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“Drummer wanted?”
The inquisitive voice came from behind him. Scott jerked his chin over his shoulder to glance back at the source, meeting the blue-eyed gaze of Isaac Lahey. Another sophomore in his year, they shared Chemistry, Algebra 2, and PE. Oh, and they were both on the lacrosse teams – Isaac actually got to play.
“Yeah,” Scott answered with a shrug, turning away to finish stapling the poster to the wall. “Jackson used to be our drummer but… Y’know.” After what had happened with Matt, the Whittemores hadn’t even waited for Jackson to finish the school year. While understandable, it left them high and dry without a drummer two months before Beacon Hills’ annual battle of the bands.
Scott’s arms dropped to his sides, the stapler clutched in one hand and the rest of the fliers in the other. He turned to face Isaac again. “Anyways, if you know someone who plays the drums, send them our way.”
Isaac’s lips pursed as he looked back at the flier. Beside it was the battle of the bands’ flier. “I play.”
Scott’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Really?”
“My brother got a set for Christmas when he was fourteen,” Isaac said. “He lost interest a month later, but I picked it up instead.”
A frowned tugged at Scott’s lips, realizing he didn’t know Isaac had a brother. He guessed it made sense; Beacon Hills may have been a small town, but they weren’t close. “Well,” he started, motioning to the flier, “the info is there if you’re interested.” It had a list of three songs Lydia wanted the drummer to perform and strips with his number on it. “Give me a text to let me know.”
Isaac tore a strip from the flier, peering at it skeptically before nodding at Scott. “I’ll let you know.” He tucked the paper into his pocket. “I’ll see you around.”
“See you around,” Scott echoed, watching his retreating back.
“Isaac Lahey?” Lydia hummed, turning the name over in her mind. Scott observed her expression, blindly accepting the 7-Up Stiles offered him. “He asked me out last year,” she finally said. Her nose twitched like she’d smelled something rotten. “I wasn’t particularly nice. I think he used to live next to Jackson.”
“Didn’t Matt, uh—” Stiles made a slicing motion to his neck. Scott furrowed his brow. “Yeah, y’know—Victor Lahey was Matt’s first victim, I think. Isaac’s dad.”
The color drained from Scott’s face. He’d implied the Matt subject, if not in so many words. Isaac hadn’t reacted but, if he’d made the connection, it couldn’t have been a pleasant feeling. “He seems adjusted.”
Lydia flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder. “As long as he can play the drums and doesn’t harass me, I don’t care.” Allison, leaning against the wall next to Lydia, nodded. It was a fair requirement.
Scott patted his pocket where his phone was. “He hasn’t texted me yet,” he said. “So, I don’t know if he’ll audition, but he was the only one who seemed interested.”
“My point stands. Now”—Lydia scooted towards the edge of her seat—“we still need to refine our set list. If we’re bringing someone new in, we need to pick songs that the rest of you can play perfectly ten out of ten times.”
Scott was giving up on studying for the night when the text came through. He blinked at his buzzing phone before picking it up, noting the unfamiliar number.
What time can I audition? -Isaac
Need to ask the others but probably Saturday.
Who else is in your band?
I play guitar, Stiles is on bass, Allison sings, and Lydia is our “manager”.
TBH I should’ve expected that.
It started as just me and Stiles. Allison took singing classes for a while. Lydia offered us her garage and dragged Jackson in as drums.
Cool. Send me the address when you get the okay.
Can do. Goodnight.
Goodnight.
Saving Isaac’s number to his contacts, he switched to the band’s group chat and sent them an update.
Isaac’s in. I said Saturday for the audition.
After a few minutes passed without a response, he plugged his phone in to charge and got ready for the bed. In the morning, the band chat was full of okays.
“You ever heard that a watched pot doesn’t boil?” Stiles shouted from across the garage. Lingering by the open garage door, Scott’s gaze snapped from his phone to his friend. Stiles grinned, offering him a shrug under the weight of Scott’s sharp eyes. “It’s true. Stop waiting like your husband is coming back from war and help us set up.”
