Author's Note: Hey-o, thanks for all the reviews, my friends. I really appreciate it! Hope you all like this chapter!

Song for the chapter: Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen (LOL you'll see why, don't kill me).

Call Me Maybe

When Amy reached Stiles' front step, she was faced with the former Sheriff Stilinski. For some reason unbeknownst to all of them, she could never stop herself from smiling guiltily whenever she saw him. Perhaps it was just habit – he had certainly found her in a number of compromising positions in the past, most notably with her head hung over the toilet. The fact that he had never snitched to her parents made her like him immensely, despite what it might have seemed.

"Hiya there, Papa Stilinski," she chirped insolently.

"Hello, Amy," he greeted in turn.

"Stiles around?"

"Yeah, he's in his room – go on up. But the door stays open."

"Of course!" she exclaimed, clutching her hand to her chest as if the notion were dreadfully scandalizing. The older man shook his head at her incorrigibility, before meandering back into the kitchen.

She genuinely didn't understand why he didn't trust them – neither had ever given him reason not to (in that respect, anyway. In other respects... Well, that was a different story). But she ultimately chalked it up to the fact that he considered them nothing more than two hormonal teenagers who couldn't be holed up together for any extended period of time without something sexual transpiring. Ridiculous.

Stiles was at his computer. "Amelia," he said without ever tearing his eyes from the luminous screen.

"How did you know it was me?"

"Seeing as Allison's parents are away for the weekend, I've resigned myself to the fact that Lydia's party last night was the only time I'm going to see Scott in the next few days."

"A keen observation," she stated solemnly. "I've come to the same conclusion regarding Allison."

"So, what's up?"

"I need advice."

"Oh god."

"Be serious! This is important!"

"Could it have to do with… Oh, I don't know… Derek?"

"I got his number."

"You what?"

"You heard me. I got his number. Please, hold your applause."

To be fair, Stiles' mouth was ajar and he looked completely flabbergasted. Speechless, even. Finally: "Dude, I just – I can't. How?"

"I forgot my phone in his car and when he handed it back to me his number was on it," she said matter-of-factly.

"Huh."

"Try to be a little more helpful," she complained.

"Sorry, I'm just still… processing. Okay, uh, well, have you texted him or anything?"

"No, not yet."

"Hm. Okay. Are you going to?"

"Why do you think I came here? I don't know what to do, and seeing as you know him better than I do, I thought I'd see what you have to say! But obviously you're just as lost as I am…"

"No, okay, okay, I'm thinking. Well, Derek seems like the type who'd prefer a girl to play hard-to-get…"

"Yeah that's what I thought too, but then it dawned on me that if both of us are antisocial this will go nowhere. Soooo…"

"Yeah, you're probably right... Well, just text him, then."

"But what should I say?" she demanded as if it were the most pressing question in the universe.

"Hey, I just met you –"

"No!" Amy roared in a desperate attempt to drown him out. "Don't even. Just stop."

"And this is crazy – "

"No."

"But here's my number – "

"NO!"

Stiles descended into a fit of snickers at her expense as she stared at her phone peevishly. "You're useless," she lamented. "How about: 'thanks for the ride last night, maybe I'll run into you soon'?"

"Sounds fine to me," he dismissed. "Thanks for the 'ride'? Oh, I bet it was one hell of a ride…"

"Be mature."

"Like he's not going to think the same thing…" he snorted.

After she sent the text, he started, "So, Lydia…"

Now it was Amy's turn to snort. "I'm not a miracle worker."

A wave of indignation overtook his features – she made note of the look, for it wasn't one that Stiles wore often. With a sheepish grin, Amy assured him, "Okay, okay, I'll see what I can do! I'm not making any promises..." It was part of their agreement, after all…

He slunk down in his chair, now more relaxed.

"But I'm warning you, she's not over Jackson," was the caveat. Her eyes roamed over him, sizing him up almost pityingly. Jackson, Stiles, Jackson, Stiles? It wasn't too difficult of a choice for most girls. That didn't mean, of course, that Amy would choose Jackson over Stiles – she just recognized that there were a great many girls who would. However, such thoughts were meaningless because Amy's heart belonged to another, and he happened to be six feet of pure, unadulterated sex appeal (hint: his name began with a D and ended with a K). "Just don't get your hopes up," she said more gently.

Stiles deflated a bit, but nevertheless replied, "I've been waiting for her since third grade, a few more years is nothing. I'll wait. However long it takes for her to figure out that Jackson is an asshole, I'll wait."

"I don't think it's that she hasn't realized," Amy said pensively, "I think it's that she just doesn't care."

