-shirt.

"Hey Lydia!" he called out in a voice that sounded equal parts glee and desperation as she passed by. "You look li—like you're going to ignore me!"

Lydia brushed by the guy without so much as a second look, and he turned back to his friend with a face scrunched up in frustration. Chuckling to herself, Charlie took a little time from her own 'grand entrance' and paused in front of the pair. "Don't take it too personally," she said in a conspiratorial whisper. The both of them blinked at her, staring stupidly with wide eyes and mouths opened ever-so-slightly. Up close she could see a splattering of moles dotting the guys's pale face, paired with a set of huge light brown eyes. His friend appeared equally if not more alarmed by her sudden appearance, his surprised deep brown eyes hiding behind a mop of dark hair and strong, slightly uneven jawline accentuating the gobsmacked expression.

The first guy looked her up and down before spinning around, seeing if there was anybody else she might be trying to speak to. "Wh—what are you talking about?" he stammered in confusion, glancing at his dark-haired friend like he was seeking some sort of confirmation that they were the ones being spoken to.

Charlie raised her eyebrows in amusement and tried to suppress the smile threatening to form on her lips. "Lydia," she prompted, jerking her head in the red-head's direction. "When she goes into 'strut mode' she's pretty much dead to the world. I like to imagine she's playing 'Whip My Hair' in her head on a loop. That or the 'Imperial March' Darth Vader theme. I think either fits pretty well." His mouth opened and closed a few times, staring at her in complete bemusement, and that smile she had been struggling against fought its way to the surface. "Well, have a good day then!" she chirped happily, giving him one big pat on the back before continuing on her way.

"It was nice to meet you! Wh—whoever you are!" he called after her, his voice thick with confusion.

Without turning around, Charlie lifted her hand into the air and gave a single, perfunctory wave before ascending the stairs and slipping through the doors.

The inside of Beacon Hills was the same as pretty much every other school she had attended over the past few years—built like a prison, but with more windows, less barbed wire, and worse food. Charlie often wondered if there was an agreed upon set of guidelines that all schools had established while nobody was looking, each rule carefully orchestrated to suppress creativity whilst simultaneously pretending to encourage it. They all had those checkered, laminate floors, the oppressively beige walls, and those ridiculous cork boards covered in colorful paper and bordered with those weird wavy, crafty things. And then there were the inspirational posters—those were her favorite, each of them with their own deep insights.

"The best preparation for tomorrow is doing your best today"

"'Genius' is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration."

Those posters that were supposed to make the students think, but they were already too busy falling asleep and drooling in their notebooks. Last year Charlie had snuck into her old school early in the morning and covered each of those deep, thought-provoking posters with the 'Hang In There' kitten. Their complete ineffectiveness was revealed with that decision. Literally nobody noticed the change—not till after lunch. She had to pointed out. Which, of course, meant she got caught, and was subsequently given two weeks of detention. Still totally worth it.

Charlie readjusted the strap of her messenger bag on her shoulder and made her way towards the main office near the front entrance. Once inside, she walked up to the front desk and tapped the bell, making the older woman sitting there look up at her through thick-framed glasses. "Hello," she murmured in that standard bureaucratic tone. "Can I help you?"

"Hi, yeah," Charlie replied with a wave. "I'm Charlotte Oswin. My aunt contacted the the offices a week ago to register me as a student here—sophomore year. I was told to stop by the office for my schedule and other information."

"Just one moment," the woman said, holding up a finger and rifling through the papers on her desk until she found her way to a manila folder. "Ah, yes, Miss Oswin," she continued, squinting at the small print on the pages. "I've got your information here. If you'll just have a seat in one of those chairs over there, the Vice Principal will be right with you."

Nodding to herself, Charlie collapsed into one of those overstuffed chairs indicated. She stretched out her legs in front of her and crossed her ankles, leaning back on the head rest so she was staring at the ceiling. She closed her eyes and sighed. Maybe she could take a nap. Naps were good. That plan didn't last very long, though. After about three minutes somebody sat down in the chair next to her and started bouncing their knee up and down nervously.

Slowly, Charlie cracked an eye open and looked at the person sitting next to her. It was a girl about her age, pretty, with long, dark hair, high cheekbones, light brown eyes, and flawless pale skin that for some reason was tinged slightly green.

"You're going to be fine, you know," Charlie mumbled, making the other girl jump.

"Oh!" she squeaked, her eyes darting about in confusion. "I—I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Charlie smiled softly and straightened in her seat. "I said you're going to be fine. Every time someone talks to you, just smile and nod and it'll work itself out." The girl's eyebrows pulled together in a confused frown, making Charlie's smile widen. "You're new here, right? First day?"

She let out a light laugh and nodded. "Yeah. How could you tell?"

Charlie let a serious expression cover her face. "I'm psychic," she whispered dramatically.

"Really?" the girl asked through another laugh.

"Absolutely," Charlie replied with a grave nod. "Also you're in the front office holding a piece of paper that says 'TRANSFER' in big bold letters across the top."

She looked down at the paper in her hands and exhaled. "Yeah, I guess I'm a bit out of it today," she said, tugging nervously at the ends of her hair. She held out her hand and flashed a smile that managed to be simultaneously brilliant and uncertain. "Allison Argent."

Charlie accepted it and gave it a firm shake. "Charlie Oswin."

"Good," Allison said through a relieved sigh. "At least I know someone now. I was so freaked out that I'd end up eating lunch in the bathroom like in Mean Girls and go home without meeting anyone. Are you a new student too?"

"Yup," Charlie replied, popping the 'p'. "Fresh-faced and ready to pack my brain full of knowledge, discover its irrelevance to my life as a whole, and then forget it as soon as holidays start."

"Really?" Allison blurted out, sounding moderately surprised. "If you don't mind me asking, how are you not totally freaking out right now?"

Charlie shrugged and gave a noncommittal jerk of the head. "I've been here over a month, so I've gotten used to the town. Met a few people. Plus I guess I've just gotten used to it. My dad was in the coast guard, I've been in like seven schools over the past six years—we moved around a lot."

"Oh my God, same here!" Allison gushed, losing some of that nervous energy. "My dad moves around all the time because of his job."

"Ring leader at a carnival?" Charlie asked eagerly. "Traveling vacuum salesman?"

Allison shifted in her seat and tucked her hair behind her ears. "None of the above," she said, giving a small shake of the head. "He's in sales—he doesn't talk about it much. But we were in San Francisco for almost a year and a half, and that was the longest we stayed in one place. I never managed to get used to it, though. I hate being the new girl. You always end up feeling so helpless, walking around and needing help finding things, because by the time you actually figure out what's going on, it's time to take off again. Then you have to find new friends and….it's just so exhausting."

