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Malia notices the noise first. In the forest, she'd grown accustomed to the sounds of snapping twigs that signaled either danger or prey. She'd memorized the gurgling sounds of brooks, and rushing rivers. At night, she'd count her hours by the hoot of owls and the scratches of racoons nails against the tree barks.
In Beacon Hills, she's bombarded with the honk of cars, ambulance sirens, and the thousands of footsteps that signal the start and end of the workday. She hears conversations all around her in school, can't help but catch snippets of things she's not part off. Teenagers are too loud, teachers even moreso. Everyone shouts across hallways at each other. They slam their lockers, throw their books against desks, stomp their way to class. Once there, they whisper too loud to each other when the teacher turns her back.
On top of that, Malia doesn't understand a word of what comes out of her teachers' mouths. She doesn't understand algebra, or the concept of letters for numbers. She missed sixteen years of history, of science. She's barely keeping up with it all, even with the home lessons from her dad. Not to mention the full moons, where she has to lock herself away in her room and think of the quiet of the forest to keep herself in check.
She's cold most nights, even with piles of blankets on top of her. Malia can't sleep. She feels trapped in her own skin, dreams of ripping herself open and being free.
She still dreams of her mother and sisters.
*
"Hey," Lydia says, two days into Malia's first week of school. "I can help you."
Malia stares at her, trying to work out in her head what kind of advantage Lydia would get by helping Malia.
"Why?" she asks, when she can't figure it out.
Lydia tosses her long hair over her shoulders, the morning sun catching the stands of gold in her red hair. She purses her lips and narrows her eyes, as though she's deep in thought.
"I don't know," Lydia says, shrugging her shoulders, delicately. "Maybe I just want to help."
Malia is going to fail all her classes. She knows this, objectively. She also knows that Lydia is the smartest student in the whole school, so really, there is no choice.
"Okay," she says.
*
Lydia always makes space for Malia at lunch. She shoves whoever is next to her off the table, and spreads out Malia's books.
"We're going to play a game," Lydia says, when Malia groans. "For every question you get right, I subtract a minute from the weekend lessons."
"Weekends?" Malia asks, horrified. "I go running on the weekends."
Lydia trails her eyes down over Malia. "You don't—oh," she rolls her eyes. "Werewolves."
"Werecoyote," Malia says, automatically.
"Right," Lydia says, waving away Malia's protest. "You're still doing three hours with me both days this weekend, if you don't get any of these questions right."
Malia drops her head into her arms on top of the table, and groans loudly. She can picture Lydia rolling her eyes and ignoring her, which would be fine with Malia, if she didn't know Lydia so well. Malia is just getting ready to raise her head and do work when she hears Kira's distinct steps along the cafeteria linoleum.
"Kira walks funny," Malia says, without raising her head.
"She needs better shoes," Lydia answers, sounding distracted.
But it's not that exactly. Kira walks lightly, each step deliberate, as though she's keeping herself in check without realizing it. It's very different from the clomping steps Stiles takes, or Scott's sure tread, and of course, there's no mistaking Lydia's dignified clicks.
Malia doesn't explain though. Lydia wouldn't be interested now that she's trying to get Malia to study. She listens, instead, to the sound of Kira's approach, the rustle of clothes, and the shift of her hair against the fabric. It helps to focus on one person, because Malia gets so caught up in them that all the other noises fade.
By the time Kira gets to their table, all Malia can hear is Kira's quiet breathing and the sound of Lydia's lipstick falling back into her bag.
"Is Malia okay?" Kira asks, setting her tray down in front of Malia.
"Hm?" Lydia asks. "Oh, Malia? She's fine. She's just being dramatic."
Malia groans again. "I hate math," she says.
Kira laughs and pats her shoulder soothingly. "It's okay. You can do it," she says. "I believe in you."
"I don't," Malia says into her arms.
"Poor baby," Lydia says, her sarcasm so thick, Malia can practically see the accompanying eye roll.
Unsurprisingly, Lydia gets Malia to look up halfway through the lunch period, and they spend twenty minutes going over basic formulas. By the time the bell rings, signaling the end of the period, Malia still hasn't worked out how exactly Lydia got her to look up.
*
On weekends, Lydia opens her door in her pajamas. Her hair will either be a mess or plaited into a braid, and she'll either be wearing shorts or a nightgown. But every weekend, without fail, Lydia will look like she's just rolled out of bed, her face clear of any makeup, and her eyes still half closed.
She'll leave the door open and walk back into her house, letting Malia follow her in. Malia will follow Lydia upstairs, and after the awkward first weekend, they'll both lie back down on Lydia's bed. Malia will pull the covers over both of them, Lydia already more asleep than awake.
Lydia's sheets always smell like citrus or the soft flowery perfume Lydia wears to school. Malia will lie on her side and watch Lydia. There's something fascinating about watching all the lines on Lydia's face relax in her sleep. Lydia sleeps on her side, with her face half-buried in her pillow, her legs curled up close to her chest. She looks her age, when she's asleep, not matter what she's wearing.
Malia thinks her fascination comes from understanding. She knows what it's like to be two people, in a way.
*
The day Lydia kisses her is the same day that Malia gets her first passing grade in math class. Malia gets her test during second period, and she spends the rest of the morning showing everyone she knows. She waves her paper at Lydia first, then at Kira. She chases Scott down the hall and shows him after third period. After fourth, she shows Stiles. At lunch, it's the cafeteria lady, who congratulates her and gives her an extra helping of tater tots.
"Stop that," Lydia tells her.
But Malia just grins at her, her cheeks hurting from all the smiling. "No," she says, brightly.
Lydia sighs, but Malia knows better than to think Lydia isn't proud of her.
They walk to Lydia's house at the end of classes, Malia still buzzing from her success. She can't stop moving, swinging her arms wide, and skipping over the cracks on the pavement. When Lydia stares at her, Malia beams at her.
"It's all you," she says, as they walk up Lydia's driveway. "You're amazing."
"I know," Lydia says.
Malia smiles wider.
They get to the door, Lydia's keys dangling from her hands. She moves to open the door and Malia leans against the doorframe, her test paper still in her hand. She's thinking about leaving early to show her dad, when Lydia speaks.
"It wasn't just me," Lydia says, so quietly Malia would have missed it if she were human.
The words hang between them, as something warm spreads out from the center of Malia's chest. Lydia turns then, her keys hanging from the lock on the door. She looks right at Malia, something uncertain in her expression. It's so uncharacteristic of Lydia, but still somehow fitting that this is the one thing that Lydia wouldn't be sure of.
So, "I like you," Malia says.
"Yeah," Lydia says, quietly, leaning up on her toes. "I know."
They kiss.