A.N.: Please review!

Jekyll and Hyde

05

Grade Twelve Werewolf

"Okay, so I'm thinking that if this Mary girl makes Derek wary, and has enough skillz to evade even her parents, who are werewolf hunters, then she must be like some kind of like Grade Twelve werewolf," Stiles chattered, launching himself out of his Jeep, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

"So what grade am I?" Scott asked, frowning softly.

"Um…" Stiles stammered, glancing guilty at Scott, "Y'know…kindergarten, with scabbed knees and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox. PB&J with the crusts cut off, Fruit Gushers, trading Bayblades, that sorta thing." Scott sighed heavily.

"Great," he muttered.

"But on the plus-side, y'know, having another werewolf in town might not be such a bad thing, you might not have to rely on a particular someone for help," Stiles said, glancing around like a meerkat in case they were being overheard.

"You mean Derek."

"I mean Derek…who still scares me," Stiles admitted, sighing heavily. They strode into the main hallway, dodging other kids struggling to dislodge obstinate textbooks from their lockers, necking in the halls and laughing with their friends, guys knuckle-knocking, girls sharing sparkling lip-glosses, and Scott's senses twitched as he scented something familiar on the air. He had only caught the scent once before, but he knew it already. He now knew he could sense another werewolf's presence, and the scent he had caught, despite the nauseating perfume that was a high-school corridor, was hers. Mary Argent. Daughter of werewolf-hunters. And according to Stiles, a "Grade Twelve Werewolf".

"That's her," he said softly, gazing down the hall. As Allison had said, her sister had a face you didn't forget; she was staggering, and now that he had seen her, Scott couldn't believe he hadn't noticed her before. When they had first met, she had been wearing this lace-sleeved cardigan, and had changed quickly into running-gear and braids. Today she wore her dark hair piled and coiled on top of her head in a bun, wispy bits falling out romantically, with red fingernails, heeled ankle-boots with a chunky, kind of feminine, embellished-biker vibe, and a black shirt-dress that brushed the tops of her thighs, she looked casual and very pretty, with a gold chain around her throat, thicker than usual and close to her throat almost like a choker, all of her piercings taken out except the tiny gold hoop in her inner-helix, and she wore a large gold watch that caught his eye. She was smiling and flirting with a Senior on the Varsity swim-team, and he could hear her rich, luscious laugh; and though her voice was warm, irreverent and playful, when she laughed, Scott could kind of hear a little of Allison's laugh in her. Her face was that lovely heart-shape, dramatic eyebrows, high cheekbones and beautiful lips, and she was more natural than her sister's pale skin and black hair, but they were sisters. He could see it in the way they both dressed up with accessories and makeup; even if they weren't close at all during school-hours. And Scott knew they weren't; he'd never seen the two girls within ten feet of each other.

"That—that's her?" Stiles gaped. "Huh. So, the Argent sisters have some supernatural hotness gene. She's hanging around Varsity swimmers—what the hell is she doing not introducing her little-sister to some hot seniors? What the hell is Allison doing with you?"

"Thanks."

"Just trying to keep things in perspective, buddy."

"Try less, please."

"Okay, so that's Allison's sister. Long legs, a tattoo, beautiful smile, a werewolf; I like her already," Stiles grinned, head tilted to one side as he stared across the hall at Mary Argent. She was a stunning girl, Scott had to admit. Her right forearm was a colourful display of meticulously detailed ink-work, though he still couldn't make out the details. "Hey, this might work out well for us."

"How's that?"

"Well, hot girls hang in packs, sort of like wolves—and werewolves, actually; I wonder if she knows any other hot were-girls she can introduce me too, I don't know, maybe I can make Lydia Martin insanely jealous when she realises I'm dating the hottest girl known to man or werewolf," Stiles said, and Scott rolled his eyes.

"Good luck with that," Scott chuckled softly. "I think if you tell Allison's sister that hot girls run in packs like animals, your capacity to date will be severely impaired. Because you'll be dead."

