Chapter Four: Tumultuous Tuesday
Stiles hadn't ridden the bus since he was in middle school. He waited on the curb, backpack slung over his left shoulder, bruises safely concealed under a thick cable-knit turtleneck sweater, though the day was warm and bright. He dug the toe of his worn sneaker into a crevice in the sidewalk, counting cracks in the pavement. Step on a crack, break your mother's back. The big yellow monstrosity pulled up shortly, brakes and doors swinging open with a teeth-grinding squeal. Stiles glanced once over his shoulder. Three houses down, he could feel Lahey's eyes on him, peering invisibly from behind the curtains. Languidly sipping his second cup of coffee from that stout white mug.
The driver nodded at him with poorly concealed disinterest and mild contempt as he mounted the steps. Sudden and inexplicable panic rose in the back of his throat like bile. His palms broke out in a cold sweat. The length of the bus seemed to stretch endlessly before him, a sea of indistinguishable faces floating over tattered vinyl seats, like hallways in his nightmares. Stiles considered turning around and bolting, but the doors groaned shut behind him. The driver, impatient to drop his load of delinquents off and return home to his DVR and episodes of "Breaking Bad" and "Mad Men," pulled heedlessly into early morning traffic. The bus lurched. Stiles stumbled forward.
He wished this was all a bad dream – like the ones where he showed up to school naked – and he would soon wake up to the aggravated beeping of his alarm clock and his father calling up to him with shouts of "Stiles! Breakfast!" He started down the aisle, holding onto the edges of seats as he passed, to keep himself from lurching forward and falling flat on his face. A few glassy, sleep-crusted eyes watched him. Most gazed out the windows or down at their cellphones – their mindless abbreviations and games of Candy Crush.
The majority of the kids were grade or middle-schoolers. The younger kids congregated near the front, the older youth in the back. Stiles passed the girls in pigtails and Disney Princess backpacks, the little boys with superhero sneakers and freckled cheeks. The giggly young women with pierced ears, whispering about how cute so-and-so was or rolling their eyes. The juvenile boys, in baggy pants and ball caps, making lewd comments, trying to win the attention of the girls chewing bubble gum like cows masticating cud.
The bus was rank with the smell of sweat and fruity body sprays. Too much Axe and a dizzying medley of girly scents, an overwhelming cacophony of olfactory stimulation that gave him a headache. Permeated by a faint, undeniable whiff of flatulence and puke – cleaned up long ago, except for the lingering ghost of its scent which would not be so easily exorcised. A paper-wad went flying through the air, followed up an elastic band connecting with the back of some poor kid's head. A boy belched loudly, earning the approving laughter of his buddies.
Stiles lurched forward again as the bus braked suddenly at a Stop sign. A blotchy faced kid wearing blue Adidas sneakers and his friends snickered. "Loser," the boy coughed conspicuously, triumphing in his hateful vocabulary and snotty sneer. He was adept in the art of redirecting attention from his own unattractiveness by belittling everyone else. His pals encouraged his abuse with their mocking jeers and cowardly silence.
One of the sneakers shot out in front of Stiles' foot, and the teen only just caught his balance before face-planting. He righted himself unsteadily and continued to search for a seat. This was the longest 25 seconds of his life. He glanced hopefully at the vacant spot beside a pretty blond eighth-grader, but she quickly thrust her bag into the empty space, turned up her nose, and shoved a set of pink rose earbuds into her ears.
Stiles felt his anxiety dislodge from his throat and plunge into his stomach, where it nestled in a gut-wrenching knot. Perspiration broke out sticky and hot under his armpits. It was a kind of moist, clinging, animal, prepubescent panic he hadn't felt since freshman year. The kind that awakens with the onset of middle school and hormones and a budding awareness of the opposite sex, whispering new-formed fears of rejection and fitting in, of zits before prom and dates at Dairy Queen on a Thursday night. Irrational worries – more pressing than homework or parents or inconsequential matters like Global Warming or pandemic poverty – of tripping down the stairs in front of a crowd or starting your period the day you decided to wear a white skirt, or having your pretty crush laugh in your face – how hilariously absurd, the thought that a girl like her would ever date a boy like you. Dog-eat-dog hierarchies in the cut-throat jungle of teenage politics. Cliques and groups and boxes you try to fit yourself into, as if the person you are in high school is the person you'll be for the rest of your life.