"Yeah," Charlie said, nodding slightly. "I think the worst bit is Facebook. You take a look and it's like hey, Greg from New Orleans just ate a peanut butter banana sandwich. Good for you, Greg. Party on, man, thanks for closed captioning your life for us. And then you realize, these people were my friends. It's like…I held your hair back when you drank too much lite beer and started puking at that party, and now I don't know you."

Allison gave her a strange look. "You had to hold Greg's hair back while he was puking?"

"Oh, yeah, he was a hippie," Charlie said, waving a hand dismissively. "His hair was longer than mine."

"Huh," Allison mused to herself. "Do hippies even drink lite beer? I feel like Budweiser would be way too commercial of them."

Charlie wrinkled her nose in contemplation for a moment. "That's a good point. It's entirely possible that he just drank his weight in kombucha."

"Right," Allison replied, nodding sagely. "That makes perfect sense. I mean, who wouldn't be nauseous after that?"

"Exactly. But like, now the only interaction I have with Greg the kombucha-drinking hippie is writing 'lol' on his feeds every once in a while."

"It does make it feel kind of pointless sometimes, doesn't it?" Allison mumbled quietly.

"Oh, I've developed a solution for that," Charlie quipped, holding up a single finger to emphasize her point. "I just decided to be an antisocial weirdo with no friends who constantly posts to Twitter in order to feel connected to the outside world and keeps a ton of cats as a substitute for love. You get to skip over all of the exhausting bits."

Allison bit back a laugh and raised her eyebrows questioningly. "How's that working out for you so far?"

Charlie winced theatrically and shook her head. "Not so well. The first bell hasn't even rung yet, I'm already having constructive conversations with new people, and enjoying myself in the process. I'm pretty disappointed by it all. You've ruined everything."

"Oh," Allison said, her lips quirking into a sardonic smile. "That's just….tragic. I guess your disappointment is my gain."

"Yeah," Charlie sighed out casually. "It wasn't a total waste. Plus the cat hair gets everywhere. It's a bitch to clean. I mean a lint roller a week is pretty excessive, don't you think?"

Allison grinned widely, revealing a set of dimples that looked like they belonged to someone who smiled often. Her green pallor had subsided greatly, replaced by a cheerful pink flush. "Well," she announced, clearing her throat in an official-sounding way. "Since I think we might be seeing a lot of each other in the future we might as well go and get all those boring, stereotypical questions out of the way. What class are you most excited for?"

Charlie pursed her lips in consideration. "Lunch."

The two girls started laughing. What followed was an easy conversation which concluded in the exchanging of phone numbers and a promise to look out for each other during lunch. Their conversation had veered in the direction of their favorite youtube cat videos when a man came to stand in front of them, staring down expectantly.

"Miss Oswin, Miss Argent, I see the two of you have become acquainted," he declared. "I'm Mr. Allen. I would like to welcome you to Beacon Hills High School."

"It's nice to meet you," Charlie said, getting to her feet and holding out her hand.

The man took it, giving it a single shake. "I'm sure you're going to find yourselves right at home here," he said through one of those carefully orchestrated smiles people in administration always seemed to have mastered. Something about bureaucracies seemed to give people default expressions. Like emojis, but nowhere near as fun.

Mr. Allen pulled out the folder he had tucked under his arm and flipped through some of the papers inside. "Alright, Miss Oswin, it looks like you're actually good to go. Your aunt was quite diligent in getting all of your paperwork in—I got about a dozen calls from her last week to make sure everything was sorted. She even added a list of your allergies which apparently include pollen, weak handshakes, and Dick Cheney."

"Ah, yes," Charlie said, offering up a grimace. "That's not entirely accurate. I'm totally fine with pollen."

The expression with which Mr. Allen regarded her was so ambiguous Charlie couldn't tell if the man was entertained, ambivalent, or pissed off. Allison, on the other hand, gave off a highly suspicious cough, making the man turn to her. "Miss Argent, I'm actually going to have to ask you to wait with me a few minutes—we seem to be missing some of your information."

"Oh, yeah," Allison said, twisting her hair nervously. "Sorry about that. The move was kind of sudden and we didn't have a lot of time to get ourselves established."

Mr. Allen held up a hand in understanding. "That's completely fine. It'll really only take a few minutes. You won't miss a thing. And even if you do, I'm sure Miss Oswin here will fill you in. It looks like you're in the same first period English class." He turned to Charlie and handed her a piece of paper. "Miss Oswin, here's your schedule. If you want I can get someone to direct you to your cl—"

"No, no, that's okay," Charlie said, holding up a hand. "I think I can figure it out. The rooms are assigned numbers which go in a particular order as you walk down the hallway. Straightforward enough." She turned to Allison with a smile and patted her on the back. "I'll save you a seat."

"Thanks!" Allison called over her shoulder.

It didn't take Charlie long to find the English classroom. The class was still filling up as she made her way in. Silently, she approached the teacher, a rather portly, balding man with wire-rimmed glasses that hid rather bloodshot eyes, ruddy skin, and a face that had slackened with apathy. Her brow furrowing slightly, she handed him an admissions form. He accepted it with a single nod of understanding and gestured for her to stand next to the desk. Charlie never really liked this part of the process. Not because she particularly disliked standing in front of a room of people, but because she disliked being told to do so. It made her feel like a preschooler.

"Alright everyone," the teacher called out to the class, which was slowly expanding in size. "It looks like we've got some fresh meat here. I'd like you all to say a big hello to Charlotte Oswin. We're all going to be kind and respectful. Basically, don't be yourselves."

During the teacher's rather monotone introduction, Charlie scanned the room looking for free seats for her and Allison, when her eyes came into contact with another set of brown, familiar ones—the guy from this morning. He blinked in recognition and gave an awkward wave, like he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted her to notice it. She just raised her eyebrows, pressed her lips together in a thin smile, and inclined her head in greeting before looking back to the teacher to see what she should do next.

"Alright, Charlotte," the teacher—who according to the chalkboard was named Mr. Hobson—drawled out in a tired voice. "Why don't you tell us a little about yourself?"

Letting out a sigh, Charlie hiked the strap of her bag up her shoulder, looking up at the ceiling and searching her brain for the stock comment she had filed away. "Okay," she replied casually, blowing away some hair that had fallen in her face. "I go by Charlie, I just moved here from San Diego. I'm a Gemini, I like long walks on the beach, and one time I met James Franco while in line to buy a churro. One of those is a lie—it's up to you to figure out which."