"Dismemberment. Right. Bad," Stiles sighed. "Alright, c'mon, we're gonna be late. And Coach told me I'd have to clean all the team's jocks if I'm one second late, so…" Scott smirked, following his best-friend to their Economics class; his heart skipped a beat in trepidation as he walked past Mary Argent in the hall. Her eyes, intense molasses-ringed olive hazel flecked with golden-amber shards, dramatically made up with mascara and artfully smudged eyeliner, followed him, even as she laughed and chatted with the boy she was flirting with. Had she been listening? Or was he paranoid, because the only other werewolf he'd ever met terrified the bejeezus out of him and he was worried Mary Argent was exactly the same?

He doubted Derek Hale would ever…flirt, though.

And he could hear Mary's laugh behind him as he entered the Economics classroom. It made the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

"What was her tattoo?" Stiles asked, as they slipped into their usual desks. Scott glanced at him.

"What?"

"That girl, Mary—Allison's sister, she has a tattoo," Stiles said, his eyes bright with interest. "On her arm. D'you know what it is?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"Well, you did see her half-naked."

"Yeah, in front of Allison; I wasn't exactly getting a good eyeful, Stiles," Scott said derisively. "And why would I care what her tattoo is?"

"I don't know, maybe it's some sort of rite of werewolf-passage," Stiles shrugged. "Derek has a tattoo too."

"He does?"

"You didn't notice—it's on his back. Some kind of Celtic symbol," Stiles said, eyes wide. "How could you not notice, it's like charcoal against that brink-of-death pale skin of his."

"I don't tend to take excess amounts of time staring at shirtless guys," Scott smirked, and Stiles shrugged.

"Hey, I was just trying to distract my brain from the possibility that I might have to live forever with the memory of having lopped off Derek's arm with a bone-saw, because you and Allison were getting it on and having a nice cosy family-dinner," Stiles said, blushing. "I wonder what his tattoo means. The triple-spiral, I mean…"

"Tattoos mean different things to everyone who gets them," Scott said softly. He had always wanted a tattoo, no matter how much his mom tried to terrify him away from getting one, with the threat of contaminated needles, blood-borne viruses…

"I wonder if werewolves can get tattoos," Stiles said thoughtfully. "I mean, you heal from everything; tattoos are essentially hundreds of thousands of tiny needle-pricks leaving behind traces of ink… It's the scar left behind after it heals that forms the tattoo…"

"I don't know," Scott shrugged.

"Well, I guess that's just one more thing to add to the long list of questions about werewolfitude we need answered," Stiles sighed, tugging a composition-notebook out of his backpack, uncapping his pen with his teeth, chewing on the cap, and started scribbling. Scott frowned as he glanced over at Stiles' desk, and the notebook.

"Tell me that's not actually a list of things you're trying to find out about werewolves?" Scott sighed.

"It is," Stiles blinked at him. "Come on, Scott, it's not like you were handed a How-To manual and a cupcake to welcome you to Lycanthropes R' Us. There are things you need to know, things we have to be prepared for. I…write things down as I think of them. It's ridiculous trying to find answers on the internet, people read too much Twilight. Some of the chat forums are ridiculous, I swear to God, if my dad didn't take the ammo out of his .99 when he gets home I might think of using it."

"That's probably why he takes the ammo out…and so he doesn't shoot you when you O.D. on your Adderall," Scott laughed. Stiles gave him a deadpan look and almost choked on the pen-cap as Coach slammed a textbook on his desk.

"Alright, listen up, you little degenerates—we've got Parent Teacher Conferences coming up, so in light of your collective G.P.A. in this class, all of you might wanna start kissing my ass—Greenberg. Stop grinning.—so I don't shame you to your parents' faces. I enjoy humiliating you here; I enjoy my petty revenges giving you detention mopping the boys' bathrooms to get back at you for Mischief Night…but to give your parents enough leverage to ground your little punk-asses until you graduate…well, I would find such deep, profound joy in that."

