Black Water (IN EDITING)

by It Belongs In A Museum

High school. It's difficult enough to navigate on its own. When Charlie Oswin moved to Beacon Hills to live with her aunt after the death of her father, she thought the worst she'd have to deal with was gossip and term papers. But something weird was going on and those two strange guys were at the center of it all. And she was going to figure it out. Eventual Stiles/OC.

7. Game Day (Edited)

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.

Fair warning, I'm not 100% on this chapter...I just can't look at it anymore. I'm tired, and honestly if I don't post it I feel like I'll never move on so here we go.

A huge thank you to JustCallMeWhatever, xXbriannaXx, stilinskisgirl, TameTheGhosts, , Haley, ellisbellisballs, Lojo2014o, Moonyong98, Atomicity, Exuberance of Youth, Tamara, MahemandMisery, chibi-Clar, Kristen, cococrazy4109, TheCatalystx, queenbee014, Psychotic Demonic Angel, IMMAFAN, Lizverse, Bethany Green, Guest, Annie Green, Anonumon, SawyerStoleTheTARDIS, Guest, walkingproof, and Guest for reviewing this chapter! You guys rock every last one of my socks.

BrittWitt16, you are a fanfic queen. Nay, a goddess!

Some of you guys were asking about my tumblr handle. It's .com. You'll find edits and questions and some extra materials there! Plus I'll let you know when I update

PS I actually went back AGAIN and did some revisions again because I got hella insecure, and I think I improved it a chunk more, but that's neither here nor there.

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Chapter 7 – Game Day

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"Up! Up! Up!"

The shrill voice ringing in Charlie's ear was more offensive than any alarm clock known to man. It was worse than Lydia's ringtone wrenching her out of consciousness at obscenely early hours of the morning—hell, it was worst than the air-raid horns of the London Blitzkrieg. A comparison which was in not in the least bit hyperbolic. There was, in fact, no sound more harrowing than Aunt Mel's unwavering, insufferable positivity hovering over her on a sleepy Saturday morning.

Letting out a nondescript 'mmph', Charlie grabbed onto her pillow and yanked it over her head. If crazed serial killers could use pillows to muffle gunshots, then she sure as hell should be able to drown out Mel's voice.

This strategy proved unsuccessful.

"Charlotte Oswin," her aunt's voice insisted. "I am telling you to get out of that bed this very instant. I am being stern and forceful to convey my meaning without appearing aggressive or hostile."

Ignoring the excited chirping, Charlie shifted her head from under her pillow. She rolled over and grabbed her alarm clock, twisting it in her direction to see the time. The sleep in her eyes left the glowing red numbers fuzzy and illegible. Blinking several times, Charlie squinted at the squiggly red lines until they assembled themselves into something she could read When they finally did, the clock read 10:14 a.m. Nope. No. That was simply unacceptable. Weekends meant sleeping till noon or later, no exceptions, no compromises.

Charlie rolled back over in her bed, yanking the covers over her head. "Go away," she mumbled into the pillow. "I shall not be awoken until the prophesized hour."

"Oh really?" Mel demanded skeptically. "And when exactly is 'the prophesized hour'?"

"Whenever I feel like waking up," Charlie replied, snuggling deeper into the covers. "Probably some time tomorrow afternoon."

For a few moments her ears met with silence, giving Charlie a small degree of hope that maybe—just maybe—she would be left to her own devices. But that hope was cruelly ripped away from her, along with the covers. Mel took hold of that deep purple fabric and tore it away from Charlie with unexpected force, leaving Charlie exposed and vulnerable to the unhappy state of consciousness. And then, to add insult to injury, Mel ripped the curtains open as well. Light streamed into the room, hitting Charlie in the face with the force of a wrecking ball. Her eyes stung with the assault, eliciting a feral hiss from her lips.

"AH!" Charlie shouted, throwing her arms over her face to protect it from the harsh rays. "It burns! Make it stop! For the love of Neil Patrick Harris, make it stop!"

"You need to stop being so dramatic Charlie," Mel said in a slightly patronizing tone.

Charlie huffed loudly and finally pushed herself into up, scooting back until she could lean against the wall, and folded her arms across her chest. "I'm not being dramatic," she grumbled. "Mel, let me tell you something and I want you to listen very, very carefully. Saturdays? They're for sleeping. Blissful lack of consciousness. So why don't we get a giant black Sharpie and mark off every Saturday on the calendar. Write 'if you wake up Charlie, she'll come at you like a honeybadger'."

Mel wrinkled her nose into a frustratingly adorable expression. "Honey badger?"

"It's like the most violent animal in existence," Charlie said, waving her hand dismissively. "I saw it on the Discovery Channel, but that's not the point. The point is that right now I should be having dreams about chocolate fountains and clouds that are actually made out of actual cotton candy."

Mel perched herself on the foot of the bed, placing a warm hand on Charlie's extended leg. The look she leveled Charlie with was on that had become all too familiar. It was the concerned, 'how are you doing' look. The 'I hope I'm not failing terribly at this and somehow screwing you up' look. "You shouldn't be sleeping your life away," Mel said, staring at Charlie with wide eyes. "You know that excessive amounts of sleeping is a sign of depression. And you've been sleeping a lot lately."

"It doesn't mean I'm depressed!" Charlie exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. "It means that I was up till two in the morning playing World of Warcraft. And it means that I'm a teenager. Teenagers need more sleep than adults—scientifically proven. We grow better in the dark. Like fungus. As far as I know there's only one cure for being a teenager, and it's called your twenties."

Mel narrowed her eyes into a look of reproach, and Charlie faltered. Despite all the good intentions driving it, she was getting really, really tired of all this 'overprotective' stuff Mel was pulling. She understood it, though. Pulling out of sessions with Dr. Hamilton probably hadn't helped ease Mel's anxieties, but they were expensive and useless. If Charlie was less sensitive, she might have pointed out that Mel might need a therapist instead seeing as the woman kept projecting insecurities onto Charlie's mental state. But she kept that thought to herself.

Still, Charlie was tired of being treated like some porcelain doll, precariously poised at the edge of a table, ready to shatter. She wasn't a damn Hummel figurine.

"I just think you should be using your time more productively, Charlie," Mel reasoned. She smoothed down the skirt of her neatly ironed dress. Even her nervous ticks lent themselves to wardrobe perfection. "Do your homework," she continued. "Play your guitar—you haven't played in weeks. Maybe go for a run. Visit your friends. Just get out of this room. I hate the idea of you cooped up in here. It's small and isolating."

Sighing heavily, Charlie sagged back against the wall, but nodded in acquiescence. "Okay, Mel," she muttered. "I'll go for a jog. The fresh air will probably do me some good. You know, because of all the extensive cigarette smoking and boozing I've been engaging in recently."

"Great!" Mel exclaimed brightly, ignoring the sarcastic dig.

The blonde suddenly straightened and plastered on a cheerful smile, the look of teary-eyed concern disappearing in a millisecond. Charlie eyed the woman warily. Given the abrupt shift in demeanor, there was a very good chance she had just gotten conned. Mel's face was so open and innocent, Charlie had yet to realize the potential danger that lay there. If Mel attempted deception or manipulation, there was a 90% chance Charlie would buy into it by virtue of those big brown doe eyes alone.

Mel spun on her heel and marched towards Charlie's dresser, pulling open a drawer and rifling through the contents. Not two seconds later, a sports bra, tank top, and pair of shorts sailed through the air, landing on the bed with a gentle plop. Charlie stared down at them with something akin to alarm, and by the time she looked up, Mel stood above her with a pair of running shoes dangling from her well-manicured fingertips.

"There are some great trails going through the woods," Mel continued without missing a beat. "Maybe you should try one of those out. I like to walk there when I have the time."

Still keeping a suspicious eye on the woman, Charlie plucked up the clothing and shimmied to the end of the bed. "Look," Mel declared as Charlie got to her feet, "I'm sorry if I'm coming off as paranoid or neurotic. I just—I worry, you know? With everything you've been through and the long hours I work at the shop—"

Charlie faced her aunt and grabbed the woman's shoulders, steadying her. "It's okay, Mel," she said, giving the woman a sincere look. "I get it. We haven't been spending too much time together lately. Look, Lydia is strong-arming me into going to a lacrosse game later tonight. Why don't you come? Make it a family thing."

Mel folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head to the side in mild surprise. "Really?" she demanded, sounding oddly flattered. "Are you sure? I mean, you don't think it would be weird?"

"It would only be weird if you rushed the field or something," Charlie shrugged. "Which, by the way, you should totally do. Maybe grab one of the opposing player's sticks and start swinging. That would be hilarious."

Mel stared back, her face impassive. "You're advocating that I attack the opposing team?"

"Why not?" Charlie replied. "If you can't get one of the lacrosse sticks, just use a stiletto heel. Go all—" she began to mimic a stabbing movement with her hand "—go all Norman Bates on them. What do you say, Mel? Win the big game for us? Be the big hero—the final act twist!"

"I can assure you, I have no interest in being the unexpected hero of a John Hughes movie," Mel muttered, absently tucking her hair behind her ears. "Or an Alfred Hitchcock one from the direction that went. That took a dark turn really fast. I don't think most high school films involve murder."

"We've upgraded to horror since the eighties," Charlie said drolly. "But murder aside, you're still coming, though?"

Mel blew out a long breath and cocked her head to the side. An unusually coy move for her. "Oh I don't know...a bunch of young lacrosse hotties running around in uniforms, ramming into each other, sweating—"

All sense of mirth left the conversation, replaced with shock and a side of mild revulsion. "LALALALALA!" Charlie shouted, shoving her fingers in her ears and squeezing her eyes shut like a petulant child. "Never mind. You're not coming. You are uninvited."