If he wasn't nervous of being trampled, he'd sit in the middle of the aisle and wait for this hellish bus ride to end. Right about now, he really wished his buddy Scott was with him.
Stiles searched frantically for a friendly face. Finding none, he sought simply a familiar face. Near the back of the bus he spotted Boyd. Good, old, surly, reliable Boyd. Boyd who always ate alone at the same lunch table day after day, and who was rumoured to be able to procure whatever high school contraband your teenage heart desired – bongs, Playboy magazines, unfiltered cigarettes, cherry bombs, pirated pre-releases of new games, next week's math test answers, a little juice to give you an extra edge at Saturday's lacrosse game. Whatever you wished – for a price, of course.
Stiles launched himself into the vacant seat beside the hulking Boyd, thankful for a familiar (albeit grumpy) face. He grinned goofily up at his classmate. "Hiya, Boyd," Stiles chirped. "How are ya?" He couldn't actually remember if Boyd was the teen's last name or first, of even if it was just a nickname he went by, perhaps substituting a longer or more complicated or unusual name for the simple four letter appellation (just as Stiles did with his real name). He had only ever known the boy as Boyd – that one name setting him apart like Madonna or Charo or Cher – or, perhaps more appropriately, when taking in the teen's size and perma-scowl – Eminem, Jay-Z, 50 Cent, or Dr. Dre.
Boyd replied with a cold, steely glare – a look as chilly as frost-bite. "You can sit here, but don't talk to me."
"Okay." Stiles twiddled his thumbs. He turned to watch out the window, but Boyd was closest to it, and he had the distinct impression that glancing too long in Boyd's direction was like baiting a wild bear. He averted his eyes, and from the safety of his seat, restlessly considered his fellow passengers. He was a safari explorer studying the natural wildlife of a new, foreign, and hostile area, examining new species up close and personal – up until the point he is attacked by deranged, manic monkeys or carelessly shoves his head into the lion's mouth for a closer look.
There was a cylindrical tube sticking out of the unzippered top of Boyd's backpack. Stiles' eyes fell curiously upon it. "Cool!" he exclaimed. This must be a selection of Boyd's new merchandise. "Is that-?"
Boyd swatted Stiles' impulsive, wandering hand away. Though he hadn't hit him hard, Stiles' fingers stung from the contact, and he noticed for the first time the odd angle of his thumb. "No," Boyd barked, zipping his bag, and shifting it and his large body as far away from Stiles as he could. Which wasn't very far. Stiles sulked gloomily. This day was not off to a good start. He wondered how much worse it could possibly get.
TEENWOLF
Isaac had never possessed his very own mode of transportation. Sure, he had had a bicycle as a kid, but he had long since outgrown it, and as a teenager he found himself dependent on the bus, his own two feet, and his father to take him were he needed to go. None of these methods allowing him any real range of movement. The bus, while reliable, only took him to and from school (which, granted, constituted about half of his life). Beacon Hills was a relatively small town; public transit was non-existent. His father was exceedingly strict about where Isaac could and could not go and when.
Even Isaac's own feet failed him. They did not offer the freedom poets and philosophers so eloquently expressed. They were often hindered by his father; in the Lahey household, Mr. Lahey exercised as much power and authority as God Himself, taking and giving (mostly taking) from Isaac all the rights and privileges Nature had gifted him. His poor, vulnerable feet were no match against locked doors and the basement, against his father's wrath and the beatings, which left him too sore and weak to lift himself off the floor, too beaten down and broken to find the energy or desire to just walk out the front door and keep walking. To walk and walk and walk, until everything he had ever known disappeared behind him, and he would never look back.
Isaac had often seen Stiles' blue 1980 Jeep CJ5 parked at school or the sheriff's station or a burger joint downtown. He had thought, if he ever thought about Stiles' Jeep at all, that it was an old dinosaur of a vehicle, a blue rumbling beacon of attention – hey look at me! – that set Stiles apart as slightly odd. Now, as he slid behind the wheel, keys in hand, he thought it was the most beautiful Jeep in existence. The murmur of the engine was music to his ears. The gas pedal beneath his foot seemed to open up the entire world before him. The steering wheel was an embodiment of independence.
