✓ | the breakfast club ( teen wolf )

( 01. from introductions to fire hazards )

Saturday
March 23rd, 2013
Beacon Hills High School, Beacon Hills, California. 94583.

Dear Mr. Kensington, we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did was wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. What do you care? You see us as you want to see us— in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. You see us as a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a prince, and a criminal. Correct? That's the way we saw each other at 7 o'clock this morning. We were brainwashed.

—

        A silver, clearly expensive BMW pulled up in front of the Beacon Hills High School. Inside sat Scott McCall— the most popular boy in school. His mother, who was rubbing sleep from her eyes and yawning, sat behind the wheel. Scott glanced at the entrance of the school in disdain, then to his bleary-eyed mother.

        "I can't believe you can't get me out of this," Scott whined. "I mean, it's so absurd that I have to be here on a Saturday! It's not like I'm a defective or anything..." Scott's mother, Melissa, sympathetically patted his arm.

        "I'll make it up to you. Scott, ditching class to go to a concert doesn't make you a defective."

        Scott groaned and sank down low in his seat. Melissa stifled a yawn, and to get her son out of the car, she opened up the passenger door for him.

        "Have a good day." She handed him a bright blue bag— his lunch. Scott rolled his eyes. He got out of the car, slammed the door, and marched up the steps.

        Behind him, a small red Chevy halted in front of the entrance. Inside sat one of the school's brains, Stiles Stilinski, and his father.

        "Is this the first or the last time we do this?" Stiles's father asked angrily.

        "Last..." Stiles mumbled.

        "Well, get in there and use the time to your advantage!"

        "Dad, we're not supposed to study or anything..." Stiles replies sheepishly. "We're just supposed to like, sit there."

        "Mister, you find a way to study."

        With that, Stiles's dad gave him a light push to get him out of the car. He drove off, leaving Stiles standing sullenly on the sidewalk. A little ways off, he saw Lydia Martin sitting in the car with her father, a red letterman jacket draped over her curvy frame. She was, after all, captain of the volleyball team.

        Lydia's father sat casually in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel and one arm around his daughter.

        "Hey, I messed around," Jeff Martin drawled. "Kids screw around, there's nothing wrong with that. 'Cept you got caught, Lyds."

        Lydia glared at her red sneakers. "Yeah," she snapped, "mom already yelled at me, you don't have to do it too."

        Her dad withdrew his arm from her shoulders and narrowed his eyes. "You wanna miss a game? You wanna blow your ride? No school's gonna give a scholarship to a discipline case. Now go!"

        Lydia got out of the car and slammed the door. She waved at Scott McCall, who was walking up the steps. Stiles Stilinski, a boy she rarely talked to, hurried to walk next to her.