"Rescinding your invitation so soon?" Mel asked, planting a hand on her hip. "I haven't even gotten to their athleticism yet."

"Please stop!" Charlie exclaimed, shaking her head. "I am actually begging you to stop right now. I have friends on that team and I don't need my aunt perving on them. Please keep it in your pants. You're old enough to be their—"

"Aunt?" Mel supplied, raising her eyebrows in a way that made her appear slightly dangerous. "I'm not going to start hitting on your friends, Charlie. It might have been a bit slow for me lately, but I don't think I need to resort to kids whose voices have yet to drop an octave. But I would like to know who these friends of yours are, though. Are they cute? I want to know who my niece is spending time with—inquiring minds..."

Charlie scrunched up her face in disgust. "Ew—just, ew. Let's just move on. Are you coming or not?"

Mel pursed her lips in consideration and gave a definitive nod. "Yes, yes I think I will. And then you can tell me which one you're crushing on."

A loud snort forced its way out of Charlie's nose. "Who says I have a crush on any of them?"

"Oh come on, Charlie," Mel said with a knowing smile. "There's always a crush."

"You know," Charlie drawled out sarcastically, tapping a pensive finger against her chin, "I've got to say, the mascot is quite alluring itself. All that felt...That giant swirl of wind has absconded with my heart."

"I'm being serious, Charlie," Mel replied, her lip sticking out in a pout. "I want you to feel like you can share things with me. There's got to be a crush. Even a baby crush? Just like...a pinch?"

"Nope," Charlie said, giving her a casual shrug. "Not for me. I don't crush. It's not in my programming—never has been."

The look Mel gave her could only be described as doubtful, but she let the subject drop and moved to towards the door. "I'll make you a breakfast smoothie before your run," she said as she exited the room. "It'll be ready in five."

Charlie shot her a double thumbs-up. "Can't wait."

Within an hour, Charlie was clad in her exercise clothes and jogging down some of those wooded back roads. She would never give Mel the satisfaction of acknowledging it, but it felt good—the feet pounding against the ground and ponytail swishing against the back of her neck. Charlie loved to run. It imbued her with a sensation of clarity—she felt more connected. And running in Beacon Hills was nothing like running in San Diego. The city was all concrete, asphalt and car alarms. Each breath had her sucking in car exhaust or the malodorous fumes wafting from street-side trash cans. Here it was fallen leaves, bird calls, crushed pine needles, and crisp fall air. She could get used to it. It was calming—the type of stuff people record and then sell at Whole Foods for a ridiculous price as a sort of 'meditation aid'.

More than anything else, though, running was a release. Whatever anxiety and frustration that might be building up inside of her would just wash away at the rhythmic feeling of her feet hitting the leaf-strewn path. The adrenaline and endorphins washed any sort of negativity out of her veins—Drano for the soul. Her dad always used to ask her what she was running from, and she would simply respond 'from whatever's chasing me'. And then, when he asked what was chasing her, she would smile and say, 'I don't know, I'll tell you when it catches up.' The art of being cryptic was something she had set out to accomplish early on in her youth.

Lately, though, it felt like that nameless thing chasing her? It was catching up. Charlie couldn't really explain it, but over the past week or so that creeping feeling that there was something seriously off in Beacon Hills had grown stronger. Some nameless cloud hovered over the town, amorphous and indefinable and annoying as hell. It was like she was trying to put a puzzle together, but some kid had stolen half the pieces. When something else—some event or clue—fell into place, the picture just ended up more distorted. Usually her runs would allow her to see the picture more clearly, but this time? This time a whole new tier of weird settled on top of what was already a layer cake of confusion. More specifically, that blue Jeep that kept popping up in the periphery of her vision.

What was the saga of the blue Jeep? The events unfolded thusly. The road taking her through the woods was long and winding one, sometimes directing her deeper into the forest, sometimes brushing near the edge of the Beacon Hills roads. And each time she approached that break in the trees, a blue '76 CJ-5 Jeep just happened to be there, driving about in a way that would definitely not be sanctioned by the local authorities. At one point it came to a full stop in the middle of the road, tires screeching against asphalt. Charlie could almost swear that whoever was in it—and she had a pretty good idea who—had caught sight of her jogging and slammed on the brakes. But that would be crazy, right? That would make no sense whatsoever. But nobody would ever know, because in that moment her trail twisted again, putting distance and a hell of a lot of trees between her and that Jeep.

Hell, maybe she did need to schedule another session with Dr. Hamilton. Maybe she was going crazy.

By the time Charlie got back to her house, she was covered in sweat and panting, the hands of the clock pointing well past noon. She leaned over at the waist and took a few gasping breaths before climbing the stairs and walking through the door. "Hey, Mel, I'm back!" she shouted, throwing her keys in the bowl. She paused at the mirror in the entryway and sighed. Her hair had ended up a curly mess with bits of it sticking to her forehead and neck, her face red and splotchy, and she just generally looked like crap.

"Why is it that when people run in the movies they never break a sweat?" she called out, moving into the kitchen and plucking out a leaf that had somehow managed to lodge itself amongst her unruly locks. "I mean, Angelina Jolie always has perfect makeup when she's spelunking. I look like a freaking tomato. Hollywood is deceiving us. I mean, I don't get why—why are you making that face at me?"

Mel sat at the kitchen island with a plate full of last night's Thai food takeout, a bottle of chilled Perrier, and a knowing smile worthy of the Joker. Carnage could be expected. "You forgot your cell phone," she almost sang out, taking a sip of her water. Slowly, she placed the phone on the kitchen island like she was offering it up for ransom. "You got a call. Several calls, actually."

"That's great, Mel," Charlie said, raising her eyebrow pointedly, "and that would be super-impressive to me if this was the early 1900s, but the technology has lost that sort of impact."

For once, Mel didn't tell her off over her sarcasm. In fact, her smile just grew wider. "Even when that telephone came from a boy?"

Charlie frowned and moved towards the fridge, grabbing a chilled water bottle. "So what if the call came from a boy?" she said after taking a few large gulps from the bottle. "Roughly half the world's population is of the male persuasion." Mel smirked and plucked up Charlie's phone, twiddling it between her fingers. The ominous nature of her grin made Charlie swallow heavily. "Mel, did you answer my phone?"

"That Stiles guy called about six times," Mel said, widening her eyes innocently. "I was getting a headache from all that Weird Al blasting in my ears. I told him you'd call him when you got back—he seemed quite eager to talk with you. He was nice, if a little over-excited." She placed the phone on the counter and slid it across the island in Charlie's direction, forcing the girl to catch it lest it clatter to the ground. "So, who is he?" she asked, perching her elbows on the counter and resting her chin on her hands.

"A friend," Charlie replied tersely, snatching up her phone and fixing Mel with a thoroughly displeased look. "Just a friend."

"Does he have a girlfriend?" Mel asked, her voice adopting a sly overtone.

Charlie finished chugging the water bottle and wiped at her mouth. "Not that I know of," she shrugged. "What does that matter?"

"Because," Mel said, waggling her eyebrows at Charlie, "as When Harry Met Sally taught us, men and women can't ever be 'just friends'. There's always something else going on in the background."

Charlie let out a disbelieving snort and shook her head, perching herself on one of stools. "I'm not going to let Billy Crystal dictate my relationships with people," she replied sarcastically. "And if I'm going to choose a movie to live my life by, it's sure as hell not going to be When Harry Met Sally."

"Which one would it be, then?"

Charlie pursed her lips in concentration. "I would have to go with The Big Lebowski."

"Right," Mel drawled out sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "You pick a movie about a bowling bum who spends his days smoking weed. That's exactly what every parent and/or guardian wants to hear from their impressionable teenager."

"Hey, I am not impressionable," Charlie snapped back, waving a finger in her aunt's face. "I am aggressively apathetic. Peer pressure doesn't work when you don't give a crap. If I become a weed-smoking bum it won't be because it's what the cool kids are doing or because I saw it in a movie. It'll be because I want to."

Mel frowned, looking back to her plate. "There's some comfort to be found there, I suppose."

Charlie reached across the counter and plucked up one of the baby corns from the plate, popping it in her mouth before grabbing her phone and jogging down the hall. "Don't forget to call that Stiles kid!" Mel sang after her.

Ignoring her aunt's girlish giggles, Charlie shut her bedroom door behind her, locking it for good measure, and flipped through the 'missed calls' section of her phone. Mel was wrong. She had eight missed calls from Stiles. Eight. Five more than what she considered 'excessive'. Charlie made a face at the screen of the phone and hit the 'send' button, pressing the phone to her ear. It picked up after half a ring—an almost alarming degree of efficiency.

"H—hello?"

Charlie was met with blaring music and the sound of wheels screeching over gravel. Hm. Maybe she wasn't going crazy. Maybe that blue jeep she spotted was not, in fact, the suburban edition of The Flying Dutchman. Maybe Stiles was driving around like a madman for no apparent reason. He and Scott seemed to do a lot of things for no apparent reason.

"Hey, Stiles," Charlie said, toeing off her sneakers and kicking them across the room. "My aunt said you called?"

"Oh, yeah!" Stiles said eagerly. His audible sigh of relief left Charlie even more baffled. "Right. You're home safe from running. That's good."

"Was there a scenario where I wasn't going to get home safe?" she posited, scratching at her forehead. "I mean sure I haven't gone jogging for a while, but I don't think my cardiovascular health has plummeted that drastically."