There was a small round of chuckling, barely audible over the sounds of chairs scraping against the ground and bags being unzipped. Charlie could have sworn that Mr. Hobson rolled his eyes before turning back to the blackboard and writing out that day's lesson. "Thank you Miss Oswin for that….colorful introduction. Now if you'll please take a seat."

"Fantastic!" she replied with artificial enthusiasm before moving through the rows of seats. The only two desks she could find next to each other were near the back of the room. She plopped down in one of the chairs and dropped her bag on the floor, rummaging around in it till she found a notebook and pen. Ripping out one of the pages, she quickly scribbled out a note.

'RESERVED: If you sit here, I will adopt a horde of ferrets, train them to track you down by scent, and set them lose to attack you in your room in the middle the night. They may or may not be armed with lasers.'

After doodling an oddly menacing smily face in the corner, the note was deemed complete and and Charlie deposited it on the desk next to hers.

In the corner of her eye, something shifted. Glancing to her left, Charlie once again saw that same guy from this morning. His desk was two over from hers, right next to the one she picked out for Allison. He craned his neck until it reached almost giraffe-like proportions, and when that wasn't sufficient he pushed himself up in his seat, almost standing up in his chair to get a look at what she had written. Charlie leaned in towards him, eyes narrowed. "Is there something I can help you with?" she whispered.

At the sound of her voice, he collapsed back in his chair. The desk shook beneath his weight momentarily threatening to tip over and toss him to the floor. He regained his balance and coughed into his fist, quickly constructing a poor imitation of collectedness. "Nope," he said casually, shaking his head. "No, it's all good here—" he began waving his hand around over his desk "—everything's just peachy in this…this general area."

"Okay, then," she muttered back, eyebrow arched skeptically. "That's good to know."

She was interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared, and the two of them turned to face the front of the room. Mr. Hobson stared at them, displeasure lurking in those oddly exhausted eyes. "Miss Oswin," he droned, "I'm prepared to offer you a little latitude this morning since it's your first day, but this is a classroom. You're here to have knowledge shoved into your pubescent brains, not to expand your Twitter fanbase. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yup," Charlie replied, giving a jaunty salute. "I'm ready to learn and be inspired. 'Oh Captain, my Captain', standing on desks, the whole nine yards."

The man sighed heavily and scratched at his forehead. "Thank you for the sentiment, Miss Oswin, but there will be no standing on desks in this classroom. It's a health and safety issue, and I'm not interested in any additional paperwork." His comment was met with a loud, spluttering laugh that only increased the despondency on his face. "Are there any more insights you have that you'd like to share with the class, Mr. Stilinski?"

"No sir," the guy said, shaking his head. "No insights of any kind. Totally without insights. Completely insight-less. Sans insights."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Mr. Hobson murmured. "Alright, moving on." He trudged towards the blackboard, scratching 'Kafka's Metamorphosis' across it in big, bold letters. "As you all know, there was indeed a body found in the woods last night."

Charlie's ears perked up at that. This lecture was quickly becoming more intriguing than she had initially suspected. Gruesome murder topped Gregor Samsa's bug-i-fication for sure. And it definitely made the town a touch more interesting. Donald's jealous ramblings already echoed in her ears. She leaned forwards in her seat, eager for more information even if it came in Mr. Hobson's deadly dull monotone voice. Unfortunately the man was a tease as well as a bore, and he seemed determined for the content of his speech to be just as bland as its intonation.

"I'm sure your minds are coming up with various macabre scenarios as to what happened," he continued, "but I am here to tell you that the police have a suspect in custody, which means you can give your undivided attention to the syllabus which in on your desk, outlining this semester."

Grumbling loudly, Charlie slid down in her desk and plucked up the offending piece of paper. Her eyes slid over the list. Kafka's 'Metamorphosis', Voltaire's 'Candide', Swift's 'A Modest Proposal'—she had read half the syllabus already. Perks of switching schools so often. She either ended up crazy behind or she'd already covered the material in another school's curriculum. Well at least that gave her more time to dedicate to chemistry. Fun.

After a few minutes of running through the syllabus, the classroom door opened to reveal Allison and Mr. Allen. Anxiety rolled off Allison, clearly having been smacked by a second wave of the first day jitters. Charlie raised her hand and gave a small wave, catching Allison's eye and pointing to the seat she had saved and a small, relieved smile crossed Allison's face.

"Alright class," Mr. Allen announced to the room, "it looks like we've got another new student. This is Allison Argent. Just do your best to make her feel welcome."

Allison darted away from the man as soon as possible, eager to avoid the collective scrutiny of the class. She walked towards her designated seat with hunched shoulders, making herself as inconspicuous as possible. Dropping into the chair she giggled at the note, turning to Charlie and mouthing a silent 'thank you'. Charlie waggled her eyebrows enthusiastically and turned to the front of the classroom. Allison let out a soft snort and was prepared to do the same, but was suddenly confronted with a pen being held out to her by a suitably adorable looking boy, the second half of the duo from that morning.

"Oh," Allison whispered in surprise. "Thanks."

Charlie bit her lip to restrain the instinctive laughter. Given the expression on the guy's face, he was already smitten. Inside of twenty minutes, and Allison already had some guy crushing on her. Oh, yeah. She was going to be just fine.

At the sound of Charlie's cough/laugh, Allison turned towards her, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What?" she mouthed. Charlie continued to waggle her eyebrows—this time suggestively—making Allison roll her eyes in response. "Shut up."

Any more potential teasing was cut brutally short as Mr. Hobson returned to the blackboard. "Okay, class," he grumbled. "I'm going to ask you to turn to page 133 in Metamorphosis."

Charlie reached into her bag and pulled out the worn and marked copy Mel had gotten from the second hand book shop on Hudson Street. It flopped open on her desk, the cracked spine allowing it to lie flat, already looking defeated by the school year. She thumbed through the pages until she found the small 133 in the upper corner, a note in unfamiliar handwriting scribbled right next to it.

'Mr. Hobson is a douche.'

Agreed.

Charlie sighed heavily and stared down at the book. "And so it begins."

There wasn't much to distinguish that first day from all of the other ones she had experienced. Everything about it was typical. Absolutely nothing concrete was accomplished, but it was filled with the looming threat of homework and essays, and then those big bolded letters screaming 'EXAM' at her from the syllabus.