“I want to make sure he finds this place okay.” With GPS, Lydia’s house wasn’t hard to find, but her driveway was long and the garage they practiced in was set far back from the road.
Stiles opened his mouth to respond; before he could, Scott’s phone buzzed in his hand.
I’m here. Big place with the tree in front?
Yeah. I’ll meet you out front.
Slipping his phone into his pocket, Scott glanced back at his friends. “He’s here. I’ll be right back.”
Lydia waved at him like she was shooing Prada. Taking it as acknowledgement, he set out down the driveway. Isaac was standing on the curb, glancing between his phone and the house; the hand not holding his phone was holding up a bike. As he drew closer, Scott noticed the same, skeptical expression he’d worn the other day.
Scott rose his hand to get Isaac’s attention. “Hey man, you get here fine?”
“Yeah. I had a group project last semester and my partner lived over there.” He motioned to a house down the street. Wracking his brain, Scott couldn’t recall if he knew who lived there. He didn’t have long to remember though. “So…” Isaac whistled. “Lydia’s loaded, huh?”
“Her parents are. The garage we practice in was originally built so Lydia’s dad could store more sports cars; he took them with him when he moved out, so Natalie was fine with us using it. C’mon.” He started back in the direction of the garage, Isaac falling into step behind him as he wheeled his bike with them.
“Do you do covers or original stuff?” Isaac asked.
“Bit of both. Battle of the Bands only allows covers, but we’ve got dreams of going pro. Stiles writes lyrics; I clean them up and figure out a basic melody. Lydia’s trying to get us noticed and thinks that a win would help with that.”
Isaac hummed but didn’t say anything as they reached the garage. The others had finished setting up and they were waiting for them. Well, Lydia was waiting – arms crossed over her chest, toe tapping against the cement. Allison and Stiles were reclining on the couch, trying and failing to look nonchalant.
“I think we’re all acquainted,” Scott said, satisfied at the nods he received. “Good. Guess we should get started then.” He looked to Lydia to lead the charge; she stepped into the role without hesitation.
There wasn’t much for Scott to do once Lydia took the lead. Grabbing a water bottle out of the mini-fridge, he plopped down on the couch between Stiles and Allison. Lydia quizzed Isaac on the songs she wanted him to audition with before letting him loose on the drums. He nailed the first song, a simple beat to demonstrate mastery of the basics but with little room for flourish. The second beat was faster, more chances to stumble, but he aced that one too. The last song confirmed it. Isaac was good.
A rare, pleased grin split Lydia’s face as he wiped sweat from his brow. “I think we’ve found our drummer. Welcome to the band, Lahey.”
“One of us!” Stiles hollered. Allison burst into laughter beside him as Scott dropped his head, sighing and ignoring the creeping heat in his cheeks.
But it was official. Isaac was one of them.
One of them was actually an interesting concept.
On one hand, he was one of the band. Lydia gave him the set list they’d decided on for him to start practicing. They’d come up with two lists – one if they got a mediocre drummer, one if they got a good one. Everyone was excited that it was the latter they’d be performing.
They practiced four days of the week and Isaac was always on time. He tucked his bike into the corner of the garage and brought his own sticks. He didn’t crack many of his own, but he laughed with their jokes and rolled his eyes at Stiles’ antics.
But school was another story. Since Lydia’s fall from popularity, the band always sat together at lunch. Despite the not-so-subtle invitations for Isaac to join them, he was nowhere to be found each lunch period. He showed up for classes and lacrosse practice but there was a distance there, like he didn’t spend the weekends and two weekday afternoons with them.
Stiles mocked Scott for fretting, coldly stating that, “As long as he doesn’t mess up our shot, he doesn’t have to be our friend.”
Scott didn’t agree. Even if Jackson was more frenemy than friend, he wasn’t a stranger. Which was what Isaac acted like everywhere outside of Lydia’s garage.
Hey. Stiles gave me new lyrics and I’m gonna go over them in the garage.
You’ve got a key.
FYI I think Isaac might still be there practicing.
Scott unlocked the door, poking his head into the garage. The lights were on and Isaac was standing over the mini-fridge, gulping down a soda. He nodded an acknowledgement at Scott as he shut the door behind him.
