.

As it turned out, Stiles also got detention for the entire week.

In all honestly, he deserved worse than this. But that didn't make him resent it any less; if anything, it made him resent it more.

Thankfully, with lacrosse season in full swing, it wasn't Finstock who ran detention; instead, it was Mr. Harris. Normally this would put Stiles on edge since he was pretty sure the man had a personal vendetta against him, but for once it was actually nice to be leveled with the same glare the chemistry teacher reserved for the rest of the detention regulars—like they were the scum of the earth and an utter waste of time and effort.

It wasn't too hard to figure out who they were after a few days either. Most kids only got a day's worth of detention, so they were gone by the next day. There were a few, though, who showed up every day, usually late, and looked as though detention was practically a second home for them. They shamelessly goaded Harris—always at the threat of another detention, but at that point it must have been for appearance's sake since they always had detention—and never did any work assigned to them.

Terry Johnson used this time to fill up his notebook with doodles, Brian Cunningham made spit balls and hurled them at Terry, Sarah Miller was either texting furiously or, after Harris inevitably took her phone, fiddling with anything near her she could get her hands on, and Stephen Pratt was in a different universe all together. No one was sure if he even knew he was in detention most of the time, but he showed up every day at five-past like clock-work. He never said anything, and usually sat far away from everyone else. Stiles wondered what he did to get in here, but thought it better not to ask.

It wasn't until Thursday that he met Erica Reyes.

About fifteen minutes into their two-hour purgatory, the door flew open to a whirl of blond curls and leather.

"Ms. Reyes, how nice of you to join us. Care to explain where you've been for the past three days?"

"My cat died," she replied curtly, dropping her purse with a thud on the desk next to Stiles' before slipping gracefully into her seat. "I was in mourning."

"Is that so?" Mr. Harris replied in a tone of blatant disbelief.

"Yes," Erica replied in a you-must-be-stupid-or-deaf tone of voice. "You couldn't have honestly expected me to come to school after that. Mittens was my one true friend in this world; she meant everything to me." To her credit, Stiles thought he actually saw tears rimming her eyes. "Besides, isn't there some 'death in the family' clause to being absent from school? I was completely within my rights to stay home with her during her last few days on this earth."

Mr. Harris looked like he was about contest that 'death in the family' didn't extend to pets, but thought better of it and merely grumbled a 'sorry for your loss' that didn't sound the tiniest bit sincere.

Erica gave a sickeningly sweet smile in return. "Thank you, Mr. Harris. That means a lot coming from you."

Mr. Harris didn't reply, merely went back to grading papers. With his attention gone, Erica shifted her own attention on Stiles. "Hey, you the kid who threw the chair through the window?"

It was in that moment that he realized he would never live this down. "Bingo! I do believe we have a winner. Want a prize?" he replied in monotone, not really in the mood to be interrogated about the event.

"Sarcastic," she said as if placing a label on a book, a small tug of a smile pulling at the corner of her lips. "What happened? Never known you to be much of a troublemaker."

"I could say the same about you," he deflected.

He'd never actually hung out with Erica, but he'd known about her, just like the rest of the school. She was the girl who has seizures, an introvert who kept to herself and avoided all social activities like the plague. Beyond that, however, she was a model student who never caused any problems—at least, that's how it was up until a few months ago. Seemingly out of the blue it was as if a designer from Glamour Magazine had given her a makeover, and consequently she was bumped up to the top of the 'most desirable' list in their school—hell, probably within the county. But along with this new look also came a new attitude, one that found her in detention more often than not.

"Yeah, well, maybe I was just fed up with taking shit from everyone," she brushed off with a shrug.

"I guess you could say the same for me," Stiles replied, leaning forward to rest his chin on his palm.

There was a subtle shift in her expression, one Stiles was all too familiar with these days. To Erica's credit, though, it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. "You should come to the Hale's party Friday night."

That caught Stiles completely off guard. "I should... what?"

"Party. Hale's. Friday night. I don't see what's hard to understand about that," she said with a flick of her hair. "You should come. Trust me, it'll be good for you."

Stiles was wary of the smile that came along with those words, but more so of the words themselves. He knew the story of the Hales—everyone in Beacon Hills did—but he'd never personally met any of them. The closest he came was when the fire happened; his dad had been the first officer on the scene, and Stiles just happened to be in the car when his dad responded to the call.

"I can't just," he gave a vague gesture with his hand, "show up. I don't know any of them. Besides which, I have no reason to be there."

She waved it off with, "You can be my plus one."

He narrowed his eyes warily. "Why are you asking me to go?"

"I told you already," she said as if it physically pained her to repeat herself, "it will be good for you."

"And what reason do you have for helping me? We've barely spoken since the sixth grade."

"Let me ask you this, Stiles," she said as she turned to face him fully. "Would you rather stay at home and wallow in your sorrow, or forget it all and just let yourself have fun for one night?" Her voice gave a tone of finality, as if this would be the last time she'd ask him and, consequently, the last chance he'd have to make up his mind.

He thought over it for a long moment, debating whether this was a good idea. Part of him warned that it seemed too easy, that she had no reason to invite him. Another told him to stay home and take care of his dad, who he knew would be spending his night with the usual bottle in his hand. Yet still another, the part that'd been slowly clawing at his insides, desperately trying to climb out of his skin and experience the world like he used to, screamed at him to go.

He took a deep breath and, after weighing each option, decided to abandon his last remaining shred of self-preservation.

"What time is it?"

Because what did he really have to lose, anyway?

"Excuse me," the very put-upon voice of Mr. Harris spoke from behind his desk, "but last time I checked, this was detention, not social hour. If you cannot abide by the rules, then I assure you I will give you something to keep you very busy for the rest of the time."

A wicked grin painted Erica's lips as she turned back in her seat. "Come around 9."