Chapter Text
“Mom, I think I’m sick. Can I skip today?”
“That’s impossible.”
“It is very possible, mom!”
“It is not. I know it is not. Go to school.”
* ~ * - * ~ * - *
Out of all the things Taylor ever went through in her life, this could be one of the weirdest, unusual events she’s ever been through.
She’s pretty sure her reflexes are loose, and she can’t catch anything even if she tried her hardest (all the bruises from the basketball were enough proof), so she didn’t understand how she possibly pulled this off.
She doesn’t, because a pen cap came flying straight for her face and she caught it with so much grace that she didn’t even believe it was possible.
She had been sitting in class peacefully; she wasn’t exactly listening to the teacher, instead she was picking at the purple nail polish that remained on her forefinger and thumb. The hard seat of the classroom hurt her back as she shifted, wanting the class to end so she could just go home. Her light blonde hair was brushing against her hooded black sweater, the cold air pinching the skin exposed by the rips on her jeans. Her head was constantly hanging on the desk from tiredness; she had such a small interest in Chemistry, so she sat quietly, not bothering anyone but not paying attention either.
That’s when the movement of a pen caught her attention, and when she looked to her right, she noticed a boy—Stilinski, she remembered—swinging his pencil in his left hand. The edge of the pen was moving in swift circles, looking like it was going to hit him in the eye every two seconds. He seemed like someone who was constantly on edge; his leg was bouncing up and down, and he was watching at his work, concentrated. Taylor didn’t realize she was staring until she saw the cap of the pen fly off the end, coming straight from her face.
She felt like it was all in slow motion. She could see the it coming straight for her, too fast for her, but yet for some reason, it felt like she had all the time in the world to catch it. She only realized that she had caught it after Stilinski was staring straight at her, mouth open in a gasp.
“How did y—”
“Stilinski!”
Groaning, he rolled his eyes, turning to face the teacher—Mr. Harris, the douchiest teacher in history of teachers—who was basically shooting daggers at him with his eyes.
“I don’t remember asking you to speak, so unless you have something that has to do with Chemistry to share, I don’t think it’s necessary for you to open your mouth.”
Stilinski threw his hands up, ready to retort, when Taylor decided to take matters in her own hands. She had never talked to this boy, but she knew that he was constantly being yelled at in this class and she didn’t think he deserved it this time, especially when it was her that had completely distracted him.
“Mr. Harris, don’t worry about it. I distracted him, he didn’t do anything wrong.”
Smiling, Mr. Harris cocked his head to the side. “Well, since you two hooligans think you can fool around, I guess you’re okay with fooling around after school as well. Detention, both of you.”
Taylor rolled her eyes. What a great way to start the day.
* ~ * - * ~ * - *
Taylor was never known as the child that misbehaved. Since she was a child, she always listened in school. She had a row of straight As, was always a teacher’s favorite, and was involved with school activities.
At least, that’s how it always was, until she moved to California; she wasn’t prepared to leave her friends back in Colorado, but she wasn’t given much choice.
Soon enough, she found herself in the city of Beacon Hills; it was small, and it wasn’t well known. It seemed like everyone knew everyone and it was such a small community. Taylor only felt like she was butting in on a family reunion. So when she got to school, she slacked. She stopped working, she stopped volunteering. She just wanted to get the minimal grade that at least let her pass her class.
That’s why she decided not to get annoyed by the fact that she was given a detention, and walked into the library. The only other person in there was Stilinski and Mr. Harris.
“You will be rearranging the books on the carts,” he stated, waving towards all the carts overflowing with books. “You’ll put them back where they should be, and after the library is nice and tidy, then you are free to go. Until then, you’ll be stuck here. I’ll keep you here until tomorrow morning if I have to. I’ll be in my classroom. No one bothers me, and if any of you leave you’ll have detention for the rest of the year.”