“You’re here late,” Scott said.
Isaac exhaled as he brought the can away from his lips, setting it on top of the mini-fridge with a small clink. “My aunt doesn’t like it when I play.”
A frown tugged at Scott’s lips. “I thought you lived with—Derek?”
“I bounce around.” He shoved a hand into a pocket, his gaze dropping to a spot on the floor beside Scott. “After my dad died, my aunt got custody. Closest living relative – sister of my mom’s. She didn’t like my dad though and went no-contact with us when I was a kid. It’s kind of awkward.” The way Isaac’s face scrunched up suggested it wasn’t ‘kind of’ awkward. “Derek was a friend of my brother. He moved to New York halfway through their senior year; when he moved back, he tried to reconnect, but Cam died in combat years ago. He started looking out for me – I guess he felt guilty. I stay with him and his little sister when I can’t deal with my aunt and her picture-perfect nuclear family.”
Scott gave a shaky nod as he processed the information. It was the longest Isaac had talked about himself since joining the band. He’d half-thought Derek was the brother Isaac mentioned when he was putting up fliers – only half-thought because Isaac hadn’t referred to him as a brother.
“Anyways,” Isaac started, cutting through his thoughts. “You’re here late too. Why?”
“Stiles wrote some new lyrics.” Scott stuck a thumb under the shoulder-strap of his bag, highlighting its presence. “I like to go over them here. Something about the environment I think – kind of like how they say you shouldn’t work in your bedroom.”
Isaac hummed. As he picked up his soda to take another sip, Scott realized he hadn’t moved an inch since closing the door. Still holding onto the strap of his bag, he started towards the couch. He dropped the bag and pulled out a notebook; he’d stuck the print-outs of Stiles’ lyrics between the notebook’s pages. Isaac’s gaze weighed heavy on the back of his neck.
“So… What do you do when you go over his lyrics?”
Scott looked back at him. “I clean them up and try to put them to music. Stiles is good at coming up with lines but he can be a bit scatterbrained.”
“How many songs do you have?”
Scott shrugged. “We recorded an EP over summer, but it didn’t get much traction. We kept practicing; Lydia researched how to get us noticed. When we record again, she wants different songs. Probably best to give her a variety too.” That drew a chuckle from Isaac.
“One day, she’s gonna have her own Gordon Ramsey-style show but for wannabe rockstars. I can just see it.”
Scott bit his lip to hide his laughter. He could see it too.
They lapsed into silence. Still for a moment, eventually Scott sorted through his supplies and sat down to start going over the lyrics. Isaac finished his drink, crumpling the can and throwing it into the trash can.
“It gonna bother you if I keep practicing?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got earplugs.”
Isaac nodded at him; as he walked back to the drums, Scott dug through his bag for the earplugs. While not comfortable, they drowned out the noise as he focused on the words in front of him. He rewrote lines over and over in pencil, connecting rhymes and evening out the syllables to a vague rhythm dancing across his neurons.
Out of the corner of his vision, Scott noticed Isaac stand. Quickly pulling the plugs from his ears, he called for Isaac to wait. “Leaving?” He nodded. “Can you wait a minute? I need to hear something.”
Isaac twirled a stick between his fingers. “Lay it on me.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, looking back down at the lyrics. “Can you try something like this?” He tapped out a beat on his notepad. Isaac motioned for a repeat. After the second time, he slid back onto the stool and played what Scott had given him; when he reached the end of what he’d been given, he started again without being asked. Scott listened with a frown.
“Could you add…” He trailed off, not sure what needed to be added. Isaac shrugged, improvising on the next round. It sounded better.
With the beat of Isaac’s drums in his ears and the phantom strings of a guitar in his head, Scott began to whisper-sing the lyrics. While not bad, there was a scratchy quality to his voice that Allison’s didn’t have. They’d gone with her as lead singer for a reason. He reached the end with a nod. Isaac’s sticks paused as Scott met his eyes.
He smiled. “Thanks. That helped a lot.”
