The Wild Side | Stiles Stilinski | One

7 - Pity Candy

By the end of the week, the school was abuzz with talk of the first lacrosse game of the year. People were excited, but there was also an air of anxiousness, especially in my particular social circle.

Jackson had been cleared for the game...sort of. "Forcibly cleared" might've been a better description. Lydia heavily implied that Jackson's parents had placed calls to both the hospital and the school board, offering hefty donations in exchange for the answers they wanted. I couldn't even begin to unpack that in my mind. It was just a lacrosse game.

Until Saturday though, Jackson's arm was in a sling to take pressure off the ligaments in his shoulder. He bitched constantly about how annoying it was, how it was itchy, how it was confining, how it was doing more harm than good, and how he was going to strangle Scott McCall the moment he had use of both hands. Jackson was usually an irritable person, but the sling was pushing it to an all new level.

The only person more stressed than Jackson was Lydia. She dealt with the brunt of Jackson's attitude, and in turn, projected it onto anyone and everyone that got in her way. I was treated to more than one sermon about how Jackson was making her look bad by being injured, even if it wasn't strictly his fault. If Jackson couldn't use his arm, it meant that he wasn't the best on the field, and if Jackson wasn't the best, then what did that mean for Lydia? She seemed to feel that the very fabric of the community would be torn to shreds if Beacon Hills lost the game on Saturday.

I knew, in theory, that it all stemmed from Lydia's insecurities, but I was also getting really tired of dealing with it. Lydia was being even more high maintenance than usual, micro-managing my every move. She'd gone back to picking all my outfits, demanded I change the color of my nail polish, and point blank refused to let me pick up any shifts at work. I did my best to take the path of least resistance, but I was about one snappy retort away from taking my Econ textbook and smacking Lydia over the head.

Friday morning, we were almost late for school because Lydia had changed her mind about my outfit twice. In the car, I had tried to put on the radio only for her to reach over and smack it off. There was no time for music, not when the first lacrosse game of the season was a mere thirty-three hours away. Instead, Lydia verbalized her entire checklist of tasks we needed to complete, starting with accompanying Jackson to the hospital to get a shot of steroids and ending with a trip to the craft store for poster supplies so we could make supportive signs for the game. Then she recited the list again, this time ranking the errands in chronological order instead of order of importance.

I leapt out of the car the moment it rolled to a stop, fleeing to my locker in hopes of getting some peace. To my dismay, Lydia followed right behind me, somehow managing to keep up despite her height disadvantage.

"And you'll need to get most of your homework done during the school day," she instructed as we walked. "I can't have you worrying about Spanish conjugations while we're getting ready."

"Of course, Lydia."

"Try to work in between periods, but just blow off your electives if you have to."

"Of course, Lydia."

"If you tell Finstock you're on your period, he'll let you sit out no matter what they're playing. It's not like basketball has ever helped anyone."

"Of course, Lydia."

"And during lunch we should—oh, Allison!" Her tirade paused momentarily as Allison joined us in the hall. "God, you look absolutely killer today, as per usual. I love that belt."

"Wow, thank you, Lydia. Morning, Scarlett."

"Morning—"

"So, Allison," Lydia interrupted, already back to business. "Scarlett and I just wanted to make sure that you're coming to the game tomorrow."