As Mr. Harris stepped out, closing the door behind him, Stilinski rolled his eyes, tapping a rhythmic pattern his fingers against the wooden table he was sitting on. “Harris is a dick,” he muttered.
Taylor shrugged, standing up to start pushing one of the old, chipped beige carts towards the Science Fiction section. The bookshelves were worn from their original colour; they all looked blunt and unappealing. Dust covered most of the books up on the shelves, and the shelf itself was covered with dust bunnies. Reluctantly, Stilinski followed behind her.
“So, I’m uh—”
“Stilinski. I know who you are,” Taylor mumbled, placing books up on the shelf.
“Oh, actually it’s Stiles… actually my name is Polish but it’s hard to say and I don’t want to put you through that torture, so how about you just go with Stiles. You’re Taylor, right? You got here about a month ago?”
“Okay, and yes.” Taylor nodded, continuing to put books up silently.
“So, uh… you’re not a very social person, are you?” Stiles asked, putting books up with her.
“I used to be.”
“I can’t tell,” Stiles smirked, jokingly. Taylor only deadpanned him with the biggest resting bitch face she could muster. His smirked dropped, and he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck.
“Sorry, uh… so, I see that you have pretty good reflexes… and I seriously need help with lacrosse, I’m tired of being a benchwarmer. Honestly, you wouldn’t understand the struggle, but it’s ridiculous. Coach makes us do all the hard workouts even though we won’t actually be on the field. You have no idea how much life it drains out of me, seriously. Think you could help me out?” Stiles asked.
“I don’t have good reflexes.”
Stiles raised a thin eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’re going to tell me that today, in class, that was nothing? Come on. That was insane! No one can catch anything that fast. I sure as hell can’t.”
“I guess we’re not all gifted,” Taylor shrugged, going to the other side of the shelf to continue stacking the books. Suddenly, two books were pushed aside and Stiles face was staring right back at her.
“But you are! Dude, listen, you don’t have to teach me. Just tell me your secret, how do you do it? In Jackson’s words, where do you get ‘your juice’?”
Taylor had no idea what Stiles was talking about, nor did she really want to. There was no” juice”, and there was no trick. “I don’t, Stiles. My reflexes are shit and I can’t teach you anything,” Taylor retorted, placing a book on the shelf to cover his face. She pushed the cart to the opposite side of the library, a weird feeling in her gut. She knew something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong with her and she needed to figure it out.
* ~ * - * ~ * - *
Stiles burst into Scott’s room later that night, throwing his bag on the ground. Scott had barely turned around when Stiles was letting words come out of his mouth.
“There’s another werewolf in BHHS.”
Scott frowned, closing his laptop before facing him. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean’,” Stiles rambled, jumping on the bed. “There’s another one, I’m sure of it. Do you remember when you first became a werewolf? You could hear things that were way out of your reach. Things that are barely audible to the human ear, she can hear, and she has reflexes like crazy, Scott, I swear to you, she’s a werewolf.”
“Who exactly are we talking about?” Scott asked. Stiles looked away, scratching the back of his neck.
“You know, that one girl I told you about? With the blonde hair and the—”
“Oh, Taylor Frisinger,” Scott smirked knowingly. Stiles rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.
“Scott, I swear to God—”
“Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you want your crush to be a badass werew—”
“Hey,” Stiles snapped. “We’ve been over this: she’s not my crush. I just, find her very very attractive and she has really flawless hair, and maybe her voice is like the angels above and does that matter? Not really! What matters is that she could potentially be a werewolf.”
“Stiles,” Scott sighed. “If she were, I’d be able to smell it on her. All she smells like is that new Ariana Grande perfume and strawberry shampoo. I don’t smell anything else on her.”
“You mean you don’t smell wet dog on her,” Stiles grumbled. Scott glared at him, flicking his pencil at his face. Stiles went to catch it, and barely managed to touch it before it hit him right in the eye.
“Great, Scott, fling a pencil at my eye, awesome, you’re the best friend ever, honestly, true MVP…”