“Awesome.” Scott chocked up his lack of enthusiasm in his voice to the note of uncertainty belying it..
Scott tapped his phone, grimacing at the time. “I think it’s time to call it a night.” He caught the amused twitch of Isaac’s lips just before he looked away, starting to shove his stuff back into his bag. As he slung the strap over his shoulder, he realized Isaac was now standing near him. He just had his sticks with him.
“You know you can sit with us at lunch, right?” Scott asked as he pushed himself off the couch, rolling his eyes at the inquisitive expression that flashed across Isaac’s features. “You should. It’s not like you’re a stranger.”
Isaac didn’t look convinced. “I’ll think about it.”
Even though it wasn’t a yes, Scott was satisfied that he’d put it out there. “C’mon,” he said, jerking his head towards the door. “Grab your bike. I’ll lock up so we don’t have to bother Lydia.”
Scott didn’t expect Isaac to take the invite. At least, he didn’t expect him to sit with them the day after he offered it. Yet as he and Allison made small chat while waiting for Lydia and Stiles to join them, she pointed out Isaac standing in the doorway to the lunchroom. Scott’s eyes widened and his hand shot up, waving to get the other’s attention. Hand spotted, Isaac made his way to them with hunched shoulders. He pulled an unused chair from a nearby table and placed it next to Scott.
A bright smile warmed Scott’s face. “Hey. Glad you could join us.”
Isaac tilted his head towards him, shrugging. “You invited me.”
From across the table, Allison rose an eyebrow at him. He ignored her.
“Wasn’t sure you’d take it.” Isaac’s brow crinkled and Scott hurried to assure him. “But I’m glad you did! We like hanging out with you.” He turned to Allison for back-up.
Leaning forward, Allison put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her clasped hands. “I still want to know what you meant when you mentioned Finstock the other day.”
He huffed a laugh, furtively glancing to the side. “My dad was the swim coach here for a while. They were friends, I guess – after my mom died, they started going out for drinks often. Somehow he’s saner when he’s been drinking.”
Allison grinned. “Is that why you don’t take economics?”
Most schools only taught economics for a single year, if not a single semester. Student demand had led to Beacon Hills having one of the most robust economics courses in the state of California. You could take it from sophomore to senior year. Some said it was because of the high percentage of students with parents in related fields; most said it was because of Finstock’s teaching style and easy grading.
“A little. It’s hard to take him seriously.” Even without the connection Isaac had, Scott agreed. “But besides – there are other social studies classes.”
“I just took what the counsellor recommended,” she said.
Scott chimed in. “I take it because he gives the team so much extra credit.”
Isaac’s face scrunched up. “Somehow, I do just fine in Government without it.”
As Scott tried to pass his laugh off as a cough, Stiles and Lydia plunked into the empty seats. Well, Stiles plunked; Lydia lowered herself with grace and dignity, a cocked brow at the sight before her, like a queen seeing a jester in her court.
“Come to join us finally?” she asked.
Isaac bobbed his head. “Scott said I should.”
“Last night?”
Stiles scrambled up from his deep slouch. “Last night? What about last night?”
“Isaac was practicing in Lydia’s garage when I went over to work on your lyrics,” Scott answered, meeting Stiles gaze.
Stiles made a flat “oh” sound. “Bet that made it difficult to focus,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Scott’s forehead wrinkled. “I had earplugs.”
“Whatever.” His gaze flicked to Isaac. “Glad we’re finally worth sitting with.” Before Isaac could respond, he’d turned to Allison and launched into a question about something related to their assignment French 2.
Routines begin to form after the first time Isaac sat with them. He didn’t always come to lunch, but he generally showed up two or three days out of the week. He was still quiet, otherwise content to sit back and observe until one of the others cajoled him into conversation. Stiles was the least successful at that, but Scott wasn’t entirely sure it was his goal. His eyes, his voice, even his words bordered on razor-sharp most of the time. Not that Stiles would admit so.
Standing at their lockers, pulling out books for their class after lunch, Scott leaned in and whispered, “Be nice to him, okay?”
“I am nice,” Stiles scoffed, ruffling through the mess for a pen.