He was disappointed the school was only a ten minute drive from the Stilinski residence. The Jeep was a freedom he had never known, and he felt he finally understand Stiles' unwavering loyalty to the ancient piece of junk on four wheels. If he thought he could get away with it, Isaac would drive right out of town, out of California. Maybe he'd drive up to through Canada to Alaska and see the Northern lights. Or drive east until he couldn't drive any further and dip his toes in the cold Atlantic Ocean. The possibilities were endless.
Unfortunately, possibilities lost to practicalities, and didn't take him any further than Beacon Hills High School. The supposed center of higher learner with which Isaac had always had a mixed relationship.
The bus was unloading when Isaac pulled into the lot and parked in one of the spaces reserved for juniors. Isaac got out slowly, placing one foot on the solid ground, and then the other; he felt like one of those badass cops in action films, the sun glinting off their sunglasses and vehicles, ready to take down some mofo. Very cool, very heroic, very suave. Isaac slammed the door and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He was feeling high, amazed at how great he felt, how wonderfully this wish was taking shape.
"Don't slam the doors of my Jeep!" The shout came several metres from his left. Stiles was running toward him. He was dressed differently than usual, and Isaac felt a weird wave of deja-vu. It was like looking into a bizarre fun house mirror. "Oh my God, my Jeep! You're driving my Jeep!" Stiles threw himself at the vehicle, inspecting the hood and doors with a critical eye.
"Keep your voice down." Several students had stopped to gawk. A few snickered. If there was one thing Isaac absolutely hated, it was drawing attention to himself.
"I can't believe you're driving my Jeep! And I had to take the bus!" Stiles jabbed a finger in Isaac's face. "You better not have been too hard on the clutch!"
"Stiles, I wasn't. Chill out." Isaac paused. "How do you know this is your Jeep?"
"What do you mean 'how do I know it's my Jeep?' Of course, it's my Jeep! You don't think I would recognize my own baby? The question is: why are you driving my Jeep? What the hell is going on?" Clearly Stiles was aware of the change; when he had asked the sheriff to give him a ride this morning, Stilinksi had stared at him like he had three heads and, very slowly, had suggested he should just take his Jeep instead. His Jeep. Isaac's.
Isaac wasn't sure how to answer Siles' last question, how to even begin to explain. He was still trying to figure it all out himself. "Where did you wake up this morning?"
Stiles' eyes narrowed suspiciously. He examined Isaac, noting the subtle changes in the boy's clothing and appearance. Isaac seemed to stand taller, prouder. He was definitely dressed better, and he looked rosier, healthier. He had a weird glow going on. In fact, he was almost...hot.
Stiles was on the defensive. Admitting he had woken up in Isaac's house would make this conversation weird – well, weirder – and if he said that sentence aloud, it would make the situation real. Unless he was dreaming, and dream Isaac was just being a dum-dum. "Where did you wake up this morning?"
"Will you stop being difficult for once and answer the question?"
"You first."
Isaac sighed. Might as well go right for the truth, like ripping off a band-aid: "I woke up in your house, okay? In your house, in your room. In your bed, actually. Only apparently, it's my bed, because all my stuff was in the room. Your dad was totally unsurprised to see me in your house. He made me breakfast and sent me to school. He...he thinks I'm his son, and that you're... well, that you're not." Stiles flashbacked to Mr. Lahey's words at breakfast. He had called Isaac Sheriff Stilinski's son. He had claimed ownership over Stiles. He had warned him to stay away. "What is it?" Isaac asked, reading Stiles' face.
"I...I woke up in your house. Your dad is under the same impression: that you're my dad's son and that...I'm his son." Isaac examined Stiles more closely – the baggy jeans, the scuffed sneakers, the oversized dark turtleneck. There were bruises along his friend's jaw, cheekbone, and forehead. Oh God, did that mean...? "Okay, this is really starting to freak me out now. What kind of twisted universe separates me from my Jeep?!"
Isaac rolled his eyes; he was snappier with his replies today. A new-found boldness and, dare he say, sarcasm swelled within him. "Would you give it a rest already? It's just a Jeep."
"It is not just a Jeep! The fact that you just said that means you are not worthy to be driving it!"
