Lydia reads from her newly checked out Russian history book next to Allison on the bleachers during lacrosse practice. She's already decided to write her midterm paper on the Romanov princesses, she pours over black and white photos of them and takes careful notes of the Bolshevik takeover.
The soldiers told the last royal family they were leading them to safety when in fact they were leading them to their execution. The first round of bullets didn't kill the four sisters and neither did the soldiers' bayonets, they had to be shot in the head. The princesses had sewed their diamonds into the bodices of their dresses, effectively making them bulletproof.
Lydia strokes her ribs through her sweater as she takes notes, tries to imagine a massacre like that, an entire family, a dynasty, wiped right off the map.
Next her Allison gasps softly, probably reacting to whatever amazing play Scott has just executed. "Lydia, look."
Lydia doesn't look up from her book, tracing their names: Olga, Tatianna, Marie, Anastasia. "What?"
"Oh no," Allison murmurs ominously.
Lydia sighs and reluctantly tears her gaze from her book. Practice is over; all the guys are trickling off the field. Only five players remain: Jackson and Danny are facing Scott and Stiles, Isaac inexplicably in the middle. Lydia can only see Jackson's back but his hands are clenched into fists and he's looming menacingly at Isaac.
"What's going on?" Lydia asks Allison.
Allison's hands are twitching in her lap. "I don't know."
Jackson starts yelling. Lydia can't hear exactly what he's saying, something about mine and I want it and I swear, McCall.
Scott yells something back, hands flying wildly in the air, Stiles hovering behind him, ready to step in. Jackson breaks away from Danny and lunges at Isaac, checking him hard with his shoulder to get him out of his way. Isaac's still got pads on but his helmet is off and he goes flying back, hitting his head on the ground and collapsing in a heap.
Allison gasps loudly, her hand covering her mouth, and Lydia winces, remembering Mr. Lahey, how his hand smacked against the back of Isaac's head so hard his whole body had flown forward.
Jackson takes advantage of Scott and Stiles' horrified expressions as they watch Isaac curl up in a ball, moaning, and he jumps on top of Scott, tackling him to the grassy field.
"Oh my god!" Allison jumps to her feet and starts to run down the bleachers. "Scott!"
Scott gets in one good punch before Stiles and Danny jump on top of him and Jackson and rip them apart from each other. Isaac is still curled up in the fetal position on the ground a few feet away where Jackson dropped him, and Jackson and Scott are both struggling to get at each other again. Scott's hands are curled into fists and he's screaming, not even words, just these angry growling vocalizations.
"Come on!" Jackson taunts, struggling against Danny. "Show me what you can do!"
"Scott, no!" Allison screams. "Stop!"
Scott's head snaps up at the sound of her voice. As soon as he sees Allison he stops struggling in Stiles' hold and sags against him, arms coming up in the air in surrender, hands still curled into fists.
Lydia hurries after Allison, quickly running down the bleachers with her book tucked under her arm. When she gets to the bottom Allison suddenly whirls around and grabs her by the wrist. "Stay here, I'm going to see what's going on."
Lydia stares at her, incredulous. "Excuse me?"
"I said stay there!" Allison orders, and her voice is so sharp and high that Lydia finds herself obeying, watching Allison run onto the field without her.
Danny is taking Scott's surrender as an opportunity to convince Jackson to walk away. They come off the field together with Danny's arm slung tightly around Jackson's shoulders, one hand spread over his chest as Danny whispers in his ear.
Lydia watches him with wide eyes, like she's seeing him for the first time. Like she's only understanding now that he can be cruel. That he chooses to be cruel.
That the thing inside him - that dark coiled thing, that flash of coldness in his eyes isn't a character flaw, a badly coded piece of DNA, but who he is. Who he chooses to be.
All those times when his fingers pinched a little too hard, all those bruises and bite marks and her swollen wrist - Lydia always interpreted it as passion, aggression, messy but ultimately nothing to fear - were those just choices too?
Choices made with an intention: to hurt, to break, to cause pain.
It's like she doesn't know her own boyfriend anymore. Maybe she never did.
Jackson doesn't even glance at her when he and Danny pass her on their way to the locker room.