“You sure about that?”
The locker door slammed shut. “I’m snarky – you know that. Just because you’re desperate for him to like you, doesn’t mean I have to do a 180 on my personality.”
The explanation didn’t settle well with him but he wasn’t sure that Stiles was wrong. “Just… He’s not Jackson, okay? Don’t try to make him that.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” He jerked his head in the direction of their next class. “Let’s go before we’re late.”
Lunch wasn’t the only event to become a repeat occurrence.
The second time that Scott and Isaac ended up alone in Lydia’s garage late at night was a coincidence. Arguably, so was the third. But the fourth time it happened, Isaac had shot him a text in the early evening that he was heading over. Scott met him there with a bag of fast food. They eat, studied, and jammed. Scott started looking forward to every evening they spent like that.
“So long as you keep the couch clean, I don’t care,” Lydia told him the one time he asked if she minded.
He didn’t catch the possibility of a double entendre until he repeated her words to Isaac.
Stiles lifted his hand to his ear to motion for the band to stop playing. The music died and all eyes turned to him. “It’s not—right,” he growled, clenching and unclenching his hand.
A heavy sigh escaped Isaac as he leaned back. Scott saw the tension ripple between them like waves on a lake as their eyes meet. His gut twisted as his hand tightened around the neck of his guitar. Tempers were gradually shortening as they drew closer to the Battle of the Bands. A week out, it was understandable if any or all of them were on edge. But the divide between Stiles and Isaac was wider than that.
“Look—” Scott tried to cut in before they said something they’d regret but Stiles waved him off.
“No, no. You got something to say Lahey, say it.”
Isaac’s lips pursed. “How many times are we going to practice the same song?”
“‘Til you get it fucking right.”
“Stiles!”
Stiles shot a glare at Scott as Isaac rose from his stool. His sticks were clasped tightly in one fist. “If I’m fucking up, so are you, dude.”
He snorted. “Not likely. At least I actually practice at home.”
Isaac motioned towards Scott. “Ask him. Ask Lydia. They’ll tell you how much I practice.”
“Ask him?” Scott’s stomach sunk to his knees as Stiles pointed his finger at him. He opened his mouth to interject but Stiles was louder and quicker. “Because Scott would totally ‘fess up to me if you were doing something else.” He punctuated the sentence by rolling his eyes.
“Stiles—”
“He’s your best friend, isn’t he?” Isaac asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“If I haven’t been replaced.”
Isaac shook his head. “You’ve got way to fucking many issues for me to deal with. I’m done.” He started towards the door, brushing past Stiles with a bump to the shoulder.
“Knew he was a quitter.” His words were too loud to be called a mutter.
Isaac stopped, tilting his head over his shoulder. “I don’t put up with bullshit.” Turning away, he ignored Scott’s call to stop and continued walking.
Lydia stepped in front of Allison who was still holding onto the mic, staring at a nondescript spot on the floor. “What the hell did I tell you?” she snapped, hazel eyes pinned on Stiles with a dagger-sharp glare. Her gaze jumped from Stiles to Scott, a hair softer. “You two need to deal with this. I don’t have time for the egos and miscommunications of teenage boys.”
Stiles tried to stop him as Scott grabbed his helmet. His lips pursed, breathing deeply through his nose before he faced Stiles. “That was uncalled for.”
“Scott—”
He shook his head. “Look, you talked over me enough today, so let me speak.” Wetting his lower lip, he continued. “I already asked you to knock it off. You told me there wasn’t an issue. You told me you were treating him like anyone else, that you weren’t turning him into Jackson or someone else.”
“I wasn’t!”
He opened his mouth to sigh and shut it quickly. “So what—You’re suddenly super possessive? You weren’t like this when I dated Allison. You’ve never been like this. What changed?”
Looking like a gasping fish out of water, Stiles struggled to respond. “…I don’t know,” he finally said. “Isaac’s different, I guess. He’s also a snarky lacrosse-player into music. And—Well, you guys act like you’re—y’know.” Scott raised a brow at him. “Whatever. I don’t know why I feel like you’re replacing me with him or why I feel like he’s a better version of me. I just do.”