"Wha—no!" Stiles stammered. "I was just, uh...I was just calling to...to find out the English assignment that's due on Monday. Yeah, English. I forgot to write it down and Mr. Hobson is kind of—"

"A dick?" Charlie supplied.

"Yeah," Stiles barked out through a laugh. "Yeah he definitely is that. An excellent one-word summation of character you got right there. Eloquent in its brevity."

"Why didn't you just ask Scott?" she inquired curiously. "Before yesterday I thought you guys were conjoined twins."

Stiles let out a tremulous laugh. "Believe me, I would love to ask Scott but he's—he's a little busy right now. Not sure where he is and he hasn't picked up his phone, so..."

"So you called me eight times?"

"Yeah..." Stiles drawled. "I'm just...really trying to get the semester started on the right foot, you know? Committing myself to academic excellence."

"Um, okay," Charlie muttered. "Just give me a second." Charlie grabbed her messenger bag, upending it and dumping its contents onto her bed. From the pile of papers and books she extracted her planner and English folder. "It looks like we've got to read chapters six through twelve of 'Candide', come up with a list of fifteen satirical elements, and write a paragraph explaining each. Your standard stuff."

"That's great, thanks," Stiles chirped in an overly enthusiastic voice.

"I'm not sure I'd describe English homework as 'great', but you're welcome," she mumbled in response, flipping through the pages. "I really doubt he's actually gonna check all of it." Hobson really had laid the content on thick for so early in the semester. A few weeks in and they had already slogged their way through Kafka, Swift, Voltaire, a little bit of Ibsen. For someone who had reached his degree of 'not giving a fuck' one would have thought he'd lighten up a bit on the reading material, but he seemed determined to render the students as angry and frustrated and generally dead inside as he was. Then the folder fell open and she found herself staring at another set of papers entirely, making her swear loudly into the receiver.

"What is it?" Stiles demanded, that edge of anxiety returning to his voice. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," Charlie replied, shaking her head and propping her phone up with her shoulder as the rifled through the document. "Just a massive paper on 'Beowulf' that I've got to edit and totally spaced on."

A strange, strangled noise of confusion emanated from the other end of the line. "'Beowulf'? We haven't done anything on 'Beowulf' yet, have we?"

"No," Charlie replied, thumbing her way through Donald's paper which she could already see was rife funny asides and tangents that no high school teacher had a good enough sense of humor to appreciate. "I just promised a friend of mine in Providence that I'd help him out."

"A friend?" Stiles asked stupidly. "In Providence? As in Rhodes Island?"

Charlie let out an indelicate snort and raised her eyebrows. "Yeah, Stiles. A friend. I wasn't birthed in the moving van on the way to Beacon Hills. I do actually know some other people."

"N—no, of course you do," Stiles stammered. "Plenty of people. I'm sure you've got tons of friends—you're a friendly person. Lots of people like you. You're likable."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Charlie replied, smiling into the receiver in spite of herself. Stiles let out another uncomfortable laugh and the conversation lapsed into nothing. Dead silence. Staticky air.

Suddenly, Charlie was filled with the ill-advised desire to poke the conversational bear. "How's Scott by the way?" she inquired casually.

The shift in Stiles's posture was obvious despite the fact that he was nowhere in sight. "Um, what do you mean?" he asked. "Is something wrong with Scott?"

"Well I heard he was skipping the game," Charlie replied. "Plus you seem to be having some trouble reaching him. Did he get hurt or something? Is he okay?"

"Oh, no," Stiles laughed nervously. "He's dead set on playing. There is absolutely, literally nothing wrong with Scott. He's never been better. He's...excellent. And definitely playing."

"Really?" Charlie muttered. "Well I'm sure Finstock is glad he's changed his tune. Good for us, I guess."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed. "Yeah, he's fine. Totally fine."

Charlie's lips quirked downward into a frown. This conversation required a decoder ring. "Good," she replied, her voice filled with hesitation. "Glad to hear it." Dead silence filled the airwaves, leaving Charlie twitchy and frustrated. "Was that it?" she asked. "Were you just calling for the English homework, or is there something else?"

"Nope," Stiles answered quickly. "No that's it. Just trying to get some studying in before the big game today."

"Yeah, I think I'm going to do the same," she muttered. "Chemistry is kind of kicking my ass right now. Pretty sure Harris is a sociopath. And I can't say this for sure since I made it a rule not to get within a five foot radius of the guy, but he also seems like he would have really bad breath."

"That sounds like a great plan," Stiles declared, interrupting her Harris-hate monologue. "Stay inside and study. Or watch TV. Or read a book—that seems like something you would be doing a lot of. Whatever. It's up to you, really. But you should remember that direct exposure to sunlight contributes to skin cancer."

"Okay, then..." she drawled out, furrowing her eyebrows. "Thanks for the concern. I'm sure my dermatologist thanks you...I guess I'll see you tonight?"

"Yup. Tonight."

Charlie stared at the phone for a few moments after hanging up. Her phone calls with Stiles were getting increasingly bizarre, and there had only been two of them so far. What would happen when the next time around, if there was one? Would he just shriek into the receiver in a high-pitched voice? Would he start talking in Klingon? Calling her eight times for an English assignment seemed fairly extreme—nobody was that eager to do homework. And then there was his insistence on her staying home and the whole 'you got home safe' thing. Weird. Really fucking weird.

True to her word, Charlie spent the rest of the day ensconced in her room, alternating between wading through bone-crunchingly boring chemistry problems and working on Donald's paper. Though to be fair, dodging calls from Lydia also made up a significant portion of her activities. With each call, she unceremoniously hit the 'ignore' button and pushed her phone a little closer to the edge of her desk with her pen. Pretty soon she might have to push it over the edge and accept the inevitability of a cracked screen. Lydia during game days was even more terrifying than Lydia on conventional occasions—making banners and such. Charlie refused to be a part of that process. Writing 'we love Jackson' on a poster would feel too much like a lie, and anything involving glitter was completely off the table. In the immortal words of Demetri Martin, glitter was the herpes of the arts and crafts world. No matter how much you try to get rid of it, it keeps coming back.

Ultimately 'chemistry and 'Beowulf'' turned into exclusively working on Donald's paper as chemistry was, empirically speaking, the absolute worst. As per usual his thesis was good and he backed it up with plenty of literary evidence, but he always managed to get distracted half-way through a thought and wander off. Plus punctuating your point with the phrase 'boom goes the dynamite' didn't exactly smack of professional discourse. He'd probably get a little angry at the amount of red she inflicted on the page—it looked a bit like a bloodied corpse by the time she was through with it—but it was for the best. She quickly scanned the end result over to him and turned her attention to chemistry while waiting for the old man, grumpy Donald call.

After about an hour, that fatal noise began to emanate from her computer. Donald's smiling face appeared on the computer screen, finger guns and all, leaving Charlie to steel herself for what was bound to be quite the abrupt transformation in facial features. Dropping her pen and tossing her notebook aside, she hit the 'answer call' function. Sure enough, she was met by the deepest of scowls—one worthy of a hundred-year grumpy grandpa with a growing collection of confiscated frisbees and baseballs in his backyard.

Charlie spun slowly in her chair, fingers pressed together all dramatic-like with her stuffed kangaroo Leonard in her lap. "Hello, Donald," she drawled, channeling her inner Bond villain. "How can I help you today?"

"What the hell, Oz?" he demanded, brandishing the papers at her. "I asked you to edit the thing, not murder it!"

Charlie let out a sigh and leaned back in her chair, hands resting behind her head. "Are we going to do this every time I edit your stuff?"

"If you keep making it look like the paper is bleeding, then yes!" he protested loudly. "I mean look at this!"

He thrust the paper forward, making the pixelated writing fill the screen. The red lines of her pen merged together in angry, smudged streaks. Charlie let out a huff and rolled her eyes. "Well maybe if you stopped referring to Beowulf's epic quest as 'monster whac-a-mole, Grendel edition' I wouldn't have to use so much red," she drawled out. "Believe it or not you do need to maintain some degree of professionalism when writing high school papers."

"Oh my God, you sound so boring right now," Donald groaned. He tossed the paper to the side and stare at her through narrowed eyes, mentally cursing her very existence. "You know it's gonna take me like two hours to make all those corrections?"

"And you realize that you have a kickass paper, right?" Charlie replied. "Literally all you have to do is change the wording, and you've got a guaranteed 'A'. Congratulations to you. You just can't write it with that conversational tone. The teachers aren't looking for funny. It's academic."

"Ugh," he muttered bitterly, sagging back in his seat. "School kills the soul, Oz. It's just like...you've spent your whole life soaking up the creative juices. Then you go to school and the teachers—they just ring you out like a Shamwow and all that creativity juice ends up in the sink, flowing down the drain. And for the sake of what? Grammatical correctness and standardized test scores. It's a freaking travesty. I mean, I know you're good at writing dull, flavorless research papers that could cure insomnia, but that's just not my style."

"Right..." she drawled out, narrowing her eyes at him.

"I—I am an entertainer," he declared, pointing to himself. "I can't keep writing these crusty old, boring ass papers. I don't want to write shit I wouldn't want to read. Do these people not understand the impact of contemporary media? Why the hell do high schools always have to focus on the then? Why can't they focus on the now? Or at least not make us write like we lived through the freaking Bubonic Plague."

"Because old people are insecure and afraid of being made irrelevant and have to trivialize everything we could possibly be interested in," Charlie deadpanned. "It's an ego thing."

Donald sank lower in his seat to the point that he was about to slip out of the chair. His lower lip jutted out in a determined pout, giving him the air of a small child whose parent had dragged them to the doctor's office. Donald hated the doctor's office. And the bank. And generally any location where they stuck you in a waiting room and kept pens attached to chains.