On the field Scott in on his knees in front of Isaac, his hands cupped over the back of his head, talking too quietly for Lydia to hear. A few feet away Stiles and Allison are having a heated conversion, judging by the way Stiles' arms are flailing as he gesticulates.
Scott gets Isaac up and Lydia watches him stumble, not quite able to catch himself, grabbing onto Scott to stay upright. Lydia sees Allison sneak a concerned look at Isaac before turning back to Stiles and saying something, jabbing her finger at him for emphasis before flipping her hair off her shoulder and stomping back to where Lydia is waiting for her, utterly mystified.
"Let's go," Allison says tightly.
"Allison"-
Allison pinches the bridge of her nose. "I'm not in the mood to argue with you, please, let's just go, okay?"
Lydia glances back at the field. Scott is trying to examine Isaac's head again but Isaac looks like he's pulling away while Stiles paces back and forth.
"Allison, what the hell is going on?"
Allison looks grim. "I don't know."
/
"Why are you with him?" Allison asks softly, when they're parked in front of Lydia's house.
Lydia rubs her fingers against her temples. "I thought we weren't judging."
"I'm not judging." Allison sounds defensive, and frustrated. "I'm just trying to understand."
Lydia swallows down the feeling that Allison is lying, that she knows exactly what happened on the lacrosse field. "I love him."
"You love him." Allison gives her a look of total disbelief.
Lydia bristles. "Of course I love him, he's my boyfriend!"
"Sometimes I think you don't know what love is." Allison's voice is distant, she's staring out her window, away from Lydia.
"And you do?" Lydia snipes back before she can stop herself.
Allison looks like she's about to cry. "I know you've never looked at Jackson the way I look at Scott. I know you don't talk about him the way I talk about Scott. I know that you didn't tell him when we went out with Scott and Stiles the other week."
"He doesn't like it when I spend time with Scott. Wonder why that is?" Lydia mocks.
"This isn't about Scott," Allison mutters.
"Then quit comparing your relationship to mine! I'm not you, I'm not naive and blinded by puppy love!"
Allison's eyes go wide and then she tips her head back against the seat wearily. "Wow," she says slowly. "So that's what you really think about Scott and I. Okay."
Lydia wilts. She knows she gets mean when she's stressed but she rarely takes it out on Allison. "I didn't mean it like that."
Allison's eyes narrow. "At least he doesn't hurt me."
Lydia plays with the edge of her sleeve. "It's not like that."
Allison sounds like she's about to cry. "So what's it like?"
It's like something private, is what's it's like, something secret and shameful. "You wouldn't understand."
"You'd never tell anyone if you needed help, would you?"
"I don't need help." The words are bitter on her tongue.
"But what if you did?" Allison sniffs delicately. "What if he really hurts you?"
Lydia curls her fingers around her injured wrist. It still aches but it's getting better. "He wouldn't."
"But what if he does?" Allison protests.
"I don't need you to save me," Lydia tells her.
Allison's eyes flutter shut. "You know that I would though, right?"
Lydia stares out the window. "Yeah, I know."
"Lydia" -
"Look, I chose him, okay? I made my choice."
Allison blinks and a single tear rolls down her cheek. "So choose something else."
/
In the morning Scott McCall is waiting at her locker, gym bag slung over one shoulder and backpack on the other, wearing his Beacon Hills lacrosse team hoodie and a pair of jeans, holding two paper cups of coffee.
Lydia drives to school every day with her mother, and because her mother is an administrator they always get to school at least half an hour before homeroom starts, which means that Scott must have specifically come to school early to see her.
Lydia steels herself and walks down the hall to her locker, the heels of her Rag and Bone black leather ankle books click clicking across the floor.
"Can I help you?" she asks politely, stepping around him and unlocking her locker.
"Allison says you like these." Scott hands over one of the coffee cups.
Lydia shrugs off her grey cashmere cardigan and accepts the coffee. Her wrist doesn't hurt anymore but there's still a mark so she's wearing a long sleeved ballet pink bodysuit under her skinny jeans.
She squints at the Sharpie ink scrawled down the side of the cup: sugar free vanilla latte with coconut milk.