“Then you should’ve talked to me.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Stiles hunched his shoulders. “I talked to Lydia.”
“I’m not Lydia.”
He pulled a hand out to hold it up in surrender. “When you’re right, you’re right. And when I’m wrong—” He nodded, seemingly to himself. “I’m wrong. I need to apologize, don’t I?”
“Yeah.” Despite his dry mouth, Scott swallowed. “But—You work on your apology and I’ll talk to him first.”
Stiles clicked his tongue. “That sounds best. You go take care of your friend, boyfriend, whatever.”
“Stiles.”
“Maybe talk about that too?” he offered with a sheepish grin, already backing away. Choosing not to further engage, Scott grabbed his helmet and pulled it over his head.
Chasing after Isaac and bringing him back to the band might be the thing to do in a movie but this wasn’t a movie. He didn’t know where Isaac was and hadn’t received a text back. He knows where Isaac’s aunt lives at least, so Scott tries there first.
Yet, as he stood on porch and asked if Isaac was home, she shook her head. She told him where Derek lived though and, with the engine of his bike roaring in his ears, he set off for there.
Derek listened to his rambling explanation with crossed arms and a scowl. Scott resisted the urge to wilt beneath his heavy, appraising gaze; determined, he meets those eyes instead.
“The cemetery,” Derek finally said. When Scott’s brow furrowed, he explained. “He used to work there. Says it gives him peace.”
As morbid as the suggestion was, Scott took it. He strapped on his helmet and kicked the gear stand up, tearing out of the parking lot towards Beacon Hill’s cemetery.
Owing to having one cemetery for the whole of the upper-middle class town, the place looked more like one you’d find on the east coast. Mausoleums and ornate headstones crowded together. Grass crunched beneath his feet. His heart thudded against his ribcage as he searched for Isaac among the graves. He exhaled a soft sigh of relief when he spotted a familiar head of wavy hair on the other side of a gated plot.
“Hey,” he said, loud enough to catch Isaac’s attention. He wrapped a fist around one of the wrought-iron fence posts that separated them.
With his hands in his pockets, Isaac turned to him. His brows curved upwards in a silent question.
“I’m sorry.”
Isaac swallowed, his gaze flicking to the ground. “You’re not the one who started it.” He cocked his head to the side, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. “You even tried to stop it.”
Scott nodded. “But I couldn’t. And I should’ve tried sooner. I know something was up with Stiles, but he told me it was nothing. I should’ve trusted my own eyes.”
“I don’t take shit from people,” Isaac said, looking up again. “I did for a long time and I’m done. I’m worth more than that.”
“You are.”
“If you’re here to convince me to—To not quit or whatever, I’m not the issue.”
“You’re not,” Scott assured, shaking his head. “It was Stiles and his—Insecurity, jealousy, possessiveness, I don’t know. He’s not usually like that, but that doesn’t matter. He acted that way; he said those words. And he didn’t say a thing to me.”
“Is he sorry?”
“I think so. We talked; he acknowledged he was wrong, said he was gonna work on his apology while I found you.”
Isaac’s lips pursed. He turned his head, obscuring his expression from Scott’s view. The rush of blood in Scott’s ears was deafening in the silence. Finally, Isaac spoke. “I want to show you something.”
Scott blinked. “Okay.”
As Isaac started towards the gate, Scott followed and met him when he let himself out. Isaac jerked his head to the side and explained, “Derek’s family plot. Not a lot of Hales left so it’s quiet.” Not leaving room for a response, he took off towards whatever he wanted to show Scott.
They arrived at a row of three, modest headstones. Reading the names, he immediately realized where Isaac had brought him. To meet his family.
“Dad, mom, brother,” he said, pointing to each. “Mom was depressed. Rather than encourage her to get help, my dad would get frustrated that she was lazy and unaffectionate. Cam shipped off to boot camp a month after his high school graduation. Lot of military folks on the Lahey side – he was just following in their footsteps, getting himself a full ride to college afterwards. ‘Course, didn’t need that after he got blown to bits in Afghanistan. Dad…” He met Scott’s eyes. “You know.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathed.