"Hey," Charlie said, wishing she could clap a hand comforting hand on his shoulder. "Hey, we're already over a year into high school. In less than three years you're gonna be out of suburbia and in Los Angeles taking a screenwriting class at USC, walking the same halls as George Lucas and Ron Howard. You'll get to write whatever the hell you want. Sometimes you've gotta wade through the shitty parts before you get to the awesome."

Donald smiled sardonically, shooting her a double thumbs up. "So you're saying that high school is the waiting room for life. Great pep talk, Oz. Equal parts depressing and optimistic."

"That's how I roll."

Donald sagged back in his seat, rolling back from the desk a little ways. "Well there goes half my Saturday, I guess," he mumbled darkly. "So how about you? Any existential crises on your front?"

A breath pushed past Charlie's lips, unsure whether or not to turn itself into a laugh. Was her situation laughable? Maybe. Maybe not. To refer to her current state as an 'existential crisis' would likely be hyperbolic. But these days her life sure as hell inspired quite a bit of questioning. She was stuck in a town that didn't make any sense, with people whose actions were abnormal at best and criminal at worst. The ridiculousness of the dilemma in which she found herself was a function of how much weight her suspicions held.

Suddenly Charlie found herself preoccupied with the stuffed animal sitting in her lap. Leonard the kangaroo had been with her a long time. Ten cities in just as many years. One of his eyes had fallen out somewhere in Burlington, Vermont and the thread holding the seams together had come loose, allowing the stuffing to become visible if you peeked closely enough. The reddish-tan color was dirtied and greyed after years of stains. She ran her fingers over the once plushy surface that time and wear had rendered rough. Battered but enduring, he was a veteran. Leonard had seen a bunch of shit in his lifetime, lived in a lot of places. But none of them inspired as much confusion as Beacon Hills. Charlie stared down at the stuffed animal, and Leonard stared right back, his one-eyed gaze empty. He didn't have any answers for her either.

Charlie tossed Leonard over her shoulder and onto the bed and turned back to the webcam. "Other than a psychotic chemistry teacher?" she said, nervously running her hands through her hair. "I think I might be getting paranoid. Like actually paranoid. Like conspiracy theory paranoid."

Donald shot her a look of reproach. "You watched The Outer Limits after 9 p.m. again, didn't you? I told you not to do that. Why don't you ever listen to me?"

"No, man," Charlie grumbled. "I'm not that stupid. There's just been...weird shit going on. In conjunction with the previous weird shit that went on. In conjunction with some weird, albeit nice dudes, and this other dude who might not be so nice—"

"Whoa, stop—are you having a seizure?" Donald said, holding his hands up to slow her down. "You're getting repetitive. Use more than like...five words."

Charlie let out a sigh, rubbing at her forehead. How could she vocalize her concerns without sounding like a complete lunatic? How did she bring up the tapetum lucidum bullshit? How in the hell was she supposed to tell the tale of Beacon Hills's most bizarre trio: Grumpy, Dopey, and...which dwarf would Stiles be? Sneezy was probably the closest. How could she explain it? It sounded insane when she told the story to herself. Bringing it to a third party was a recipe for disaster. But Donald was Donald. He'd get it out of her one way or another. And if anybody was crazy enough to roll with her on this amateur investigation, it was him

"Okay," Charlie acquiesced, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Okay, so you remember when I asked you for advice on that Scott dude?"

"Yeah?" Donald shrugged. "What about him."

This time Charlie did laugh, fully and with no hint of mirth. In the ten minutes that followed, Donald received a brief account of the varying levels of weird she had put up with. It began with a full recount of the party—not her previous, abridged version. No, this time Donald got every excruciating detail, including their caginess in the aftermath of that party. She dwelled for a while on the truly bizarre stuff going on at the hospital, and finally settling on the equally inexplicable behavior this morning. She left out the tapetum lucidum business, though. Because literally, what the hell?

"So I think half this town is clinically insane," she concluded, folding her arms across her chest. "Or I'm clinically insane. But seriously...I don't pretend to be an authority on what is and what isn't normal behavior, but come on. Donald, the guy was checking up on me after jogging. It makes more sense than calling eight times for a freaking English assignment—he knows other people at school."

"You went jogging in 'the murder woods'," Donald pointed out, raising his eyebrows right back at her. "Of course he called to check in on you. That's not weird—it's polite. They call them 'the murder woods' for a reason."

"You are literally the only person who calls them 'the murder woods'."

"For now," he replied. "It'll catch on."

"You're saying you see no weirdness in a random guy calling me eight times," Charlie deadpanned.

Donald made a face and shrugged. "Maybe he has a thing for you." The withering look she gave him caused him to throw his hands in the air. "Hey, it's not impossible. I mean I know that being around so much pretty as all—" he gestured at his face "—all this might have compromised your self-esteem, but don't sell yourself short. You're pretty hot."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she replied easily, thinking back to Stiles's moon-faced look when he talked about Lydia. "But I don't think that's what's going on here. Plus, what about all that Derek Hale stuff? They're obsessed with the dude. And he keeps showing up in random places. And he's really freaking stealth too. I swear the dude just materializes out of the ether."

"God, your town is so much cooler than mine. It's wasted on you and your boring research papers."

"Donald!"

"Okay, okay, okay," Donald said, holding out his hands to pacify her. "So let's think about this critically. What is the root element of the weirdness. Let's give it some context. Go back to the beginning."

Charlie nibbled on her lip, the screen before her slipping out of focus as her attention shifted internally. She combed through her past interactions with the pair, seeking out any patterns of behavior. For the most part, they seemed reactive. They weren't in control of whatever the hell was going on, that much was glaringly obvious. They weren't responsible for Derek showing up at the party. Scott had to have a reason for dropping out of the lacrosse game, for however brief a period of time. Stiles calling her was bizarre, but something had to have spurred him to it. When she took a step back, it looked more like they were flailing wildly. In fact, she had only seen them engaging in 100% self-directed behavior the one time.

"They were looking for the body," Charlie said aloud, looking back to the screen. "The murder. They were looking for the body when they ran into Derek—I overheard them talking about him in the woods. It sounded like it was the first time they had met him."

"Ah, 'the murder woods'," Donald said sagely. "It all comes back to 'the murder woods'."

"But what comes back to the murder woods?" Charlie demanded. "I mean it looks like they're digging into something, but what does that have to do with me going out for a freaking jog? And why would they go to the hospital? Stiles's dad is the sheriff—if they've got something on Derek, why wouldn't they just tell him? I have no freaking idea how to make sense of this."

"You don't have enough plot points yet," Donald replied. "You don't have a story. And until you have a story, you just sound like 'old man yells at cloud'. There's nothing there worth pitching. Fill in some more blanks, maybe the puzzle'll solve itself for you. Until then...you just gotta wait, I guess. Maybe fill in some blanks. Character motivation is crucial. It looks like it comes back to this Derek dude. What do we know about him? What's his backstory? Research."

"Yeah," Charlie muttered bitterly. "I guess you're right."

"Please, I'm always right."

Charlie's face puckered into a pained whine. She collapsed forward, her head hitting the desk with a heavy thunk. The soreness that contact inspired was nothing compared to the approaching migraine. Her brain was at capacity. Any more mysteries and it would overheat and shut down altogether. "Oh my God," Charlie groaned, lifting her head from the desk once more. "This town is insane."

"That's all relative," Donald said, shaking his head. "You have a dude who called you a couple of times and a gruesome murder. Big whoop. I, on the other hand, just attended something called a clam bake."

"A clam bake?" Charlie demanded, her eyebrows drawing together into a frown.

"Yes, a clam bake," Donald repeated with a solemn nod. "And before you go and ask, it did not involve going and getting a bunch of mollusks stoned. Super disappointing reveal. Also, sweater vests."

"Dear Lord," Charlie muttered.

"Yeah," Donald whispered, his voice haunted and far away. He looked at her with a shadow behind his eyes—the look of a man who had seen too much in his few years. "Sometimes I get scared, Oz. I'm starting to wonder whether or not we've joined a cult. I'm pretty sure the Homeowner's Association is The Borg."

"Jesus."

"No, he doesn't have anything to do with it," Donald barreled on. "Mr. Rogers might. I wouldn't be surprised if one of these people had his cryogenically frozen head stored in their basement so they can bring it out during full moon rituals." He grabbed hold of his computer, angling it towards him. He stared directly into the tiny webcam at the top of his laptop so that the two of them locked eyes, making Charlie physically twitch. He was gazing into the depths of her soul. "Oz," he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "This might be the last time we speak. Now you're the only person I trust with this. If you don't hear from me again, I want you to fly up here, and delete my internet search history before my mom sees it. I know technically I can't be killed twice, but dammit she's gonna try."

Charlie, who had been leaning closer towards her computer with each ominous word, let out a loud groan and collapsed back in her chair. "Dude, do not make me responsible for your pervy tendencies. Just open up a 'private browsing' session and be done with it."

A blank look slid across his face and he gazed wistfully off into the distance like he was seeing a sunrise for the first time. "You're right," he whispered. "I could totally do that. This changes everything."

Charlie made a face, sticking out her tongue like a small child who had just been presented with a plate of root vegetables. A sarcastic comment was forming on the tip of her tongue, but before it managed to fully realize itself, her phone began to yet again blare the strains of 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun'. While she let out a huff and had her head sag on her shoulders, Donald straightened up. "What's this?" he demanded, a coy tone entering his voice. "Who exactly is important enough to have received a specialized ringtone from Charlotte Oswin."

Snatching up the phone, Charlie quickly silenced the ringer before tossing it to the side. "That's just Lydia."