The teachers for the most part were 31 flavors of 'pain in the ass'. Mr. Hobson seemed inclined to infect the rest of the world with his dissatisfaction. That son of a bitch Mr. Harris, the chemistry teacher, had already assigned them four chapters to finish by the end of the week. She'd have to keep her eye on him. The humiliation of his students appeared to inspire a special sort of glee—your garden variety under-achieving psychopath. But Coach Finstock, the economics professor, more than made up for it with his hilarious, over-caffeinated rants. If someone got it in their head to make a muppet version of the man, it wouldn't require all that much imagination.

All in all, it was a fairly good start to the year. But the day ended the same way they always did: with Charlie tapping her pen against her notebook and watching the second hand tick down. And three, two, one….

At the sound of the bell, Charlie quickly shoved all her things away and practically sprinted to her locker, trying her best to get there before the rush hour traffic clogged up the hallways. Alas, she proved unsuccessful. Getting away from school as soon as possible was a biological imperative that all teenagers shared. Between that and one wrong turn that almost brought her into the boy's locker room, the halls were almost totally vacant by the time she found her way to her locker again. She fiddled with the lock until it unlatched and began yanking out the books.

Slamming the locker closed, she turned to find Allison a little ways down the hall, standing at her own locker with her back turned to Charlie and sharing what seemed to be some intense eye-flirting with the adorable, floppy-haired guy who had lent her the pen that morning. Smiling wickedly, Charlie snuck up behind her as quietly as possible—quite the feat given the heels Lydia had put her in.

"Have you returned the pen yet?" she inquired casually, making Allison jump.

"Jesus, Charlie," she gasped out, holding her hand over her heart. "You scared me."

"Sorry," she replied, wrinkling her nose apologetically. "I looked for you at lunch, but didn't see you around."

"Oh, that's okay," Allison said, waving a hand dismissively. "I didn't end up eating lunch in the bathroom. My mom dropped by and we ate together. She always gets overprotective at the beginning of a move. She called me like three times this morning to make sure I was doing alright."

Charlie pursed her lips and nodded in understanding before letting a sly smile slip across her face. "So you didn't answer my question."

"What question?" Allison asked a little too quickly, turning back to the locker and suddenly finding her French textbook positively fascinating.

"Did you give him the pen back yet?" Charlie prompted, nudging Allison in the side with her elbow. "Because judging by the way he's gazing longingly at you, he would be happy to tell you that he'd be happy to let you keep it. Or he just really, really liked that pen and he's currently in the throes of separation anxiety."

"I don't think I followed that," Allison murmured into her locker.

Charlie leaned against the neighboring lockers and rolled her eyes heavily. "Yes you did."

Allison bit her lip nervously and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet before stealing a glance at the boy in question, who was now accompanied by that goofy friend of his. This time the both of them were staring in hers and Allison's direction. But the potential creepiness of said staring was mitigated by the fact that she and Allison were staring right back—Allison with smily doe eyes and Charlie with curious, narrowed ones. Charlie decided to lean into the awkward and gave a long 'we are not the droids you're looking for' wave and the one with the buzzcut—Stilinski—twitched awkwardly. It was odd, but before Charlie had time to think on Allison turned back to her, leaning in conspiratorially. "You really think he likes me?" she whispered back eagerly.

"And there it is," Charlie sang. Allison widened her eyes and jerked her head in the guy's direction, gesturing for Charlie to continue. "Alright, alright," Charlie acquiesced, holding her hands in the air in submission. "In my experience there are two reasons for a guy to stare at you with that degree of intensity. Reason one: he's into you. Reason two: he's a cannibal trying to find out what kind of appetizers he'd like to eat as he's feasting on your decomposing remains."

"Ew," Allison whined, cringing in disgust. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that."

"Hey, it's at your own risk. You were warned."

Glancing down the hall past Allison, Charlie saw Lydia strutting by, her glossy curls somehow still finding a way to shine in the fluorescent lighting. Lydia, catching sight of her, gradually slowed and came to a complete stop in front of Allison, looking the girl up and down with an expression of intense concentration. "That jacket," she said, gesturing at Allison's ensemble, "is absolutely killer. Where did you get it?"

Allison shot a questioning glance at Charlie, who gave her a small nod, before turning back to Lydia. "My mom was a buyer for a boutique back in San Francisco."

A mischievous smile pulled at the corners of Lydia's lips as she appraised Allison. "And you," she declared, pointing at the severely confused brunette, "you are my new best friend. Sorry, Charlie. You're out."

"That's fine," Charlie said through a theatrical yawn. "I never liked you that much anyway. Lydia Martin, meet Allison Argent. Allison, this is Lydia, your new best friend. She's only half as crazy as she seems. And while that is still pretty crazy—"

Lydia let out a scoff and smacked Charlie on the arm, no doubt preparing a scathing barb of her own, but before she had the chance a dark cloud of Gucci cologne and overly stylized hair descended on the trio and landed directly on Lydia's face. Charlie raised her eyebrows at the sudden display—an expression matched by Allison who appeared slightly perturbed by the aggressive PDA. "Allison," Charlie said, gesturing at the face currently being smashed into Lydia's, "this is Jackson Whittemore. Lydia's boyfriend. If that wasn't already made apparent by the flagrant sucking of faces."

After a sound vaguely reminiscent of the seal of a suction cup being broken, Jackson looked over at Charlie, the usual amount of disdain written into his face—straight nose contorted into a subtle snarl and flashing his gleaming teeth in a hostile smirk. "Sucking of faces?" he demanded, extracting himself from Lydia's embrace so he could glower at her more effectively. "Charlie sometimes when you talk, I swear I'm listening to my mom. Or my grandmother. It's embarrassing."

"Does that mean I can send you to bed without desert or take away your Porsche?" Charlie asked eagerly. "Because I would love to see you weep openly when I do one or both of those things."

"What's it like to be one of the cast of Golden Girls?" he sniped back.

Charlie made a face and shrugged. "I get to hang out with Betty White, so pretty awesome, actually. What is it that your Porsche is compensating for?"

Jackson's jaw twitched, but he rolled her eyes, trying to brush the topic aside while Charlie smirked. That was the basis of their relationship. They barely tolerated each other, but the constant string of jabs tossed between them made barely tolerating each other kind of fun. "I never know what the hell you're talking about," he sneered, waving her off. Turning away from her, he let the sour expression drop and looked at Allison with an air of casual charm and perfect bone structure. "Welcome to Beacon Hills," he said, extending his hand. Allison took it with a little hesitation. He fixed her with that 'winning smile'—the one that always made Charlie want to gag a bit—and held onto her hand just a little too long. "You're going to like it here."