Stomach churning with guilt, Scott tried to focus on Coach's lecture. He was already below a C average in basically every class except P.E.; his mom was always worrying about work and paying the bills, and he hadn't had trouble with his classes…until he was bitten. Strange how easily his grades could completely collapse when he slipped up on just a few assignments, not studying for some quizzes. He'd never been a bad student before. He didn't like it; the guilt was giving him stomach-ache, and he was filled with anxiousness at the thought of his mom's reaction. For sure he was gonna be grounded for at least a month, but…it wasn't exactly entirely his fault he was coming closer to failing grades than he'd ever been.

What with Derek, the mysterious and homicidal Alpha, him being bitten, trying to figure out what that all meant, now Allison, her father the crossbow-wielder and her aunt who kept semi-automatics in the trunk of her car…

He wasn't exactly skipping classes to have a good time. This stuff was real, heart-in-your-mouth terrifying some of the time, and he didn't know how to get ahead of it, how to control it, before…before he was swept up by it, destroying everything in its wake like a tsunami. You couldn't fight tsunamis, or earthquakes; you endured them, and rebuilt after the storm had passed…

Maybe if he could just…just get through the next full-moon without hurting anyone, maybe if he could just…focus, he might be able to scrape through the semester with a B average—not his best, but it wouldn't necessitate summer-school, either. He needed to learn how to…how to be a werewolf. A good one.

One who could do all of the things that Scott knew he needed to learn how to do, but…didn't trust or like Derek to go to him for help. He didn't like Derek, was intimidated by his cold, inflexible personality, knew there were things Derek wasn't telling him, but didn't know which things Derek had told him were truth or not, or partial-truths he told to suit his needs…

Derek hadn't told him one way or another that they could trust Mary Argent. He had only said that because she was related to the Argent werewolf-hunters, Mary had been kicked out of her pack…

The individual had been sacrificed to protect the whole.

Those were Derek's words; he said it wasn't uncommon to push out specific pack-members when their actions threatened the pack.

But Scott didn't understand something, and neither had Derek; his expression had been wounded, almost sorrowful, something going on behind his luminous grey eyes that Scott couldn't see, when he had told Scott that Mary's pack had kicked her out, for the sole reason of being related to Argents. And the fact her eyes had turned blue, he had told Scott that other more terrible things might've happened in her time with her pack, because for her eyes to turn blue…

He hadn't told Scott why a werewolf's eyes turned blue: Scott's were amber. The Alpha's had been red; Derek and Mary Argent's eyes burned a searing ice-blue.

She had to know more about being a werewolf than he did—he might not have to go to Derek for help controlling himself on the full-moon, if this Mary girl could help…

But she hadn't seemed, well, approachable.

"Okay, so how do we ask her to help?" Scott asked Stiles, as they exited their Math class.

"Um…you say, Hey, would you mind splitting your lycanthropic Midol with me this month?" Stiles said, blinking earnestly, and Scott clipped him round the ear. "Okay, ow! You're asking me, a guy who's never had the nerve to talk to a hot girl before in the sixteen years of his life, to go up to some tattooed Amazon warrior werewolf-princess and ask her to help you out, when it's pretty clear that a. we might not be able to trust her because b. her parents are werewolf-hunters who carry crossbows and semi-automatics as a matter of course. And she might be their secret-weapon. Albeit, a secret-weapon who admittedly wears high-heeled boots, a push-up bra and red lipstick…"

"So, you think…what, I should just ask her?" Scott mumbled.

"I think it might do more harm not asking, if she knows how to help you control the shift on the full-moon," Stiles said, sighing heavily.

"How do I ask her?"

"Um… You say, Hi, I'm Scott McCall, I'm a newbie werewolf, would you mind sharing your Lycan-notes with me?" Stiles shrugged.

"And if that doesn't work?"

"Whine. Like a little puppy-dog. She's a girl, you've got those puppy-dog brown eyes," Stiles said, with a jaunty grin. "Work 'em." Scott rolled his eyes and walked off, thinking, Not helpful, Stiles.

If it wasn't bad enough Scott was having so much trouble already with his concentration, falling below a C-average in most of his classes, he was now paranoid about the approaching full-moon and worried about asking Mary Argent for help. He had a week.