"Lydia?" he prompted, a vaguely creepy smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "Lydia the hot redhead who's gonna be my future wife on my future boat that I'm gonna own in the future."

"Yeah, whatever," Charlie muttered, waving a hand absently. "She's trying to infect me with school spirit. There's a game we're going to later today."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up," Donald demanded. "You're going to go to a school football game. Voluntarily. As a part of a group. During hours that you could be spending off school property."

"They don't play football," Charlie replied evasively. "They play lacrosse."

A loud spluttering noise emanated from the other side of the connection. "That makes it worse!" Donald protested. "Lacrosse? Who even plays lacrosse? I swear to God, I'm in Stepford, but you're the one whose sliding into suburban oblivion!"

Charlie let out a sigh, staring back evenly. "Go write your paper, Donald."

"Ha!" he shot back, snapping and pointing violently at the screen. "You see that? That right there. You just admitted defeat. You are folding to the pressures of a non-metropolitan society! Pretty soon you're going to be braiding friendship bracelets and hosting barbecues and lending people cups of sugar and—"

Donald likely had a number of items left to prattle off, but he was gloriously interrupted by the shrill ring of the doorbell. "Would you look at that?" Charlie chirped with a passive-aggressive shrug. "Literally saved by the bell."

"HEY!" Donald snapped as she started to get up from her seat. "This conversation isn't over. You're on a slippery slope, Oz. You might slide right into that white picket fence and impale yourself on it!"

The doorbell rang yet again as she shoved her chair back towards the desk. She leaned forwards, bringing her face up close to the webcam and staring directly into it. "Write your paper, Donald. Or I'll call your mom and have her change the wifi password again."

"You're a monster, Oz!" he called out. "You're a goddamn mon—"

Before he could finish, Charlie grabbed the top of her laptop and slammed it shut, silencing him just in time to hear the doorbell ring again. And again. And again. The damn thing rang more than ten times in the space of fifteen seconds, which could only mean one thing. A very impatient strawberry blonde had laid siege to the apartment building. Peace could not be found until she was allowed entry. And so it was, that upon the eleventh ring of the bell, Charlie found herself at her front door with her finger on the buzzer. The ominous stop of heels against rickety stairs grew in volume until they came to an abrupt stop on the other side of that woefully unreinforced plank of wood.

The moment the door swung open, a fiery ball of perfume and Prada pushed past Charlie and marched into the foyer.

"So I'm going to ignore the fact that you've been screening my calls," Lydia declared, spinning on her heel to face Charlie. She paused for a moment, waiting for a response, but Charlie simply folded her arms across her chest and stared back evenly. The self-assured expression on Lydia's face faltered, allowing frustration to peek through. "So you're not going to deny that you've been screening my calls?"

"Nope," Charlie replied. "I've totally been screening your calls."

Lydia narrowed her eyes and took a small step forward, advancing on Charlie. "And why would you do that?"

"Because I've got other things to do," Charlie shrugged. "I've got homework, a paper to write, laundry to do, dishes to—"

"Yeah, I don't care that you don't have a maid," Lydia said, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm just here to make sure that you don't bail on me for the game later today. It's the first game of the season, and we need to start it right."

Charlie sucked in a deep breath, preparing herself to release the most forceful of sighs, but before her lungs could expel the air Lydia grabbed hold of her hand and dragged her down the hallway to her bedroom. The moment they broke the threshold, Lydia released Charlie's hand and marched straight for the closet. She yanked to door open with such force it groaned on its hinges. Immediately, she began tearing through the contents, frowning and letting out multiple noises of disapproval as she was confronted with the less-than-satisfactory wardrobe within. Charlie plopped down on the bed, watching her closet being ripped apart.

"Seriously, Charlie?" Lydia demanded. She spun on her heels and held up a red T-shirt featuring Darth Vader and the caption 'I Find Your Lack of Bacon Disturbing'. She tossed the shirt of Charlie, followed by the tossing of her own hair. "What the hell is that?"

"It's a funny T-shirt," Charlie replied evenly, pulling the shirt from her face and chucking it into the corner. "I like Star Wars, I like bacon. There's not that much to read into."

Lydia scoffed and turned back to the closet. "There's more flannel in here than in the world tour of a '90s grunge band," she sneered. "I thought I threw all this stuff out."

"Noooo..." Charlie drawled, "you put it in a pile of things to be thrown away. Which I preceded to not throw away."

"Whatever," Lydia dismissed. "We need to find you something decent for the game. We don't want our team to be distracted by the fact that there's a transient sitting in the stands."

"Lydia, it's a sports game," Charlie said, collapsing back on the bed. "Who cares what I'm wearing? It'll be hidden under my coat anyway. It's freaking freezing outside."

"That may be the case..." Lydia trailed off, grabbing a top and pair of jeans, holding them up to the light and judging them. After a few moments consideration, she tossed them at Charlie. "There, wear that. We're going to have to say hello to the team after the big game, either to celebrate or console each other. And it had better be to celebrate."

Groaning loudly, Charlie scrunched up her face into an expression of distaste. "That's not going to happen. I don't exactly get along with like 70% of the lacrosse team. I might be going to the game, but I fully intend to slink off into the shadows the second that final whistle blows."

"Yeah—you're not going to do that," Lydia shot back, her voice tinged with bitterness. "And maybe you'd get along better if you stopped physically assaulting them. Aaron Harrison said that you almost dislocated his thumb."

"Aaron Harrison is a whiny infant who would call 911 for a paper cut," she replied, absently picking at her fingernails. "Anyways, he's lucky that he got to keep that thumb after trying to grab my ass."

Lydia muttered something under her breath that was most likely not complementary, and Charlie sat up again. The top Lydia had thrown at her was a deep blue, all ruffles and beading. Pretty, but the thin fabric could likely ward off the cold about as well as the contents of a Victoria's Secret catalog. "Yeah, there's no way I'm wearing this," she said, getting to her feet and hanging the top back in the closet. "We're going to a lacrosse game, not meeting the queen of England for tea. This shirt is reserved for occasions where they serve cucumber sandwiches."

Lydia let out a small scream of frustration and stamped her foot. "Ugh! Is there any way you could stop being lame for like two seconds? For me? Stop acting like you have a bedtime!"

"As far as she's concerned, she does have a bedtime," Mel's voice interrupted. The two girls turned to see Mel standing in the door, leaning against the frame with a determined, albeit pinched looking expression on her face. At the sight of her Lydia faltered slightly, but the hesitation only lasted a moment before that easy, confident smile slid across her face. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and took a few steps towards Mel.

"Listen, Ms. Oswin," she said in her 'I'm totally on the debate team' voice.

"You can just call me Mel, Lydia," her aunt said, planting a hand on her hip. "You usually do anyway when you're not asking for something."

Lydia exhaled sharply, but kept smiling. "Alright, Mel," she continued, taking another step forwards. "I just thought I'd introduce Charlie here to some more people after the game is over." She grabbed Charlie's arm and yanked her to her side, draping her arm over Charlie's shoulder in a way that was more aggressive and possessive than comforting. "That way she can matriculate more efficiently. Get settled, make some more friends..."

Mel pressed her lips together in a thin line and nodded along with Lydia's words, but didn't appear convinced. "You make a compelling point, Lydia, but I'm not letting Charlie out tonight. The sheriff has put into effect a 9:30 curfew because all of the animal attacks lately and—"

"Animal attacks?" Charlie inquired, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion. "There have been animal attacks in the area?"

"Yes," Mel replied. "And what kind of authority figure would I be if I let you go out and get mauled after you've only been living with me for six weeks."

Charlie winced theatrically and turned to Lydia, shrugging her shoulders. "Sorry. I guess that's that."

"Yeah, you look really broken up about it," Lydia shot back, glowering at Charlie. Charlie sighed heavily and scratched at the back of her neck. Lydia had a tendency to get passive aggressive when things didn't go her way. Which was why people usually let things go her way. But the equally stubborn Charlie didn't usually fold.

Unstoppable force. Immovable object. Sometimes it led to problems.

Mel held up a delivery menu in the hope that the promise of food would diffuse the tension. "So, Lydia, are you staying for dinner? We're ordering Italian from Corleone's before the game if you'd like to join us."

"We?" Lydia demanded, pointing between Mel and Charlie. "Mel is coming too?"

"We're trying out some aunt-niece bonding time," Charlie said through a shrug. "While you're out with you lacrosse players we'll probably be watching romcoms and eating ice cream."

Lydia squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "That's great. I guess I'll see the two of you there." And then without another word she brushed past Mel and Charlie, down the hall, and out the front door. Charlie winced at the sound of the door slamming shut. "Bye!" she shouted into the now vacant space where Lydia had just been standing.

Lydia Martin, purveyor of the dramatic exit probably from the moment she left the womb.

Charlie turned towards Mel, offering up a bemused shrug. "She doesn't really like it when things don't go according to plan."

"Yeah," Mel said through a tight smile. "I gathered."

"Mmh."

Mel opened her mouth and shut it again, eyebrows furrowed in thought. "She was only here for like five minutes."

"Yes, she was," Charlie confirmed.

"Isn't her house...over twenty minutes away?"

"Yes, it is."

"Why—?"

"Nobody knows."

Mel let out a sharp breath and gave a definitive nod, embracing her bemusement. "Right. Well, I'm gonna order us some food."

"That would probably be for the best."