"I love your bracelet!" Lydia interjected, grabbing Allison's hand and pulling it away from Jackson's. "That's really adorable."

Charlie lifted her hand to her mouth to hide a snort. "On this week's episode of 'Fashion Police'…" she murmured under her breath.

"Oh, shut up, Charlie!" Lydia said, smacking her arm again. "I was just being friendly. And speaking of being friendly—" she continued, redirecting the comment to Allison while leaning against Jackson, marking her territory "—this weekend, there's a party."

"A party?" Allison chirped, not unable to keep the tones of dread from seeping in.

"Yeah," Jackson said, nodding along. "Friday night. You should come."

"Oh, I can't," Allison drawled out evasively, shrinking back against the lockers. Charlie didn't blame her. On their own Jackson and Lydia could come on strong, but as a pair….confronting them was not for the faint of heart. They were all shiny surfaces and hard edges. But Allison seemed to hold her ground. "It's family night this Friday," she said, latching onto an excuse. "But thanks for asking."

Jackson raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You sure?" he demanded. "Everyone's going after the scrimmage."

"Y—you mean like football?" Allison asked, glancing at them.

Jackson let out a derisive laugh, making Allison shrink back a bit more. "Football's a joke at Beacon," he said, still chuckling. "The sport here is lacrosse. We've won the state championship for the past three years."

"Because of a certain team captain," Lydia proclaimed loudly, reaching up to play with Jackson's hair.

Charlie scoffed and rolled her eyes at the display. "It's true," she piped up, folding her arms across her chest and learning back against the lockers. "The other nine guys have nothing to do with it. They just stand on the sidelines and let Jackson do his thing. They're more like glorified cheerleaders really."

Allison worked hard to hide a smile behind her hand while Jackson glared evilly. "Ignore Charlie," he said bitterly. "She generally has no idea what she's talking about."

"He's right, I don't," Charlie threw in. "Like those three championships. You're a sophomore, right? So did you get held back twice or were you only there for one of those?"

Jackson looked like he was preparing to bite her head off, but before he got the chance, another voice intervened. "Guys," Lydia interjected, staring them both down with the look of a kindergarten teacher. "We talked about this. Be nice. At least in public."

Jackson's face heated up to the point she thought the fumes from his hair product might cause his head to spontaneously combust. His teeth gritted in a forced smile. "Come and see for yourself," he said, turning to Allison once again. "We have practice in a few minutes. That is, if you don't have anything else…."

Allison glanced around, searching for some form of escape. "Well I was going to—"

"Perfect!" Lydia declared, cutting her off. "You're coming."

The redhead grabbed hold of Allison's hand and dragged her a few feet down the hall before glancing over her shoulder to find Charlie rooted solidly in place. "Charlie, come on! You don't want to miss out on any hot lacrosse boys running around in their gear do you?"

"Oh, no, I'm sitting this one out," Charlie replied, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm going to the library, getting some homework out of the way."

Lydia gaped at her. "Seriously? It's the first day of school—how much work could you possibly have to do? Don't be ridiculous. You're coming."

"Nope," Charlie said, popping the 'p'. "I'm pretty sure Mel has a truancy officer on speed dial to make sure I'm not turning into a drugged up dropout. It's time for me to occupy the 'ideal teenager' niche. I'm going to the library where I will do a month's worth of chemistry homework and show it to her so she can calm the hell down."

Lydia narrowed her eyes and stuck her lower lip out in a pout. "You're no fun."

Allison was left glancing back and forth between them, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Who's Mel?"

Charlie didn't get a chance to answer. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Lydia began to stomp down the hallway, dragging Allison along with her. Watching them go, Charlie cupped her hands and brought them to her mouth to shout after them. "Remember, Allison! If you start enjoying yourself, you're probably suffering from Stockholm Syndrome!"

True to her word, Charlie made her way to the library, found a comfortable spot, and hauled out her chemistry book. Like copy of Kafka, it had a worn look to it—frayed cover corners, doodles in the page corners, warped pages from being dropped in a puddle at one point or another. Luckily for her, the past owner seemed to have been a bad student as it remained untouched by highlighters. She grabbed her own and set to work on chapter one. Of all the classes she was taking that semester, chemistry was the one most likely to kick her ass.

Everything she had said to Lydia was 100% true. Aunt Mel was freaking out. A lot. Of course she still carried herself with that calm, composed exterior, but beneath it she was scrambling. Hell, parenting books had replaced the issues of Vogue and Vanity Fair on her bedside table. Food, finances, discipline, school, college—a giant mountain of crap had just been dumped on her lap. This was the best way Charlie could think of to stop the crazy train before it jumped the tracks.

Anyways, if Charlie was being honest, she didn't mind spending her first day holed up in the library. She found libraries oddly soothing. Particularly school libraries as they had a habit of being completely empty. And they smelled of old books. That smell always got to her—the smell of knowledge and imagination. And there was the added bonus she wouldn't have to watch Jackson and his ridiculous male posturing. He struck enough poses, the team might as well be mounting a high school production of 'Zoolander'.

By the time she left the library, Charlie's car was one of the last in the lot. The sky had faded to a darkened grey and the chemistry book in her bag had an index card wedged in the fifth chapter, marking her spot. She clambered into the car and crossed her fingers as the key slid into the ignition, softly chanting 'please, please, please' under her breath. The engine revved to life, wrenching a small cry of victory from her lips. A wide smile painted her face as the car pulled out of the parking lot, windows down and blasting 'AC/DC' out of the speakers. She was ready to be home, showered, with a good book and a heaping serving of ice cream. Unfortunately, the universe seemed to have other plans.

BANG!

The noise was accompanied by a violent lurching of the car. The seatbelt bit into Charlie's shoulder as her body lunged forwards. That would probably leave a bruise. "Oh, shit, shit, shit," she groaned, grimacing at the sensation.

Charlie pulled the car to the side of the road and climbed out, letting the engine idle. If she turned it off, there was a good chance it wouldn't start again and she did not want to be stranded on the set of 'The Blair Witch Project'. She looked to see if she had any indication of where she actually was. Without signs to direct her, she had no way to know exactly where she was. In some ways Beacon Hills was one giant labyrinth of trees. Slowly, she circled the car, letting her eyes rake over it for any potential issues until she came to a stop at the back left wheel.

"Son of a bitch."