While Scott worried about the full-moon, Stiles, being Stiles, collected as much data as he could on Mary Argent. Apparently, despite her having been in Beacon Hills less than two months, there was plenty of gossip surrounding this girl. The boys' locker-room was a prime location to gather it, and it seemed like half the Senior class had been out with her. She didn't wait around to be called, didn't tiptoe around guys she liked the look of: in one Senior swimmer's terms, she "went in for the kill" almost immediately.

She had a reputation for being very confident, sometimes severe, incredibly artistic and irreverent: she was playful in her Art class; daydreamed and doodled through Advanced Calculus and AP Physics; and apparently had knocked everybody off the record-books when it came to Cross-Country running and the Swim Team absolutely loved her for pushing their scores up with her butterfly-stroke. She reportedly liked the boiler-room for illicit rendezvous, and wasn't particular about who she had them with, just as long as she got what she wanted from them before the bell.

It wasn't normal for Mary to even acknowledge she had a sister during school-hours. She had things to do, and to be honest, in years past she had seen too much of Allison at home to care about dedicating all her spare-time outside of it to her little-sister. Things had changed this past year, with Allison being old enough to enjoy the things Mary could offer her when she snuck her little-sis out of the house, right under their parents' noses, but usually…no. Mary had her own life, so far apart from Allison's they could have been orbiting in different universes.

Last year, Mary had always been off breathless with laughter at her friends' antics, in the thick of the action and the fun; or stifling her yells during a quickie in a darkened cupboard; or skipping lessons to go shopping, to the movies or on day-trips to Six Flags or the beach, the aquarium or a Ferris Bueller-inspired Dare-Day trip around the city. Before that, she had spent all her time with Reese, Tommy and John…they'd been normal high-school kids, for the first time she'd been an American in high-school, after her time at "secondary-school" in England, wearing a uniform, smoking behind the bike-shed, getting drunk with her friends in the horse-field, sleeping in the barn on top of actual haystacks…Michael setting his sneakers on fire when they went camping…

Mary resented her parents for all their moves; for all the budding friendships that had had so much potential, cut short because they slew monsters on their time off work. The Argents hadn't realised that in their pursuit to make the world safer, they had made their daughters sacrifice…a lot.

It was strange that Mary had never looked at Allison with the same thinly-veiled loathing and contempt; when they were younger, Mary old enough to start going out and dating, it had been a matter of course that Allison would stay home playing Skip-Bo, and at school they'd never seen each other. But now things were different. Something was different here. Allison had met a boy.

And Mary knew that boy's secret. Brave of him, to sit through the rabid-dog dinner-party with her parents, and her psychotic young aunt. He must have been terrified—she could sympathise. She didn't appreciate him sending a huge Beta after her while she ran through the woods overgrowing Beacon Hills, but they were both a risk to each other. It wasn't as if Mary had leverage over Scott McCall or Derek Hale… She had been watching Scott and his best-friend—there was a close-knit bromance if ever there was one—for several days, trying to figure out what this little newbie-Beta would do with the knowledge that she was a werewolf.

So far, he hadn't dared approach her. She knew she intimidated him; after meeting Derek Hale, she wasn't surprised Scott had trouble approaching any other werewolf. Between the two of them, Mary and Derek, she was sure they weren't exactly painting the friendliest of pictures about werewolves… They weren't always like…they weren't all like Mary. Heartbroken, and concealing it beneath a tough, severe façade, humour, and a lot of incredibly angry artwork—and equally angry sex. Though the sex was detached, not ardent and incredibly personal, like her artwork, her one outlet, besides running, to channel all of the gooey, stomach-churning emotions and self-loathing, despair and dread into something tangible she could control…

No, she wasn't at her best these days.

Because the people who had made her time, not only bearable, but the best experiences she would remember for decades to come, were no longer her friends. They had abandoned her, pushed her out, betrayed her. She couldn't forgive that—and she couldn't forgive her parents for being who they were.