Another hour and a plate of Corleone's delicious fettuccine alfredo later, Mel and Charlie were seated in Mel's hybrid, on their way to the Beacon Hills lacrosse field. Charlie had opted to ignore Lydia's flouncy wardrobe suggestions, instead settling on a T-shirt with the print of a classic French film poster, red jeans, a striped cardigan, and a pair of worn boots. On their way out Mel had shoved a hat, coat, and scarf into her arms, which, as she stepped out onto the field, Charlie found herself immensely grateful for. She had yet to become accustomed to the unseasonably cold weather in this town. Barely a week into September, and her breath was already crystallizing into clouds before her eyes.

Mel linked an arm through Charlie's as they picked their way to the bleachers. The grass crunched under foot, as much a victim of the cold as Charlie herself. By all appearances they were running a little bit late. The bleachers were brimming with spectators and the team had already finished their warm-ups. The players were clustering together in their pre-game huddle. Mel let out a low whistle as she eyed the players, making Charlie cringe. "You promised you wouldn't be pervy," she mumbled under her breath, and Mel let out a musical laugh.

"I don't recall making any promise of the sort," Mel said with a toothy smile. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I declared my intention to embarrass you. It's one of my duties now. I was deputized."

As they approached the bleachers, Charlie caught sight of Allison wrapped up in a tan trench coat, a purple beanie pulled down to cover her ears. The cold made her cheeks flush pink, and her eyes sparkled with excitement. The brunette waved the pair of them over, smiling enthusiastically. Charlie waved back and changed course towards her, yanking Mel along. Just as they reached her, though, another figure sidled up as well. At first the profile was cast in shadow by the stadium lights, large and imposing. The man shifted on his feet, his features coming into view. Golden blonde hair, stern face, and sharp, intelligent-looking blue eyes...the two giant popcorn containers in his arms did nothing to render him less intimidating. Charlie felt herself shift on her feet underneath his harsh scrutiny.

"Hey Charlie!" Allison exclaimed brightly, stepping forward and pulling Charlie into a quick hug. "I'm so glad you could make it too!" She rocked back on her heels and gestured to the man standing next to her. "This is my dad. Dad, this is Charlie, the girl I mentioned from school. She's made the whole experience of being the new girl a whole lot less traumatizing for me."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," Charlie replied with a cheeky smile. "I'm self-aware enough to know that being friends with me can be pretty traumatic all on its own."

The man—Allison's dad—smiled at her and Mel. Despite the outward friendliness, the smile felt vaguely threatening, maybe because of the way his incredibly white teeth glinted in the dark. He took a step forwards and extended a hand, which Charlie took and gave a firm shake. "Chris Argent," he greeted. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you as well, Mr. Argent," Charlie returned with a nod.

Mr. Argent took a step back and gave her an appraising look. "So you're the clever, insubordinate one, right?" he asked, eyes still narrowed. "From what I understand you're a questionable influence."

"Dad!" Allison hissed, smacking him lightly in the chest. "You can't say things like that to my friends. Charlie's not insubordinate, she's just...colorful."

Charlie just ignored Allison's outburst and smiled at Mr. Argent, shoving her hands deep into coat her pockets. "Insubordinate, huh?" she said, bouncing up and down on her feet. "I've got to say, that's the best euphemism for 'smartass' that I've ever heard."

"Charlie!" Mel scolded. "What's this about being insubordinate? Have you been talking back to teachers again?"

"Only a teeny, tiny bit," she said holding up her thumb and forefinger to indicate. Mel bristled, planting her hands on her hips and giving Charlie the 'parenting glare'. "Come on, Mel," Charlie whined, "you really didn't think I'd check my sarcasm at the door when I leave in the morning, did you? It's a character flaw—I really can't help it. And personally I don't think that they should put limitations on the discourse in school. It dampens creativity."

"And what about discipline?" Mr. Argent demanded, raising her eyebrows at her.

"Dad!" Allison whined, pulling on the sleeve of his jacket. "Stop being weird."

Charlie opened her mouth to respond, but Mel stepped forwards and put a gloved hand on her shoulder, indicating for her to be quiet. "Discipline means knowing when to stop talking," Mel said pointedly, glowering Charlie into submission before turning to Allison and her dad. She extended her hand to them both. "I'm Melody Oswin," she said warmly. "Charlie's aunt. Welcome to Beacon Hills."

"How long have you been here?" Mr. Argent asked.

The abruptness of the question paired with the gruffness in his voice gave Mel pause. "Um, only about three years," she replied, nodding along with her words.

"And why Beacon Hills?" he pressed, squaring his shoulders in Mel's direction. Charlie wrinkled her nose at the display. The whole thing felt a little like an interrogation, lacking only a tetanus-riddled interrogation room and a one-way mirror. Their current venue lacked a polygraph, but the way the man stared through you it was possible he didn't need one. Apparently Allison was feeling the weird as well, left tugging on her dad's sleeve and hissing in his ear.

Mel, ever the graceful and generous saint of a woman, simply tucked her hair behind her ears and answered calmly. "I wanted a place to get started on a fashion line," she replied. "Beacon Hills is close enough to San Francisco and L.A. that I can get there easily, but it's out of the way of the chaos. Plus there's a surprisingly good market here for designer clothes. Charlie's friend Lydia makes sure of that." She smiled serenely in the face of Mr. Argent's tense jaw. "It's a great town. You'll enjoy it here."

"I'm sure that we will," Mr. Argent responded. The words sounded friendly, but the grin on his face was still tight and forced and his eyes held a calculating look, as if he was dissecting the social interaction into its base components so that he could form an educated opinion.

"Were you military?" Charlie asked suddenly, fixing him with a curious stare.

He blinked at her in surprise. "No," he said casually, shaking his head. "No I was never in the military. Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular," she replied. "You've just got the posture. My dad was in the Coast Guard and he and his buddies always have this really upright posture." She straightened her shoulders for a moment to demonstrate before letting them sag again. "I never really had the discipline to maintain it."

Mr. Argent's toothy smile widened slightly at her use of the word 'discipline', revealing a set of rather pointed canines. "You should come to our house for dinner sometimes next week," he said politely. "I always like to meet my daughter's friends—to see who she's spending her time with."

Allison rolled her eyes heavily from her position behind her father, and it took all of Charlie's effort to restrain the wheeze of laughter. By all appearances, the overly protective vibes emanating from Mr. Argent were nothing new.

"I would love to," Charlie said, all politeness. "Just name the date and time."

"Fantastic," Mr. Argent responded. "I'll have to talk to my wife first, but Allison will let you know. Be sure to invite your parents as well."

Charlie opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Any awkward silence that might have arisen from that statement was quickly cut short as Allison elbowed her father in the side. "Dad!" she hissed, shaking her head violently.

"What?" the man chuckled. "Did I say something wrong?"

Mel lifted her hand timidly. "It's, uh, it's actually just me."

"Oh," Mr. Argent said with a nod, wisely letting the subject drop. "Well in that case my wife and I would love to have you and Charlie over for dinner."

"And we'd be happy to come," Mel accepted warmly. "Isn't that right, Charlie?"

"I couldn't think of anything more exciting."

Just then Lydia appeared at the bleachers, blue coat and leopard print earmuffs complimenting her hair color perfectly. She waved over at Allison and Charlie to indicate that she had saved seats. "Thank God," Allison said, grabbing hold of Charlie's hand and pulling her in Lydia's direction. "Hey, dad, I'll see you after the game. You guys can talk about...grown up stuff that you have in common. Tax returns, that kind of thing."

The two girls clambered onto the bleachers, carefully stepping over people as they made their way over to Lydia. "Dude," Charlie snorted. "Does your dad have a polygraph machine in your basement or something?"

"I'm so sorry about that," Allison said, grimacing slightly as she glanced over her shoulder at Charlie. "My dad—he just gets really overprotective. He comes off as super-intense, but he's really nice when you get to know him."

"Hey, I'm no stranger to overprotective dads," Charlie said, throwing her hands in the air in submission. "I had a single dad. It just manifested differently. Your dad invites your friends to dinner so he can vet them. Mine enrolled me in self-defense classes when I was six. Dads always freak out when it comes to their daughters."

"If it helps, I think he liked you."

The bright smile she flashed fooled exactly nobody. Charlie narrowed her eyes and studied Allison's face. Deceit was written into every line. She let out a snort and shook her head. "I call bullshit. Your dad hates me. Which is weird since he met me literally three minutes ago. I've got to give him props for his instincts, though. I am a nightmare."

"He doesn't hate you," Allison insisted. "He just thinks that you're—"

"Insubordinate?" Charlie supplied, raising her eyebrows challengingly. Allison winced and nodded, making Charlie laugh in response. "Don't worry, Allison," she smirked, patting the girl on the back. "I'm going to have fun corrupting you."

After a lot of tripping and nearly mauling people as the climbed up the steps of the bleachers, they reached Lydia, whose hair still managed to stay perfectly coiffed in spite of the frigid winds. Like Allison, the cold had turned her cheeks a healthy pink as opposed to Charlie's frigid, marble white. Standing next to the pair of them Charlie was rendered distinctly corpse-like, both in pallor and in level of enthusiasm. At the very least the claustrophobia of the stands served as a flimsy barrier against the cold. But Charlie still found herself yearning for a book and mug of hot chocolate.

"Thank God you both made it!" Lydia said happily. "I was afraid you would miss the beginning. And Charlie, I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show up at all."

"You know me!" Charlie said with false levity. "Always overflowing with school spirit."

Lydia shot Charlie a withering look and then smiled at Allison, gesturing at them both to sit. Eventually they ended up with Allison in the middle and Charlie and Lydia on either side of her. Charlie scanned the area to see where Mel had gone, finding her chatting with Mr. Argent next to the bleachers. The conversation had apparently turned in a decidedly civil direction seeing as all disdain seemed to have left Mr. Argent's face. Then again, Mel had that effect on people. There was just too much nice to stay hostile.