A giant dark mass protruded from the tire—or what remained of it. The thing had blown out completely. Charlie went back to the driver's seat, turned off the engine, and popped the trunk. Grabbing a motor-oil-stained rag, she moved back to the deflated tire and carefully wrapped the rag around the piece of debris. With one violent yank, she pulled out whatever it was that had caused the blowout. She held it up to the light and squinted carefully.

"Holy shit."

An antler. An honest-to-god antler from a fully grown adult male deer. Or so her obsessive viewing of the Discover Channel told her. The edge that had punctured the tire was splintering and had fractured into a point, like it had somehow been broken off. And there was blood around the breaking point from that velvet lining the bone, meaning the deer had been alive when it happened. How was that even possible? What would have the strength to do that, let alone the motivation? Weird. This town was weird. And weird shit happened in the woods.

Charlie's internal monologue was cut off abruptly at the sound of distant, rumbling thunder. Great. The one think that could improve having a tire blow out in a middle of nowhere woodland road. Rain. Excellent.

Standing up, Charlie held the antler a moment longer, considering what to do with it. After a few moments she went back to the trunk of her car, wrapped it in a few more rags, and placed it carefully in the corner between her mini-toolbox and ice-road chains before hauling out the jack and spare tire.

Snatching a spare hair tie from her messenger bag, Charlie quickly plaited her long, brown hair into a messy braid. Ugh. This ensemble, while a suitable introduction to the school year, was not conducive to impromptu car repairs. She kicked off the heeled ankle boots, chucking them into the back seat almost violently before groping around in the back seat for the pair of green Converse she had stashed their that morning. Well, that was as good as it was gonna get. time to get to work.

After about 25 minutes, Charlie was pretty close to finished with the tire change. Her hands, as exhausted and sweaty as the rest of her, slipped against the handle of the allen wrench as she secured the last bolt. If Lydia could see her now, the girl might have a stroke. Chunks of hair stuck out of her braid at random points, her eyeliner had smudged, and her cheeks featured giant pink splotches that had nothing to do with the blush that had been shoved in her bag that morning. Not a pretty sight, even by Charlie's standards. She was just tightening the last of the nuts when all of the sudden, a loud jangling interrupted the general sounds of nature.

Spitting out some stray hairs that had somehow found their way into her mouth, Charlie dropped her tools and got to her feet. She brushed off her skirt, wincing at the sight of her tights. They had gaping holes at her knees, which were dotted with indentations where the rough gravel dug into her skin. Charlie circled to the front of the car, and sure enough 'Don't You Want Me, Baby?' was blasting from her phone. Leaning through the open window, she grappled around in her bag until she was able to extract her phone. Once again she was confronted by the image of a grinning face with enthusiastic finger guns.

"What's up, Donald?" she demanded, pressing her phone to her ear.

"That's twice now, Ozzy," his voice declared, breaking out her grade school nickname. Usually he just went with Oz, but Ozzy only ever got thrown back in rotation when he was mildly pissed about something but trying not to be. Charlie swore internally and gritted her teeth. The post first day check-in. She had missed it. Damn, this move had her all twisted up.

Charlie collapsed against the car with an apologetic grunt and pressed her hand to her forehead, probably smearing a not insignificant amount of grease across it. "Sorry," she mumbled into the receiver. "Shit. Sorry, Donald. I've been having a bit of a day."

"Yeah," he replied, his voice a little short. "That's kinda the point of calling me, right? You get to complain about how annoying about everybody is and then I make fun of them for you. I like making fun of stupid people. It's like…my third favorite pastime."

"After Halo and live-tweeting shitty movies—I know."

"Then you know what you're depriving me of," he replied, his tone still colored with dissatisfaction.

"I know, I know," she sighed. "I got caught up and the library—"

"Nerd."

"—and then my car tire blew out," she continued, glancing around, looking for any other forms of sentient life. Nope. She was completely alone. "I am currently stranded in the middle of nowhere. Plus it looks like it's gonna rain soon."

"Yeah, enough about your problems," he interrupted. "It's time for my news."

"Okay," Charlie nodded, unfazed by the abrupt topic shift. "Hit me. What's you news?"

When he spoke again, the edge of bitterness had completely abandoned his tone. One of the more best things about Donald—he had a short attention span when it came to things like anger and frustration. "Well, Oz," he announced, his stupid grin audible in his voice, "who has two thumbs and just made first line on the soccer team? Oh, yeah. That'd be me."

"And ten other guys," Charlie tacked on, smirking a bit as she waited for the grumpy spluttering that would inevitably follow that comment.

"Hey, hey, hey," Donald interrupted. "Stop crapping on my parade. I made first line, and my badassery will be appreciated. I mean sure the whole team is basically a lightly microwaved bowl of oatmeal in terms of skill level, but I'm pretty good. Which means that here, I'm awesome. Seriously, unless we get a foreign exchange student from one of those soccer crazed countries—"

"Also known as anywhere that isn't the U.S."

"—I'm basically a god at this school," he barreled on. "And do you know what that means?"

Charlie wrinkled her nose, wrapping one arm around her middle and sunk further against the car. "I'm not sure I want to know what that means, Donald," she murmured. "But I'm going to go ahead and say offerings of food."

"It means girls," Donald continued, not even acknowledging that she had said anything at all. "It means lots of girls. Because I am officially a stud. it says so on my student ID card and everything. You had your chance in the seventh grade, Oz, but I am on to bigger and better things."

"I'm weeping inside," Charlie deadpanned, rolling her eyes heavily. "But seriously, man, congratulations."

"Thank you," he proclaimed loudly, with less sarcasm than she had expected. "Okay, so now it's your turn. What's the daily dish?"

Charlie bit her lip, her eyes flicking up to the skyline. The dark, looming clouds were slowly creeping in, ready to unleash a downpour on her head. She stayed on the phone, though. If she hung up on Donald, he would call her every minute on the minute until she picked up again. Patience was not among his many positive qualities. "I met a girl named Allison who seems pretty cool," she said with a shrug. "Apparently someone got murdered in the woods last night. My chemistry teacher's a total psycho. Plus there's this coach guy wh—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Donald interjected, cutting her off. "Did you just say there was a murder in the woods last night?"

"Yeah," Charlie smirked. "Crazy, right?"

The line went quiet for a moment, making Charlie frown in confusion. Quiet generally wasn't Donald's thing. "Um, hello?" she prompted.

"Someone got murdered in the woods and that's not what you lead with?" he exploded. "Son of a—Oswin, where are your priorities?"