He shot her a warning glare. "You know what I mean."

"There's no one else that you're interested in?"

He shook his head 'no.'

"What about Erica? I heard she likes you…"

Stiles' dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Erica?"

"Yeah, the blonde girl. She's in our Bio class."

"Oh I know who she is…" he said appreciatively.

Amy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. To be sure, most of the male population knew exactly who Erica Reyes was. She was a new commodity, someone who had just appeared on their radar. Because the truth of the matter was, Erica had always been somewhat of an ugly duckling – at least that's what Allison and Lydia had told Amy. But, over the summer, she had undergone an enormous transformation – i.e. her skin cleared up, she got her braces off, lost a bunch of weight, and found a sense of style. After a brief fling with Isaac Lahey, she was now one of the most sought-after girls at Beacon Hills High.

But Stiles only had eyes for Lydia, or so she had thought.

"You'd be into that?" she questioned in disbelief.

"No," he scoffed, "I'm just saying, I know who she is. Plus, I doubt she has any interest in me. I don't know where you heard that."

Where had she heard that? There were really only two options: Allison or Lydia.

"So I take it you still want me to talk to Lydia for you, then?"

"Duh."

"Ugh, fine."

Just then, her phone buzzed against her thigh. With unbridled enthusiasm, she flipped it over to read the screen. It was Derek. All it said was, maybe. She felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach, disappointment clouding her mind like a fever.

"Who is it?"

"Derek."

"What'd he say?"

"'Maybe'."

"That's it?"

"Yeah…"

He winced compassionately and said, "Well, you gave it your best shot."

Her pretty eyes implored him. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he questioned mistrustfully.

Nothing.

"There's nothing I can do."

Still, nothing.

"Stop it! You want my help? Fine." Before she could protest, he ripped the phone from her hand and started composing a florid love-note.

"What are you writing?" she demanded in panic. This was not at all the sort of help she'd had in mind. She tried with all her might to retrieve her phone, but Stiles was too tall.

"Oh, you'll see…" was his ominous response. She very nearly expected him to start cackling manically. "Done," he finally said, tossing the phone back to its rightful owner.

Call me maybe? appeared in the green word bubble.

"You bastard!"

Through his laughter, Stiles countered, "He probably won't even get it."

"Ohhh myyyy godddd. What is wrong with youuu," she whined.

Derek's next text came moments later, and it didn't even address what Stiles had written – he wrote, I'll be at the lacrosse game on friday. Friday. That was a week away. But. He said he would be there. As in, she should also be there. Which meant. It was like a date. Kind of.

At the sight of Amy's jaw dropping, Stiles repossessed the phone.

"Ha! It actually worked! You owe me big time."

"Okay." She knew when she was beat. "I'll talk to Lydia when I see her."

oxOxo

Amy returned home at approximately four p.m. She was met with the customary sight of her mother preparing dinner whilst her father attended to some sort of business-y thing on his iPad. Ian was there, too, sitting in silence.

"Where have you been all day?" the blonde asked, briefly looking up from her wooden cutting board.

"Stiles'."

Her father made a face. "He's just a friend," she insisted, "Calm down."

"Amy couldn't get a boyfriend, even if she tried," Ian assisted. Oh, how she could always count on him to come to her aid…

"I don't understand why you have to spend so much time with that boy," her mother chided, "Why can't you just have a day with Allison?"

"Because unlike me, Allison does have a boyfriend."

"Kids your age shouldn't be dating," her father interjected disparagingly without looking up. "You're too young."

"Dad, I'm eighteen. You can't keep me locked away forever."

"I can try," he retorted, only half-joking.

Amy huffed as she sat down between the two male Bells. "You know, someday the time will come…"

"That's enough of that," her mother waved her off.

Her parents still thought of her as a little girl. It was a common mistake of their ilk, this she recognized. If only they knew the truth… But they would never know. They could never know.

Amy was careful to cover her tracks, and Ian had yet to betray her in such a momentous fashion. To tell the truth, she often wondered why he guarded her secrets. He didn't particularly like her, at least not from what she could tell. She suspected it had something to do with keeping their family together – because without a support group of friends, this was all he had. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"So what did you do today, douchebag?"

"Amy!" Mrs. Bell's tone betrayed that she was positively appalled by her daughter's language; conversely, Mr. Bell's smirk betrayed his amusement. Amy beamed at her dad, while Ian looked none too offended.

"I already told you. Homework."

Amy always maintained that the rift between the Bell siblings had started the moment her brother developed verbal faculties, but this wasn't quite right. The rivalry – one that stretched far beyond normal – could be traced back to a singular instance nearly a decade in the past: when Amy had smashed his Gameboy Color against the pavement, shattering it to pieces, over the last piece of chocolate cake. Ian had never forgiven her. The grudge hadn't wavered, even if the memory of why it ever existed had.