What was it with Stiles and his vehicle? He hadn't even thought to ask about his father. HE doesn't deserve a father like Sheriff Stilinski, Isaac thought ungraciously, and then felt instantly guilty for thinking such a thought. If children were birthed in families they deserved, he didn't want to think that he deserved having Mitch Lahey as a father.
Isaac started walking towards the school, his strides unusually long and steady. Stiles hurried to keep up with him. "How the hell is this happening?"
"I'm not sure. I think it might have something to do with the mine."
"The mine?" Stiles didn't understand; Isaac hadn't even gone inside the mine, had he? Stiles had planned this big adventure, and then his friends were too cowardly to join him. This all came back to his head injury. No wonder he was in so much pain. "I have a concussion, don't I? This is all a brain-injury induced hallucination."
Isaac shook his head. "No, I think this is real." He glanced around at the students milling around the hallways, chatting and laughing, pushing past them to get to lockers and homerooms. He thought about his morning shower and the pancakes Stilinski had made him. The steering wheel under his fingers, the driver's seat cradling his butt, a tonne of metal under his command. "It feels real."
Stiles took inventory of his body again, noting each part he could feel – some for the first time. He hadn't realized certain places on one's body could ache. He tested the alignment of his left thumb, the one he had noticed on the bus. It was crooked and the movement was disjointed, like an elderly person's with severe arthritis. "Yeah."
"I found a penny in the mine, and I made a wish."
"You made a wish on a penny?"
"It had Abe Lincoln's face printed backwards." Isaac offered by way of rationalization.
"You wished on a weird penny," Stiles scoffed, "and suddenly we swap lives...like what, Freaky Friday? I'm Lindsay Lohan and your Jamie Lee Curtis? That makes zero sense."
"I didn't say it made sense," Isaac snapped. "I just think that's what happened." They navigated the crowded hallways, Isaac trying to make himself invisible and small. A few guys from the lacrosse team said hello and clapped him on the back. A couple cheerleaders waved. Usually no one noticed Isaac. At all. It was weird, slightly frightening, and a little exhilarating. Maybe being the only son of the town sheriff had given him some kind of status. "Besides in 'Freaky Friday,' they swap bodies. Their brains are like in each other's bodies, but everyone still sees the mother as the mother. I'm in my own body, and everyone is calling me by my own name. I think we've swapped lives."
"I've wished on pennies hundreds of time as a kid. None of those wishes ever came true."
Isaac shrugged. He stopped in front of his locker, but when he tried his combination, it wouldn't open. He would feel Stiles' critical gaze upon him, watching as his fingers spun and spun the dial, but nothing happened. It made him uneasy and irritable. He couldn't get it open with Stiles looking at him like that. For a long moment, Stiles was quiet, watching the dial turn around and around.
"What did you wish for?" he finally wondered. It was asked soberly, without the acerbic sarcasm of his other questions, and – Isaac felt – with an undertone of accusation, of suspicion. Stiles was taking this remarkably well, but there was still the fact that Isaac was the cause of all this. Somehow Isaac had taken what rightfully belonged to him.
"Not this," Isaac said simply. He wasn't sure now was the time for honesty.
"So how do we fix it?"
Isaac wasn't sure he wanted to fix it. He had woken up in a warm bed, had been greeted by a caring father, had showered and dressed without pain, and had driven himself to school for the first time ever. He didn't want this to end yet. If this was a dream, he wanted to stay asleep forever. If it wasn't, what were a few days? Was it so wrong to want to keep this change? Stiles didn't appreciate his blessings; he just wanted his stupid Jeep back.
"Why are you trying to open Stiles' locker?" Both boys jumped in surprise. Scott was watching him quizzically, his eyebrow arched.
"Stiles' locker?"
"Uh, yeah?"
"Oh, right." Of course it was Stiles' locker. The lockers were assigned alphabetically: L before S. His locker would be further down. "I just, uh..."
"He was trying to see if he could guess my combination," Stiles supplied; Isaac latched appreciatively onto the idea. Stiles had always been a quick-thinker, able to improvise and talk his way out of most situations.
Isaac stepped back and relinquished the lock to Stiles. He spun in his usual combination, and the lock opened easily. He was both unsurprised and apprehensive; this was another proof that what Isaac claimed was true. They had mystically, and for whatever reason, swapped lives. What had once belonged to Stiles now belonged to Isaac, and what had once been Isaac's...Stiles opened the locker door. The inside was jammed-pack with random objects – loose papers and school texts, an empty water bottle, a few t-shirts. It looked exactly like his own locker, expect filled past capacity, and with items he wasn't sure why he would bring to school – a couple books and dvds, stamped with the public library's name and crest, a toothbrush and a bottle of Advil, a flashlight and a pillow.