Lydia takes out the books she needs for first and second period. "So, are you trying to bribe me with coffee or are you just softening me up?"
Scott squints hopefully. "Uh...the second?"
She sighs, shoulders her book bag and slams her locker shut. "What do you want, Scott?"
Scott suddenly looks deathly serious. "You need to break up with Jackson."
Lydia takes a menacing step towards him. "You know, I'm getting really tired of everyone telling me what to do."
Scott looks a little shame-faced but he also squares his shoulders, like he feels bad about this but he's not going to back down. "We're just trying to protect you."
"From what?"
His eyes flick down to her covered wrist. "You know what."
She scowls. "What happens between me and Jackson is none of your business, any of you. I'm not some damn princess who needs to be locked in a tower!"
"No one is saying that," Scott says calmly. "We just don't want you to get hurt."
"And you care why, exactly?"
Scott gives her the full-on puppy dog eyes. "I don't like it when people get hurt. You're Allison's best friend, is it really that hard to believe that I care about what happens to you?"
Lydia remembers suddenly: freshman year biology, Scott sitting next to her on a stool crying into his folded arms when they had to dissect a frog, crying because the frogs were bred specifically for the purpose of being killed and dissected by fourteen year old biology students and it was just so sad, he had sobbed, the sleeves of his hoodie soaked with tears.
Sweet, sensitive Scott McCall, co-captain of the lacrosse team, cries over dead animals.
Scott wants to save her. But he said we, and Lydia knows enough to intuit that he must mean Stiles, and Allison.
Lydia doesn't want to be a girl who needs saving.
"I can handle Jackson," she says eventually.
Scott gives her a look like he's disappointed in her. "Maybe you used to," he concedes. "But not anymore."
"Scott" -
"You know I'm right," he interrupts.
She doesn't know what to say. He is right. There comes a point in every debate where the loser must concede his loss or be made to look a fool forever.
"Lydia," Scott says softly. "I know you care about him but..."
He takes a step towards her and she jumps back, catching herself on the lockers, her latte almost spilling. Scott's eyes widen, he drops his arms and stares down at his fingers for a second. She feels privately horrified at herself; she's known Scott since kindergarten. She has no reason to react to him this way.
Like he's a predator.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Lydia," he says slowly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."
She wills herself to stop shaking. "You don't scare me."
She can tell from his face that he doesn't believe her, not for a second. "You don't have to be afraid, Lydia."
She feels like she's going to cry. "I know that."
"Then let me help you. We all just want to help you."
She swallows past the lump in her throat. Imagines telling Scott the truth, imagines telling him the things she lets Jackson do to her in the dark, all the ways she lets him bend and stretch her, just to find the exact point at which she starts to break.
She thinks about Stiles, if he'd still have that silly schoolboy crush on her if he knew how dirty she was inside, ruthless, cold, how she let someone mark up her body just to prove to herself that she was real, that she belonged to someone.
"Lydia," he pleads. "This is killing Allison."
Lydia pulls back like he's slapped her. Scott knows using Allison against her would hurt.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he really does sound apologetic. "I just want to help you, I promise."
Her control breaks." Don't you get it?" she snarls. "You can't help me!" She turns on her heel and stomps away, and Scott doesn't follow.
/
Jackson isn't in class all morning. Something is obviously going on with Scott and Stiles; they talk twice as much in class as usual and keep giving her not-all-all inconspicuous glances. Allison is jumpy and distracted. Lydia has to do their entire chemistry lab by herself because Allison keeps mixing up the chemicals.
"What the hell is going on with everyone?" Lydia hisses, when Allison almost lights her sleeve on fire. Chemistry is the perfect class to talk in; ever since Harris left they've had a rotation of subs and everyone is so loud during experiments it's unlikely to be overheard.
"Nothing," Allison mumbles, pulling her hands away from the table. She's paler than usual and there are circles under her eyes.
Lydia's fingers itch for a tube of concealer. "You know, I don't appreciate you sending your boyfriend to do your dirty work," she whispers, moving the Bunsen burner to create a safe distance between it and Allison.
Allison blinks innocently. "What?"