Allison wasn't a part of the life she hated, the secret one her little-sister knew nothing about. She was… She had a shot to grow up normal, to finish high-school, go to college, and live her life…beautifully. She was a talented, clever girl and sweet. Mary had no reservations stating her little-sister would have a beautiful life. Mary wouldn't—she didn't. The only part of her life now that she could tolerate was Allison's part in it. Drinking with her little-sis the other night, talking about boys, sex, the proper application processes of cosmetics, trust, Mary had come to realise that the only part of her life she liked was Allison.

To go from such a rich oasis of friendship, love, community, protection, ferocity and lust, to a horizon barren of anything…how suddenly her life had performed a complete one-eighty, from being richly, deeply ensconced in a pack, a family, to…complete isolation. It was intolerable.

It was no wonder she was so angry. So…so hurt.

No wonder she had closed herself off to everyone.

You couldn't get hurt if you never fell in love, or made friends.

She had done so too many times—fallen in love; adored friends—and been brutalised by it.

But it was cute that Allison had only just started to fall in love. She was a sweet girl, feminine and talented, but she was shy, and until moving here, meeting the inimitable Lydia Martin, she had never really formed many strong friendships. Allison found it difficult to make friends; Mary was now choosing not to pursue them. But she liked seeing Allison smile and laugh in the hallway with Lydia and Jackson, even though it felt like a knife twisting in her gut when she thought of her own emptiness…

Making eyes across the corridor at each other, Mary smirked and dropped beside Allison's open locker, arms crossed over her chest idly, chuckling under her breath at Scott McCall goofing off with his hyperactive best-friend. "Look at them, stuck together like little goldfish," she laughed irreverently, gazing across the corridor. "Seriously, Al, you are two seconds away from losing him to his best-friend."

"They've known each other since kindergarten," Allison smiled warmly, though her expression flickered a tiny bit; Mary could sense the longing emanating from her. She sighed, glancing across the hall. They had both grown up wishing they had lived in one place, grown up with the same people, had strong friendships…

Mary sat in her Art class, the scent of paint, linseed oil, turpentine and the dry, itchy scent of fresh canvases tickling her nose, burning her eyes, and she sat, transfixed, pouring emotion into her palette of oil-paints.

She was a huge fan of the glamorous-grunge advertisement-art of Marilyn Minter, the blurry, chaotic voyeurism of Cecily Brown, adored the ecstatic beauty Van Gogh created despite – perhaps in spite of – his debilitating emotional agony. Kandinsky – he said when he saw colour, he heard music. When Mary was drawn into creating something, she could blot out everything. Helped she had her iPod on, drowning out the banter and her own hypersensitivity to loud noises with her favourite 1960s rock n' roll – a lot of The Kinks, a lot of Rolling Stones, Small Faces and Beach Boys, and a bit of modern pop thrown in, because the relentless cheerfulness could do her some good, though she had been tempted to get lost in her heavy-metal playlists lately. She could stand at her easel, large silver headphones on, bopping her head and bending a knee as she mouthed the words to her favourite song by The Kinks, the introduction of Aerosmith's (Dude) Looks Like a Lady bringing up memories of her childhood watching Mrs Doubtfire with Allison in their living-room with their blankies and favoured comfort-toys, sucking her thumb.

If Kandinsky heard music when he saw colour, Mary frowned at her painting, wondering how loud the heavy-metal would be playing if he looked at it.

Florence + The Machine's Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up) came after, with Meatloaf following, Johnny Cash's Hurt making her stomach hurt and for the rest of the day, Wayne Newton's Danke Schoen played over in her head, excessive viewings of Ferris Bueller causing her to repeat the parade scene along with the lyrics. Linking Andy Gibbs' Shadow Dancing to the episode where Lorelai references the song as her middle-school favourite, Mary daydreamed of going home, grabbing some junk-food and indulging in a Gilmore Girls marathon, to envy the Lorelais Gilmore their staggering relationship.

Allison had sounded sad and envious of Scott's lifelong friendship with Stiles – Mary looked forward to a future without her mother in it, yearning for the day she could develop a Lorelai-and-Rory bond with her own daughter. She was counting the days – and the dollars – until having her own life, her own home, completely independent of her parents.

A.N.: I know, I know, I updated! Once you've picked yourselves off the floor from shock, please review!