"On the stuff that actually happened to me," Charlie replied easily.

A giant squawking noise of protest louder than the nearby violent cracks of thunder emanated from the speaker, forcing Charlie to pull the phone away from her ear.

"Okay, just for future reference," Donald grumbled, "you always lead with the murder. I mean, how cool is that? Nothing interesting like that ever happens here. I wish we'd have a murder."

"Are you actively rooting for murder?" Charlie scoffed.

"You have no idea how boring it is here, Oz," he whined. "I'm in freaking New England. This weekend somebody suggested we go apple-picking. Like…for fun. As a form of recreation. Somebody our age!"

If the idea of murder but a wince on Charlie's face, the idea of apple-picking tattooed that wince on said face where it would remain on a permanent basis. "Jesus," Charlie muttered under her breath. "Are you living in Stepford?"

"Basically," he muttered back in a quiet, almost evasive tone. She could picture him glancing around his immediate surroundings, ensuring some sweater-clad agent of the homeowner's association didn't overhear him. Donald the discount suburban spy. "Everybody here wears argyle and owns a set of golf clubs. And they smile all the time—it's weird. I would kill for a murder."

Charlie wrinkled her nose at his wording, but opted not to make any comment on it. Then, before she could make any comment at all, a sort of crashing noise came from the forest behind the Impala. On instinct Charlie pushed herself of the passenger side door, spun around, and peered over the hood of the car at the woods beyond. They were still—oddly still. Or maybe that was just paranoia kicking in from all the murder talk. That single dried, dead leaf falling from a tree and slowly floating to the ground felt ominous. For a moment she thought she had invented the sound on her own—pesky subconscious and all that—but just as the feeling of anticipation began to drop, the sound of a twig snapping echoed against the trees.

Operating under the inexplicable assumption that somebody was about to axe-murder her, Charlie snatched up the allen wrench from where it lay on the ground. "Hold on," she muttered into the phone. "There's someone in the woods."

"Whoa, you're in the woods?" Donald exclaimed, sounding both too cheerful and too concerned for her taste. "You're in the murder woods right now?"

"No, my car has a flat," she drawled in response. "The road happens to be next to the woods. Everything is next to the woods here. And don't call them the murder woods."

"But you hear someone there, right?" Donald pressed. "Is it the killer?"

"How should I know?" she sniped back. "Killers don't really wear name badges or post their crimes on their LinkedIn profiles, do they?"

"No. Facebook is a much better way of publicizing it."

"Donald!"

"Maybe you could ask him," Donald mused. "Wait, I'm assuming the murderer a guy. Is that sexist? I feel like that's sexist. Girls are totally capable of murder—they can do anything, just ask my mom."

Charlie let out a sigh and tugged at the end of her braid. "You realize that asking the murderer if they're a murderer involves me getting close enough to said murderer to be murdered myself."

"That sounds about right," Donald agreed. "Now Charlie, be real with me. Serious question time. If you die a gruesome, horrible death in the murder woods, will that hot redhead from this morning be at your funeral?"

"Your concern means the world to me, Donald," Charlie replied dully. "I've gotta go now."

"Okay! Let me know if you're dead."

"Will do."

Hanging up the phone, Charlie clutched it in her hand and waited. Those small, incidental snaps and crashing noises increased in both volume and frequency. Eventually it added up to the sound of a few people plodding carelessly through the brush. The closer the noise approached, the tighter her hand cinched in around the grip of the allen wrench. After a few moments, though, two voices reached her ears as well. Two distinctly non-threatening voices, one of which even sounded a little familiar.

"No, man, I'm telling you!" the familiar voice said. "That was Derek freaking Hale! I mean did you get a look at that guy? He could totally be a creepy murderer person! He had serial killer eyes—I'm telling you!"

"Serial killer eyes are not a thing!" the second voice protested. "And you heard what Mr. Hobson said. They've got a suspect in custody."

"Um, excuse me while I break out my dictionary—oh yeah, 'suspect' and 'actual murderer guy' have different definitions. Seriously, like the police have never been wrong? I am familiar with the inner workings of the police department and I can honestly say that some of those guys barely function on a fifth grade reading level."

"Keep walking! I'm gonna be late for work!" There was a short pause accompanied by a loud thwack. "Ow! What was that for?"

"For not listening to me! And don't think I've forgotten about all this weird hearing and smelling stuff. Imagine what that's gonna be like next time you go to the movie theater. Oh, man, it's gonna be rank—"

The words came to a screeching halt as the two figures broke the line of trees and stumbled onto the ground. It was those same two guys again—Stilinski and the one majorly crushing on Allison. They were everywhere. The both of them froze like deer in headlights, and she slowly released her hold on the allen wrench. They looked plenty scared of her to begin with—no need to bring blunt instruments into it.

"Um, hey," she said, giving them a wave. They just blinked at her, staying completely silent. "Uh, I'm Charlie. I think I'm in your English class. And your Chem class." More silence. "I'm pretty sure this is the part where you tell me your names. Or just, you know, talk. In general."

"R—right!" the Stilinski guy said, snapping out of whatever fugue state he had lapsed into. "I'm Stiles," he continued, gesturing at himself, "and this—" he clapped his hand on the guy's shoulder "—this is my buddy Scott. And we—" he pointed back and forth between the two of them "—we are in your English class."

"And Chem class," Charlie added.

"And Chem class," he agreed, planting his hands on his hips and nodding with a special sort of jittery enthusiasm. "What are—what are you doing here?"

Charlie made a face and held up the allen wrench. "I got a flat tire," she said bluntly. "What are you doing here?"

"Just chillin'!" he answered a little too quickly. "You know…walking around, seeing the sights, birds chirping, with though trees…air…that sort of thing."

Well that was certainly some fidgety and generally evasive behavior. The two of them were definitely up to something suspicious. Interest piqued. "Really?" she said, raising her eyebrows pointedly. "You're just wandering aimlessly in the woods? As far as extracurriculars go, that one doesn't really seem to hold all that much appeal."

"We were looking for my inhaler," Scott blurted out, making Stiles sigh in frustration and shake his head. Scott's eyes seemed to widen, like he realized that he had made some terrible mistake. "I—I, uh, dropped it last night. When we were out here…in the woods…doing…stuff…chillin'…."

"Why were you wandering around the woods at night?" she inquired further, scrunching up her face in confusion.

Scott opened his mouth and closed it again. "Fresh air?"

"You know, you ask lots of questions," Stiles declared, wagging a finger at her.