"You know, your brother has his priorities straight," their mother continued to nag, "I can't say the same for you."

"Spare me. I'm already into college."

"School starts up again in a couple of days," their father pointed out, "you really should start focusing on getting what you need to do in order. You don't want UCLA to rescind their acceptance."

"We both know that they almost never do that. You really have to eff up."

"Amy!"

"Sorry. But it's true!"

"I don't know when you became such a handful," she murmured ruefully. "You used to be such a meek girl. What happened?"

"I grew up."

"You're hardly an adult," her father snorted.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm outta here in a few more months!"

"Don't sound so down about it," he retorted sardonically.

She batted her lashes cheekily at him as she stood to get a bottle of water out of the fridge. "I'm going for a run," she announced, "I'll be back before dinner."

oxOxo

It wasn't until school on Monday that Amy finally got the opportunity to talk to Lydia. The redhead always seemed to be on some sort of mission, striding through the hallways as if her time were priceless (time is money, as they say…).

"Hey Lydia, can I talk to you for a sec?"

"About what?"

"Er – just about your party – it was great by the way." Amy figured a nice ego stroking would be the key to implementing this scheme.

"I'm listening."

"Well, I saw you talking to Jackson… What's going on with that?"

"I'm surprised you remember," and she did seem genuinely surprised, "But I don't think that's any of your business."

"Oh c'mon! We're friends! Friends are supposed to talk about guys together, it's practically written in the handbook," she joked nervously. Something about Lydia made her feel inferior. Maybe it was her ethereal beauty, or perhaps it was her genius-level intellect. Whatever the reason, she couldn't help but squirm in her presence.

The other girl finally stopped in front of her locker and said, "Look, if you really want to know, he's off limits to the likes of you."

"Uh, that's not what I meant at all…"

"Then what did you mean?" In one perfect motion, she flipped her radiant tresses over her left shoulder. Amy bit her lip anxiously.

"Are you guys, you know, like, a thing again?"

She blinked quickly, retreating behind her vacuous façade in a flash. "I guess you could say that."

"So you're not looking for another guy?"

"No." She narrowed her olive eyes. "Why?"

"Heh, no reason," she stammered, "It's just that – well, I think you already know this – but Stiles really likes you and maybe you should give him a shot…"

She pursed her plump, cherry-red lips and stared at the space above Amy's head contemplatively. "No," she annunciated. And then all at once she was off to bigger and better things.

Amy remained, stunned. It's a no go with Lydia, sorry dude, was her text to Stiles. She felt bad for a moment, but soon remembered that she would be seeing Derek Hale's otherworldly face in a matter of days; not to mention his biceps… Her sympathy for her friend dissolved into the background...

Lydia Martin continues onward towards class, and somewhere in her mind – between the self-contained BMI chart that she updates every hour, the inability to recall the exact amount of methanol in a Molotov's cocktail, and the slight doubtfulness regarding whether or not she fed Prada that morning – a flashback sprouts up.

"You came." The observation becomes a question upon hitting the air. Lydia curses him to the deepest depths of hell for making her weak.

Unfazed, Jackson counters, "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because we're not together anymore. You made it clear that you didn't want anything to do with me." 'I'm dropping the dead weight.' Her. She was the dead weight. Only Jackson could manage to mention weight – the only thing that haunted her as much as, well, him – while breaking up with her.

"That was last year. Don't tell me you're not over it?" The condescension in his tone is biting. "You're not. Oh Lydia, babe, it's time to move on."

And he's gone.

But she watches him. She watches him suck down six beers in ten minutes and soon she's brought out the key to her bedroom, the key that she didn't think she would use but had worn around her neck just in case. He's drunk, he's barely coherent, but Lydia is a firm believer in that most sacred proverb: "Drunken words are sober thoughts."

This has happened before.

They have come back to each other, whether it be for hate-sex or just to relieve some stress. Late at night when no one's around, he comes back to her.

"I miss you," he whispers, his arms around her waist. He's completely plastered, shitfaced, drunk off his ass, but she doesn't care because she misses him, too.

It's a moment that he'll either forget in the morning or pretend to forget in the morning, but again, she doesn't care. She knows it's different this time.

Author's Note: Sooooo guys, please review. The stuff I changed will make more sense as time goes on, trust me. Let me know what you thought of everyone's characterizations! Thanks for reading! Also, I know I listed this under humor, but there are definitely going to be some not-humorous parts...