Lydia purses her lips. "Are you seriously telling me you had no idea that your boyfriend came to school early today just to convince me to break up with my boyfriend?" Her voice is calm but her tone is cold like ice.
Allison is gaping at her. "He what?"
A book slams shut behind them and Lydia and Allison both whirl around at the sound. Scott and Stiles are standing two tables behind them, staring at them. Scott's eyes are huge and Stiles looks inexplicably horrified about something.
What, Lydia mouths at them, and Scott and Stiles both twitch and look away like they've been caught committing a felony.
"You really didn't know?" Lydia whispers to Allison.
Allison winds a curl around her finger, looking back over her shoulder at Scott for a second. "No, he- he just said he wanted to talk to you, I didn't know he was going to ask that."
"Well he did."
"I'll talk to him. I'm sorry, he shouldn't have done that." Allison winces and looks around the classroom. "Where is Jackson, anyway?"
Lydia shrugs lightly, like she doesn't care. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"Why do you care?" Lydia asks sharply. "I thought you wanted me to break up with him."
"Those weren't my exact words," Allison mumbles.
"But it's what you meant."
Allison looks away and doesn't argue.
/
Lydia doesn't go to lunch. It would almost be worth it, because of Stiles, but she can't bring herself to face Allison and Scott together. She can't get it out of her head, Scott McCall begging her to let him save her.
She imagines it, what would've happened if she had said yes. Held out her arms to him and asked him to rescue her. If he would've held her the way she's seen him hold Allison, like she's something beloved. If he would whisper kind words in her ear, make empty promises to protect her.
It's his fault, she reminds herself sharply. None of this wouldn't have happened if Scott was still a nobody on the sidelines.
She shouldn't want it anyway. She's Lydia Martin, she's a queen. She doesn't need to be rescued.
She goes to the nurse's office and gives her a convincing grimace, clutching at her head.
"Another headache huh?" The nurse looks skeptical but she slaps an ice pack into Lydia's hand. "Got a lot of those today."
She points Lydia towards the back room where the cots are, the lights dimmed. Isaac Lahey is curled up on one of the cots, a disposable ice pack wrapped around the base of his skull. Lydia winces, remembering yesterday afternoon, how Isaac's head had snapped back as he'd fallen, that vulnerable halo of curls slammed against the ground.
Isaac raises an eyebrow at her. "Headache?"
"Something like that." She kicks off her shoes and hops up on a cot next to him. It's dark in the little room; they're the only students present. It feels a little like being at a sleepover, whispering in twin beds in the dark.
Isaac hums in acknowledgment but then he winces, eyes shutting, and reaches around to move the ice pack over to his split lip.
Lydia can't help it. She's curious. "What really happened to your mouth?"
Isaac doesn't look at her. "It doesn't matter."
Lydia tilts her head at that. His face is cut open for everyone to see, proof written in blood. Jackson would never do something like that to her, so obvious, no subtly at all. Reckless.
"Lets say that it does," she counters. "Hypothetically."
Isaac's eyes glow faintly in the dim light. His skin is so light, like hers, it makes the scab on his lip look garish, violent. "Why do you care? Hypothetically?"
It's a good question, one she doesn't have a real answer to, not one that she's willing to share anyway. She hardly knows Isaac, remembers Jackson's expression when she asked him about Isaac and his dad.
But there's something in Isaac she recognizes, something deep and soft and bruised. She thinks Isaac would understand, about Jackson, how it's not as simple as right or wrong.
How being hurt can feel so much like love.
"Why don't you tell someone?" she asks softly.
Isaac snorts. "Why don't you?"
She folds her legs up to her chest and links her arms around her knees. "It's not the same thing."
Isaac looks disdainful. "Does he tell you he's sorry later? Does he tell you he loves you?"
Lydia swallows a wave of nausea at the nasty tone in his voice. "You don't know anything about us."
Isaac shoots her a look of disbelief. "Do you not remember what he did to me yesterday or are you just pretending it didn't happen?"
"I'm not blind," she snaps.
"Just deaf and dumb?" he counters.
She rolls her eyes. "Aren't you witty."
Isaac switches his ice pack back to his head. "Not really," he mumbles.