Isaac shrugged. “Don’t be.” He looked away again. “My mom… It was a long time ago. Cam too, and he was kind of a bully. My dad—My dad is why I don’t take shit from people. Like, I get losing your wife and your son is hard, but it doesn’t excuse drinking the day away and hitting your remaining kid.”
Scott’s heart skipped a beat. He parted his lips but no words come out.
“Obviously, what Stiles did isn’t even a fraction of that but—I don’t take shit from anyone anymore. I’m not a quitter, I’m not a fuck up, and I’m not his punching bag. I’ll do your gig but if he says one wrong word—I’m done.”
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Scott bobbed his head. “Thank you.” He paused. “For telling me. For… Trusting me.”
Isaac ducked his head. “You haven’t given me a reason not to.”
What Stiles joked about earlier echoed in his ears. “Are we friends?”
Isaac blinked at him. “Yeah.”
Other questions filled his head. Are they just friends? Yes. Should they be more friends? He didn’t know, but the words died on his tongue. Not the right time, not the right place.
“Good.” A smile tugged at his lips, warm albeit tinged with melancholy. “C’mon. Let’s go get some food.”
Stiles apologized at the school the day after. Standing in a shaded part of the parking lot, he tripped over his words but managed to spit something out acknowledging how he was wrong and that made no excuses for his actions. Isaac scratched the back of his neck as he accepted it; his hesitance was obvious but, before the apology, Scott had made it clear to Stiles that he wasn’t getting a third chance.
They practiced every day after school in the lead up to Sunday. Lydia made the calls on when to repeat; while exasperated, she never singled anyone out. Stiles tried bickering with her once – she shut him down with a single sentence.
Between classes, practice, and sleep, the hours flew by. It wasn’t long at all until they were standing behind BHHS’ stage.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes to impress the judges and the scouts in the audience,” Lydia explained, as if they didn’t know these words by heart now. “There’s at least three of them who aren’t parents of another act. You do your part well, I’ll do mine.”
They chorused their agreement just before the manager of the event approached them. She held up a single finger at them indicating they had one minute before they needed to go on. Lydia squeezed Stiles’ hand as Scott shot Isaac a nervous grin. The minute felt simultaneously like an eternity and a second. Then, their band was called.
The lights were blinding. The faces beyond the second row were obscured to them as they took their places, readied their instruments, and waited for their queue to begin. The first song started with the strum of Scott’s guitar. The last song ended with the echoing clang of Isaac’s ride cymbal. The moments between were lost to the music, to the pressure to hit each note just right despite how many times they’d done it perfectly in practice. Beads of sweat clung to their foreheads, heavy breaths escaping their parted lips as they bowed and made their way off stage.
Behind the curtains, Lydia greeted them with a beaming smile. She threw her arms around Stiles and pressed a wet kiss to his cheek. Isaac pressed his fist to his mouth to hide his chuckle. The hot pink lipstick stain on Stiles’ cheek was hard not to laugh at.
When Stiles turned to Isaac, Scott’s stomach sank. Expecting snark, he was pleasantly surprised.
“You were awesome, Isaac,” he breathed. “Did you miss even a single beat?”
Isaac shrugged. “It was such a rush out there. I don’t remember.”
“God.” Stiles tilted his head back, closing his eyes. “Tell me about it.”
“Even if we don’t place,” Allison said, causing Stiles to open his eyes and look at her with the rest of them, “I think we can be proud of ourselves.”
Scott nodded as he said, “Absolutely.”
Waiting in the hallway with the other bands that had gone, they passed around a water bottle and read off the complimentary texts they received. Stiles’ dad was gushing in his; according to the text Scott’s mom had sent, an usher had asked him to quiet down or leave due to how loud his cheering was. Lydia’s mom sent a short text that she was talking to someone with connections.
As Allison and Stiles leaned over Lydia’s phone while she typed furiously away her on screen, Scott peered over at Isaac. The pink hue of his cheeks had Scott crawling past the other three to sit next to him. “You okay?” he asked, tilting his head.