"Yeah?" Charlie replied defensively, folding her arms across her chest and perching on the hood of her car. "Well you guys say a lot of weird crap that invites questions. For instance, wandering around in the woods at night…dropping inhalers… I'd say that's pretty weird."

Stiles blew out a long breath and scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly, looking extremely guilty. "We were—we were looking for the body. The one they found the other day."

Charlie blinked and cocked her head to the side in consideration. "Wouldn't the cops have the body?"

The boys exchanged a look before returning their eyes back to her. Scott spoke first. "The body…it was sort of cut in half."

"Bisected," Stiles added, lifting up a hand to make a sawing motion while wincing. "I mean that's how the cops put it. They have one bit. We were looking for…the other bit."

Charlie pursed her lips in thought, looking between the two of them curiously. "Which way?"

"Which was the body?" Scott mumbled, looking around him like he expected it to fall out of a nearby tree. "We don't really know where it is."

"No, I mean which way was it cut in half," she elaborated. "I mean was it cut off at the waist—legs from torso—or was it like a line down the middle, Body World exhibit style. That would be way more terrifying, but a hell of a lot cooler."

The two of them gaped at her like she had sprouted a second head which had then proceeded to ask her that question. Stiles let out an awkward laugh and rocked back and forth on his heels. "Don't, uh, don't you think that's a bit morbid?"

Charlie let out a loud snort. "As opposed to trying to track down half a dead body in the woods?"

He opened and closed his mouth like he was about to say something and snapped it shut again before pointing at her. "That's—that's a good point."

The three of them stood there in the road for a moment, just staring at each other. It was like some bizarre Western shootout, replacing the gunfire and death with face-palming and social awkwardness. Which is basically the social equivalent of death when one is in high school. They probably would have stood in that hell much longer, but a massive crack of thunder cut their collective silence short.

"Right," Charlie said, hopping off the hood of her car. "Well I'm going to get the hell out of here before the weather goes to shit." She circled the car and tossed the allen wrench in the trunk before squatting down next to the wheel to remove the jack.

"Oh, right," Stiles said, him and Scott rounding the side of the car as well. "Do you need any help with th—okay, you seem to have it pretty much covered."

Charlie yanked the jack out from under the car and stood up, wiping some of the sweat and a few stray hairs out of her eyes. "Yeah," she mumbled, waving the jack around a bit before tossing it next to the allen wrench. "Hey," she chirped suddenly, turning back to face them. "You wouldn't happen to have a car around here, would you?"

The two exchanged a look again, looking like they were trying to synch up their stories. "Y—yeah, my Jeep's just around the corner," Stiles said, jerking his thumb to indicate at the bend behind them. "Why, do you need a ride? Your spare looks pretty much set to me—you should be good to go."

"It's not the tire," she said, rapping her knuckles against the hood of the car. "The spark plugs on this things are shot—they're pretty much just electrical tape now. I doubt I'd be able to start her up again on her own, and I'd rather not call a cab or towing company. Do you think you could help me jumpstart the engine? Pretty please?"

Stiles blinked and gave her a curious look before nodding. "Sure. Absolutely. Anything for a damsel in distress." The withering look she shot him made him falter for a moment. "Nope. Never mind. No damsels here. Only independent, self-sufficient ladies in need of a teensy bit of help."

A small smirk pulled at Charlie's lips. "Better."

"Right," Stiles bit out. "Good. I'm just gonna…I'll get the ca—yeah."

Within about five minutes they had the jumper cables all set up and she was gleefully revving the engine of her car. The three of them said their goodbyes—which were as awkward as the rest of their interaction—and drove off in their respective directions. All in all it should have been an isolated incident—a little car trouble on the side of the road. But for some reason when she pulled into the driveway, Charlie couldn't stop thinking about that weird confluence of events. The antler, the severed body, those two weirdos stomping around in the forest, and whoever the hell Derek Hale with the 'serial killer eyes' was. The whole thing was very 'Twilight Zone'.

Well, one thing was for sure. This year was not going to be boring.

And Donald was going to lose his shit when he found out how much he was missing out on.


Chapter 2 – Car Trouble SOUNDTRACK

Driving to school, entering the school, chatting with Stiles and Scott.

-~-~-~-~-~Scott Get The Van, I'm Moving - Cayetana

Walking through the school and meeting Allison. I don't know why, but the image of Charlie wandering around the school set to hotel-sounding French music was kind of funny to me. Kind had a casual apathy feel to it, which is kind of how she approaches the first day of school, soooo...

-~-~-~-~-~Une Fraction De Seconde - Holden

Charlie introduces herself to the class.

-~-~-~-~-~Parklife - Blur

In the hallway with Allison and introducing Lydia and Jackson.

-~-~-~-~-~You, Me, & the Bourgeoisie – The Submarines

Getting a flat tire and encountering some weird stuff in the woods.

-~-~-~-~-~That Ain't Right - Pyyramids


References (in no particular order):

1) The Impala is a Supernatural reference as all of you lovelies had most likely guessed! Except for that the one in SPN is a 1967 Impala. I made it a 1966 Impala with the express purpose of annoying all of you guys because I am, in fact, a lil' shit.

2) Direwolves! Game of Thrones. Which was totally awesome before it continued the trend of blatant misogyny and the use of women as props, thereby pissing me of to an extreme degree. The show, that is. I haven't read the books. I still need to, though.

3) Timber Wolves. Apparently this was a Vampire Diaries reference? Totally unintentional. I don't really watch TVD but was just thinking of wolf names. Happy accidents.

4) Imperial March Darth Vader Theme! Star Wars. Sigh. The first moment of shared interest...

5) 'Walk walk fashion baby' is from a song I've heard around. I think it's Lady Gaga?

6)'These are not the droids you're looking for!' Star Wars! The whole wave thing...

7) The 'Oh captain, my captain' and standing on desks and stuff is a reference to 'Dead Poet Society'

8) Allison watches Mean Girls!

9) Fashion Police

10) 'The Blair Witch Project' - fun fact, I'm pretty sure I went camping in the woods where they filmed it. Or at least it seemed that way. Creepy fucking woods I got stuck in. Seriously.

11) I think I threw a Scooby Doo reference in there somewhere.

12) I snuck that MTV one in there!

13) "The best preparation for tomorrow is doing your best today" - H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

14) "Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety nine percent perspiration" - Thomas Edison.

15) 31 Flavors is a Baskin Robbins allusion.

16) GOLDEN GIRLS. Betty White is everything.

17) Twilight Zone!