Lydia sighs. "He shouldn't have done that," she concedes.
Isaac shrugs. "I was in his way."
She blinks, a little shocked. Wonders if Isaac is used to that, being pushed and shoved around like an old piece of furniture. If that's how he sees himself, something old and battered, a broken thing that no one wants.
"That doesn't make it okay," she says.
Isaac's laugh is so bitter it sounds like something else entirely. "I think my dad might disagree with that."
Lydia's eyes widen at the direct reference but Isaac says, "I know you saw the other day. When you were at Jackson's. I saw you get in his car."
"Oh," she murmurs, looking away, suddenly feeling embarrassed on his behalf.
She doesn't know what she's doing here - lying in the dark, trading secrets with Isaac Lahey. She's supposed to be figuring out what to do about Scott and Jackson, she's supposed to be out there ruling the school and setting fashion trends.
But she's not. She's here, and it feels strangely safe, ensconced in a little room with a boy who bleeds, who hurts, who knows what it's like to wake up in the morning and figure out how to hide the bruises.
"Aren't you tired of it?" she whispers. She knows he'll understand what she means - tired of lying, of always being on guard, of being careful, of trying to contain an explosion between her palms.
"Yeah," Isaac whispers back. "Sometimes. Aren't you?"
"Sometimes," she confesses.
Isaac presses a fingertip to his bottom lip; Lydia can see a dark bead of blood get wiped away. "Are you gonna break up with him?" he inquires.
Lydia raises an eyebrow. "Why would you ask me that?"
"I heard Scott and Stiles talking about it," he mumbles.
She resists the urge to groan. "Of course you did."
"You're lucky," he says. "They care about you."
There's something strange about his tone. Like he's envious of her.
"They're your friends too," she offers. She's not actually sure about that but they're all on the lacrosse team together and Isaac sits with them at lunch. They're at least friendly.
Isaac rubs his lips again. "I don't really have any friends."
"Stop that," she admonishes. "You'll make it worse."
"I thought you didn't care."
She thinks about Scott, how gentle he was with her this morning even though she was being a defensive, raging bitch. She could be like that for Isaac, Lydia thinks. If she wanted to. She and Isaac both hurt but Lydia knows it's not the same, not at all.
"I'll be seventeen soon, anyway," Isaac says. "I'm almost out."
"So you have a plan?" She doesn't bother to question herself as to why she's asking.
Apparently she does care. Alert the press everyone; Lydia Martin has feelings.
"Yeah." Isaac's voice is dry and crackling, like kindling. "Make it to eighteen alive."
Lydia blinks in the darkness and pulls her phone out of her bag. She has a few questioning texts from Allison, but nothing from Jackson. She sighs and locks her phone, slides it back in her bag and flops down on the cot.
"You should tell him to let it go." Isaac sounds drowsy, like he's going to fall asleep.
Lydia rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, suddenly feeling the same allure. It's a response to stress, sometimes the brain will completely override the body and shut down, a way to escape trauma. "What are you talking about?"
"He's never going to give it to him," Isaac whispers.
Lydia narrows her eyes in concern. "Do you have a concussion?"
Isaac's eyes flare bright in the dim light. "What?"
"You're not making sense. Confusion is a common side affect of head injuries."
Isaac stares at her with wide eyes. "Oh...um...no, I'm just. I'm just tired. I'm, um, gonna try to sleep until practice."
It's a good idea, she's tired too, but she's not the kind of person who can fall asleep anywhere. Lydia rolls over on her side, eyes wide open in the dark, listening to Isaac's breathing level out and slow down.
She thinks about Scott again. How he offered to help her. The way his face had crumpled with worry when he saw Isaac's mouth. How he's always touches Allison with the most careful reverence, like Allison is an angel, a piece of art, something delicate and priceless.
I'm not going to hurt you.
Lydia lies there in the dark and considers for the first time that she's not as brilliant as she secretly thinks she is, that maybe, possibly, she's made a mistake.
Considers that maybe, just maybe, she made the wrong choice.
And remembers what Allison said, and tries to imagine it, wonders if she can really do it, if it's as easy as her best friend made it sound.
Choose something else.