Isaac glanced up, blinking at him. “Yeah. My aunt texted me.”
“Was she here?”
He bobbed his head, holding his phone screen for Scott to see. ‘I wish my sister were here to see you. I know she’d be so proud.’
“That’s good?” He searched Isaac’s features for confirmation.
“I think so,” he murmured. “I mean, she showed up. I didn’t know she was going to until this morning.” His lips twitched upwards as if he’d just thought of something amusing. “I think she’s sitting with Derek and Cora.”
Scott raised his brows. “Oh?”
Isaac snorted. “You’ve met them both. Tell me how well you think my stockbroker, soccer mom aunt and my dead brother’s, lumberjack-looking friend get along?”
Scott bit his lip before shrugging. From his brief interactions with both, they seemed like fair descriptions. “What does Derek do anyways?”
“Real estate.”
Parting his lips in confusion, whatever question he may have asked died on his lips when an event manager called the attention of the waiting bands. They were all expected on stage in fifteen minutes. The background chatter resumed in full force once the manager was gone; Allison waved them over to the huddle, ending their private conversation.
Sitting together on the stage floor, they held hands as they waited for the awards to be given. Allison leaned against Lydia who held her chin high. Stiles’ knee was shaking as his gaze darted back and forth between Scott and Lydia. Scott’s palms were clammy, his insides twisting and turning like they were being shaped into a pretzel. Isaac’s head was bowed as he held Scott’s hand in a bone-crushing grip.
“…And now, for the top three,” the manager said into the microphone.
“Third place goes to My Wild Romance.” A girl group, slightly younger than them, squealed from the other side of the stage; one of them rose to take the trophy.
“Second place goes to The Fire Brigade.” As the audience clapped, a middle-aged man broke away from his group standing at the back of the stage to accept their trophy.
“And finally… In first place is Humans that Howl! Come on over guys.”
Stiles let out a loud whoop as the others registered what had just been said. Stiles scrambled to his feet first, followed by the others. Scott gave Isaac’s hand a squeeze, not letting go even as they stood in a line for the whole audience to see. The applause was thunderous; somewhere from the back of the auditorium, they could hear Stiles’ dad shouting “That’s my son!”
Scott and Isaac finally broke apart as the staff brought out the large, first-place trophy. The manager directed all of them to hold it so they could get photos. The cameras flashing in the eyes did nothing to dull the euphoria they were experiencing.
All the work, all the strategy, all the broken picks, sweat-soaked shirts, and hormone-fueled tension… They had done it. They had won.
Despite the high of emotions the day before, Monday was a school day. Students shouted congratulations at them, and a few teachers acknowledged their win, but things were otherwise normal. Stiles forget his pen in Algebra 2 and Mr. Harris demanded he and Scott sit apart the moment they entered the science classroom. However, as Scott approached their usual cafeteria table, he put a twist in the day.
Thrumming his fingers against the top of his chair, he nodded at his friends. “I’m gonna look for Isaac, okay?”
“Go for it, dude,” said Stiles. Lydia, seated beside him, shooed him away with her hand.
With his tray in hand, he beelined towards the courtyard. Isaac mentioned once that he liked to sit outside when he wasn’t with them. Although he hadn’t specified where, Scott made a guess and found him in one of the more secluded grass patches.
Isaac tilted his head up to look at him, cocking a brow as Scott approached.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he offered, sinking into a cross-legged position next to him.
“Bit late if I did,” he replied. The half-grin suggested he didn’t. “What can I do for you?”
Scott shrugged. “Just wanted to spend time with you.”
A snort escaped Isaac. “We spent all day together yesterday.” Which was true; after their win, the band and their guardians went out to dinner at a local Mexican restaurant.
“Not alone.” The weight of his gaze was heavy but Scott didn’t shy away from his words.
“No, definitely not alone,” Isaac echoed, nodding. “It was nice but”—His gaze flicked to the side then back at Scott—“I do like it when it’s just us.”
Scott could feel the muscles in his face as they tugged upwards. “Well, now that we’ve won, I think we’ve got more time for just us.”