After a few moments, the referee blew the whistle and the players ran out on the field, getting into position for the game. Lydia cheered out Jackson's name as number 37 made his way to the center of the field for the face-off and Charlie scanned the field of burgundy-clad players looking for familiar faces. How Aaron Harrison managed to make first line in such a violent sport with such a low pain tolerance was a complete mystery. Then there was number 11—Scott—who was crouched down, getting ready for the whistle to blow while Danny—number 6—stood in the goal. Finally her eyes fell on number 24—Stiles—firmly planted on the bench.

The team mascot remained conspicuously absent. No cyclones to be seen.

As the game began, Mel and Mr. Argent maneuvered their way through the bleachers as well, taking a seat with Mr. Argent right next to Charlie and Mel on his other side. Charlie shot them both a weak smile and turned back to the field, leaning forwards so that her elbows were resting on her knees. The man's proximity made her uneasy, given his obvious inclination to dislike her. Though if any tension did fill the air, Mel found herself happily oblivious to it. She had coopted one of the buckets of popcorn Mr. Argent held and munched away, her eyes focused on the field.

All the players found their spots, and slowly the chatter from the bleachers died down. The air became still save for the stiff breaths of player and spectator alike. As the moments dragged longer, the players began to fidget on the field—a twitch here, a roll of the ankle there, small movements to keep their muscles from seizing up. The referee slowly made his way to the middle, hand raised in the air. He swung that arm down with force and finally blew the whistle, the shrill note cutting through the air.

And then they were off. Jackson easily swiped the ball from that center circle, dodging around his opponent and sprinting towards the goal. He was immediately swarmed by opposing players. He came to an abrupt stop, searching for a teammate to pass to. Scott stood at the opposite side of the field, wide open and waving frantically. Jackson's eyes seemed to slide right past him, instead passing to number 26 who was, quite frankly, much poorly situated.

"Scott was wide open," Charlie murmured to herself, eyes fixed on the field as the ball bounced back and forth between players. "What the hell is Jackson doing?"

"He's winning," Lydia replied tersely, clapping her hands together to cheer on her boyfriend. "That's what winners do."

After a few moments of passing the ball, it seemingly disappeared. Suddenly, Scott started sprinting down the field. Charlie's eyes followed his trajectory and saw the ball lying on the grass. As Scott approached, though, he was rammed into the ground, not by an opponent but by someone wearing the Beacon Hills maroon. The sympathetic grimace on Charlie's face soon morphed into a scowl as the offending player was revealed, of course, to be Jackson. That guy's ego was seriously more fragile than a soap bubble. Beautiful and shimmering one moment, a sticky, inconvenient mess the next.

But Charlie wasn't allowed to scowl much longer. Jackson barreled towards the goal. He sent the ball flying, squarely into the net. Everybody in the bleachers threw themselves to their feet, cheering wildly. The players on the field jumped up and down in celebration and the giant red 0 on the scoreboard changed to a 1.

Charlie got to her feet slowly, cheering with less enthusiasm than those around her. Her eyes stuck to Scott. He didn't look all that happy, especially after Lydia broke out one of the 'We Luv U Jackson' posters and enlisted Allison to help her hold it up. And the grammatical and spelling inaccuracies probably weren't source of his frustration. She winced slightly, imagining the dejected expression that was no doubt hiding behind that face mask. "Brutal," she sighed out shaking her head slightly.

"What was that?" Allison asked, suddenly turning to face her.

"Hm?" Charlie responded stupidly. "Oh, nothing. Go Direwolves!"

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Lydia complained loudly. "We're the Cyclones."

"No matter how many times you tell me, it won't be enough to make me care," Charlie muttered back.

The euphoria of that first goal was short-lived. And not only that, it was soon replaced by a heavy cloud of depression. As the game dragged on, nobody in the bleachers or on the field was drunk on success or high on life. No, the game was a sobering one. Primarily because Beacon Hills was losing. Badly. Within the second quarter the Cyclones found themselves two points behind, and despite all their best efforts were not able to make up the difference. One notable factor, though: none of those best efforts included Scott. The boy was perpetually in range, but apparently never in sight. He might as well have sat on the field and staged a picnic.

A shrill note pierced the air, signifying the end of the last time out available to Beacon Hills. A minute and a half left in the fourth quarter, and they were two points down.

"Which one is Scott again?" Mr. Argent asked.

"Number 11," Lydia replied bitterly. "Otherwise known as the one who hasn't caught a single ball this entire a game."

"Well he can't exactly catch a ball if nobody is passing to him," Charlie replied with a roll of her eyes. "Dollars to donuts says Jackson told the rest of the team not to pass to him so he could be the big hero."

Lydia leaned forwards and shot her a scandalized look. "Do you really think my boyfriend is that petty?"

Charlie returned her stare evenly and nodded. "Yes."

Lydia opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to reconsider, instead snapping it shut. She straightened in her seat, crossing her legs primly and staring intently at the field. Allison on the other hand was leaning forwards, almost curled up in a ball with her foot tapping anxiously. Charlie followed her line of sight and found her staring at number 11, who was bent over at the waist and breathing heavily.

"I just hope Scott is okay," she murmured under her breath.

"I just hope we're okay," Lydia interjected.

"I just hope I can get home before 'The Daily Show' reruns start," Charlie mused under her breath. But then her brain fully registered the words that had just been spoke and she turned to Allison. "Wait a second—why wouldn't Scott be okay?"

Allison snorted and raised her eyebrows, looking pointedly past Charlie at Mr. Argent. "It might be because my dad hit him with his car earlier when he stopped by to say hello."

Charlie's jaw dropped as she turned to face Allison's dad. "Isn't it a bit early to be running down your daughter's dates, Papa Argent?" she asked incredulously. "I mean I'm pretty sure they haven't even kissed yet. Vehicular homicide is for when you become eligible for one of those teen pregnancy reality shows."

"Charlotte Evelyn Oswin, hush!" Mel hissed from Mr. Argent's other side. "Be respectful."

Charlie threw her hands in the air and shot them both a sheepish look. "Sorry."

Mr. Argent looked at her coolly, which made Charlie more uncomfortable than if he had shouted at her, so she slowly turned back to the field. The players were arranging themselves for the next face-off. They lacked the solid stance with which they had begun the game. Exhaustion and disappointment had taken their toll. The sun had set long before the first play of the game, but somehow the dark of night seemed to encroach upon the field, creeping in from the woods behind. Oh, the drama of it all.

A few moments of tense silence hung amongst them until that familiar look of stubborn determination crossed Lydia's face. "We need to win this," she muttered to herself. Getting to her feet, she hauled the 'We Luv U Jackson' sign over her head—like it was some sort of freaking magic talisman—and looked down at Allison expectantly. "Allison, a little help here?"

Allison hesitated a moment, eyeing the poster with some skepticism, but soon enough got up to her feet. But judging by the expression on her face, she wasn't enjoying herself very much. Nor was anyone else. The spectators stood still and somber, wearing looks similar to those of family members about to take their elderly relatives off of life support. No hope was left, they were just waiting for the end to come. It was freaking depressing. Charlie's eyes strayed down to the bench. Coach Finstock sat, head in hands, while Stiles twitched frantically. Sighing heavily, Charlie got to her feet and began to stumble her way down the bleachers.

"Charlie," Lydia hissed from where she was standing, "where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to say hi to some people," she hissed back.

"But you don't know any people! You actively try to not know people!"

"I know some people," Charlie scoffed. "And you guys are bumming me out right now."

Bristling at her words, Lydia turned her chin up and faced the field, cheering out Jackson's name. Charlie slowly made her way down the bleachers, avoiding all of the morose faces, and began to walk down the field towards the bench. She would have thought that removing herself from the collective despair audience would lighten the mood somewhat, but the atmosphere surrounding the bench was equally as oppressive. Stiles sat slumped forwards, gnawing on his fingernails nervously as his leg bounced up and down with almost inhuman speed. "Hey," she chirped out, taking a seat next to him and making him jump.

"Hey...Charlie," Stiles said, giving her a weird look. "What are—what are you doing here?"

Charlie shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her coat and shrugged. "The view was getting pretty depressing from the bleachers. I figured I'd try out a new angle."

"Oh, no," Coach Finstock declared, shaking his head with that same usual, manic energy. "No, no, no. No girls on the field on game day."

Charlie leaned forwards and shot him a weird look. "I'm not on the field."

"No girls on the bench, then!" he shot back. "You're a distraction with the smiling and the nice smelling shampoo, you'll ruin their concentration and then y—" His voice cut off abruptly as he looked and the scoreboard. The dismally low number stood under Beacon Hills's name, mocking the lot of them. "You know what?" he continued, throwing his hands in the air. "Screw it. Just—whatever."

Coach Finstock stood up and began pacing back and forth along the field line, muttering incoherently. Charlie wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "Are we sure he's mentally stable?" she asked, gesturing in the man's direction.

"There's a distinct possibility that he's not," Stiles muttered back. His eyes were fixed on Scott's position on the field, his knee bouncing quickly enough to break the sound barrier.

"Are you okay, Stiles?" she inquired.

He made a face and jerked his head to the side twitchily. "Been better."

The two of them fell silent as the referee stepped onto the pitch. He leaned down next to Jackson and the other team's captain and finally, after what felt like a lifetime, blew the whistle. The two players rammed into each other, frantically struggling for the ball in some testosterone-fueled game of Red Rover. Somehow the ball was projected straight up in the air, spinning above their heads. Jackson and his opponent both jumped to their feet, looking around wildly for their prize, but a giant streak of crimson flew over them and swiped it clean out of the air. It wasn't until the person hit the ground and kept running that Charlie got a decent look at him. Number 11. It was Scott.