They had swapped lives, but clearly they hadn't swapped habits or personalities.
Scott was talking about a lacrosse practice neither Isaac nor Stiles remembered attending. Stiles extracted his Chemistry 101 textbook from the mess, being careful not to send anything flying to the floor, and then inconspicuously led Isaac to what had once been his own locker. He walked beside Isaac, and stopped at the appropriate locker. He couldn't let it seem like he had to show Isaac where it was.
Isaac tried his combination in the lock. It popped open in his hands. Unlike Stiles' locker, Isaac's was neat and orderly, holding the typical school items and little else. There were photos tacked inside the door with transparent tape. A shot of the lacrosse team and Isaac in his jersey, sans helmet. Candids of he and Scott camping, fishing, at the beach, at school. There was a photo of him leaning back against the Jeep, sunglasses on, a cool smirk lifting his lips, and a profile of a younger Sheriff Stilinski in full uniform.
There were also several images of Allison – alone and with Isaac. Up close shots and full-length ones. Photos of her smiling, laughing face, of her bikini clad body. Selfies with Isaac, her arms around his neck, her lips pressed to his cheek. Isaac and Stiles peeked at Scott – one nervously, the other curiously – trying to gauge his reaction. Clearly Isaac Stilinski had a thing for Allison Argent, Scott's high-school sweetheart. Only Scott didn't seem to notice anything odd or uncomfortable. He didn't frown at the photos or look away. He just kept yammering on about lacrosse. There didn't appear to be any tension between them.
Isaac grabbed his chem book and slammed the locker. Suddenly, a girl materialized at his side, her smile even bigger and more radiant than in the photos. She slipped her slender arms around Isaac's waist and kissed him deeply. "Good morning," she chirped happily, somewhat breathless, when she pulled away. "How's my favorite boyfriend this morning?"
"He's your only boyfriend," Lydia Martin quipped, heels clicking as she came up behind them. She hitched her purse higher up her shoulder. She stood next to Stiles, but didn't acknowledge him.
Boyfriend? Stiles and Isaac looked at each other in shock.
"What?" Allison caught the glance between them. Her brow furrowed. "What is it?"
"Nothing. I just...you mean me, right?"
Lydia laughed, but Allison's face darkened in concern. "Of course I mean you. I don't make a habit of calling just any boy my boyfriend. Are you okay?"
"No, of course you don't do that! I'm okay. I just...you're so beautiful..." Isaac blushed. Allison softened at the color rising in his cheeks, and reached for him again.
"Walk me to class?"
"S-sure." Allison grabbed his hand and began leading him down the hall. Isaac looked back at Stiles over his shoulder, and Stiles shrugged. Apparently there were a few major differences in this alternate reality. Stiles looked hopefully at Lydia, her red-blond curls bouncing over her shoulders. She watched the couple disappear down the hall, and clucked her tongue. "I bet Allison would love him even if he wasn't captain of the lacrosse team." Lydia shook her head in disbelief at such a ridiculous notion.
"Captain of the...?" Whatever the hell kind of wish Isaac had made, it was certainly working out well in his favor.
I apologize for the long gap between updates. I started a new full-time job, which has taken over my life, and sufficiently devoured the time I usually spend writing. I've also been struggling for inspiration on this fic, so I'm sorry if this chapter doesn't reach my usual standards.
What days would you guys like to see updates? Go to my profile and answer the poll to let me know. I'll try to update on the most voted days (at least once a month, hopefully more than that).
* Fun fact for this fic: I always name Sheriff Stilinski "John" (because I like the sound of it), but hadn't thought of a name for Mr. Lahey (who is never named in the series). I decided to give Lahey the name "Mitch," because the actor who portrays Lahey - John Wesley Shipp - also played Dawson's father, Mitch Leery, in another one of my fav shows: "Dawson's Creek." (Which I totally didn't realize at first, because his characters are so different. What a great actor!) He's also happens to play Henry Allen, Barry's father, in "The Flash."
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