"Holy shit," she mumbled, her jaw hanging slack as he dodged and weaved between players. "He's a freaking ballerina."

Within seconds Scott was in front of the goal and sent the ball flying into the net. The buzzer rang victoriously, and the number 3 on the scoreboard changed to 4. One point down and still a minute and five seconds left to turn the tide. Charlie, along with the rest of the crowd, threw herself to her feet and screamed her lungs out. Stiles practically had a seizure next to her. Coach Finstock was still pacing up and down the field, but this time their was a modicum of hope on his face.

"Pass to McCall!" he called out through cupped hands. Stiles trailed after him, still jumping up and down, flailing in excitement. "Yeah! Pass to McCall!"

Seconds passed and the reset button had been hit. Stiles was back on the bench, chewing on his gloves for some inexplicable reason, and now it was Charlie's leg that was bouncing up and down frantically. Shit, was she actually invested in the game now? Dammit.

"That is seriously unsanitary, Stiles," she said, swatting at his gloves. "You're going to give yourself one of those gross parasites you have to have surgery to remove."

"Shut up, Charlie," he muttered back in a jittery voice. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a bit preoccupied over here."

The ref blew the whistle again and the players spread out across the field. The opposing team won the face-off and one of their players took off down the field towards their goal, eliciting a collective groan from the bleachers. But then, all of the sudden, the player stopped, frozen in place like a deer in headlights. Then, for some ridiculous reason, he tossed the ball neatly into the net of Scott's lacrosse stick and stepped out of his way, giving Scott a clear shot at the goal. Charlie furrowed her eyebrows in confusion until she felt herself being pushed aside. Coach Finstock came up behind her and Stiles and stepped over the bench, wedging himself between them.

"Did the opposing team just deliberately pass us the ball?" he demanded in disbelief.

Stiles pulled the glove out of his mouth long enough to nod frantically. "Yes, I believe so, Coach."

Coach Finstock let out a small laugh and nodded as well. "Interesting..."

Scott dodged past the last few players separating him from the goal, drawing his arm back to give him more leverage for the shot. He sent the ball flying and Charlie cringed slightly as she saw it sail directly into the net of the goalie's lacrosse stick. And then something impossible happened. Or at least it should have been impossible. The ball tore through the netting, landing past the goal line. Charlie stayed seated, paralyzed by disbelief, staring in awe. Screams shattered the silence around her. All tied up and 39 seconds still on the clock. The other team's coach started kicking up a bit of a fuss, but was immediately shut down by Stiles and Coach Finstock.

"The ball's in the net. That's the whole point right?"

The moment of truth. The last face-off. As soon as the whistle blew, Jackson swiped the ball and managed to shelve his ego long enough to pass to Scott, who then took off down the field. But when he approached the goal, Scott stopped, looking around him. Two steps to the left, a shuffle to the right, but no movement forward. The clock counted down, seconds slipping away like sand through splayed fingers. Charlie slowly and involuntarily stood up to her full height, her stomach twisting itself into knots with each tick of the clock. Then she heard Stiles's voice from next to her.

"No, Scott, no, no."

Eighteen seconds. Scott stood there, looking around like a cornered animal.

Seven seconds. Two of the opposing players launched themselves at him. Scott drew his arm back, ready to shoot.

"Come on, Scott," Charlie whispered under her breath. She grabbed ahold of Stiles's shoulder for support. "Come on, come on, come on."

Five. Four. Three.

The final buzzer rang. The ball glided into the net. The ground shook beneath them as the crowd jumped to their feet.

They had won, six to five.

A loud cheer erupted from the crowd and people began to spill onto the field. Charlie wasn't sure who had initiated it, but somehow she and Stiles ended up in a one-armed hug, jumping up and down and screaming like idiots. Once the crowds thinned out a little bit, Stiles looked over at her in surprise like he hadn't even realized she was there. The two of them released each other immediately and took a step apart. Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly and began scratching nervously at the back of his neck. Charlie rolled her eyes and his discomfort and turned to face him.

"Good game, man," she said, holding her hand up for a high-five.

Stiles laughed slightly and returned it. "I didn't really have much to do with it, but thanks."

"Oh, I don't know," she said, punching him in the shoulder. "Moral support is a fundamental part of the team effort. And God knows you were screeching like a lunatic."

Stiles shot her a small, grateful smile which she would have returned, but she was interrupted by the lilting voice of her aunt. How the woman had managed to find her so quickly in the chaos reigning on the field, Charlie would never know.

"Hey Charlie," Mel said as she approached them, her face alight with satisfaction. "That was way more exciting than I expected!"

Charlie rolled her eyes and scratched at her forehead. This was going to be painful. "Hey Mel," she mumbled less than enthusiastically, waving a hand in the general direction of the boy next to her. "This is Stiles."

"Oh, Stiles," Mel chirped, drawing out the name. She held her hand out to Stiles, which he took, but not before shooting Charlie a puzzled look. "I believe we spoke on the phone earlier today."

Stiles blinked in realization. "Oh, right, Ms. Oswin," he stammered out, shaking Mel's hand for longer than was probably necessary. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too," Mel said, her eyes flickering up and down to take in his appearance. "Very nice to meet you."

"Okay then!" Charlie said loudly, grabbing hold of her aunt's hand. "We're going to go. Stiles, congratulations again. I'll see you Monday."

"Yup, yeah," he said, giving her an awkward salute. "Monday. The day school weeks generally begin."

"Oh, and good luck with the English homework."

Charlie felt a small burst of victory at the bewilderment written across Stiles's face. Its blankness belonged to someone who had no idea what she was talking about. Her lips pinched together, fighting back the inherently suspicious expression her features were begging to form. "The reason you called earlier..." she prompted. "Our assignment for Monday?"

"Oh, right," Stiles said, planting his hands on his hips and nodding enthusiastically. "English homework. Reading. Words and stuff. Yeah, totally. Thanks for that."

"Okay then," Charlie mumbled, giving him an awkward salute of her own before marching off with Mel in tow.

"He was kind of cute," Mel whispered.

"So are Beanie Babies, but that doesn't mean I want to start a collection," Charlie muttered back. "Now let's go home. We've got a curfew."

After a quick goodbye to Lydia and Allison, who was desperately looking for Scott, Charlie dragged Mel towards the car, mentally facepalming the whole time. Mel might only be 28 years old, but she was quickly becoming a fantastic parent. She certainly had the 'humiliate the teenager' aspect down pat, meaning she had to be removed from the scene as quickly as humanly possible.

As they made their way to the car, Mel and Charlie passed by a few of the players from the opposing team, all of whom were sulking. Heads drooped, wilting like one of Mel's window box plants she always forgot to water. Charlie didn't blame them. They had lost the game in the space of a minute and a half. It was pretty freaking embarrassing. As the two girls pushed their way through the throngs of people to get to Mel's hybrid, Charlie could catch snippets of their conversations. Mostly it was comprised of the stereotypical guy-whining—the ref had been paid off, they were robbed, blah, blah, blah.

One of the comments, though, stuck in her head. As she opened her car door and climbed into the passenger's seat, she overheard the guy who passed the ball to Scott.

"What the hell was number 11 on?" he shouted. "I swear his eyes were freaking yellow. Like glowing yellow. What the hell kind of drug does that? PCP?"

Charlie paused for a moment until Mel called at her to get in the car. She climbed in, buckled up, and propped her feet on the dash. As she stared out the windows at the woods on her right, flashes of eyes glowed in the brush. Yellow flashes.

A single, familiar question began swirling around in her head.

What the hell was going on with Scott McCall?

---

Chapter 7 - Game Day SOUNDTRACK

Being woken up by Mel and informing her as to the significance of Saturdays, discussing the lacrosse game.

-~-~-~-~-~Not Again - Yumi and the Weather

Song playing on Charlie's iPod while jogging and when she thinks she sees a blue Jeep (I love the franticness of the rhythm here, I feel like it fits really well with the confusion of Charlie seeing the Jeep everywhere, plus it fits in with her doubt, etc with the Jeep).

-~-~-~-~-~Content Nausea - Parquet Courts

Lydia pays a visit, criticizes Charlie's wardrobe, tries to convince Mel to let Charlie go out after the game.

-~-~-~-~-~Moves - City Brat

Arriving at the game, meeting Mr. Argent.

-~-~-~-~-~Tomahawk - Wild Yaks

Watching Beacon Hills get their ass kicked by the opposing team.

-~-~-~-~-~Don't Shoot - Devo

Sitting on the bleachers with Stiles and watching Scott save the day.

-~-~-~-~-~Into Your Dream - Foreign Born

Overhearing some of the other lacrosse players talking about Scott and driving home all pensive-like. End chapter.

-~-~-~-~-~Halls of Columbia - Pickwick

---

References!

World of Warcraft

The Flying Dutchman - the ghost ship. Not really a POTC reference, but I guess you could consider it one.

Klingon.

"Glitter is the herpes of the arts and crafts world" is a reference to a skit by Demetri Martin. I actually thought a friend of mine made that up and I was like 'I'm totally gonna use that' and she neglected to tell me that she didn't, in fact, make it up. I'm mildly disappointed that she didn't make it up, but whatever.

The chair swivel with Leonard in her lap is a play on that dramatic swivel entrance of all Bond villains.

'Old man yells at clouds' is a Simpsons reference.

The Borg is a Star Trek TNG reference. YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED!

Stepford

"I find your lack of bacon disturbing"...play on a Star Wars quote.

Beanie babies!