SELENA POV
When I woke up this morning, I wasn’t expecting to hate today. After last night, I honestly thought that everything could only go up from there. Unfortunately for me, school was required by law. Stupid government… Every time I turned a corner, more voices echoed in the hallways; girls turned to stare at me as if I was carrying the plague. Their faces, each pulled into a sneer, only reminded me of the two large gashes on the side of my face. All of the whispers made me feel like I was about two inches tall.
Taking a turn into the girl’s bathroom, I stand in front of the white sink, my two hands gripping the sides, practically holding them as a lifeline. Looking into the mirror, all I could see was the reminder of what had happened last night. The gashes on my face still were a bright red; practically a radar on my face, labeling me as imperfect.
Turning on the cold water, I splash some in my face, trying to calm myself as well as try to lessen the redness. It was basically taking all the effort I had not to just walk out of the bathroom and then straight out the front doors of the school.
After a few minutes of trying to relax my breathing, I once again head out into the maze of hallways. Instead of being greeted by the annoyingly high-pitched voices of the petty girls in the hallway, I’m met with the sight of a tall, raven-haired man.
Standing by the door to one of the English classrooms, he eyes the hallway as if waiting for someone. I had never seen him before, but it was undeniable just how attractive he was. His chiseled and unshaven jaw, his piercing brown eyes—all of him seemed to be a warning sign of future heartbreak.
The man soon nods his head down the hallway, where I see Stiles, Allison, Scott, and Lydia making their way towards him. They all go inside the classroom, shutting the door swiftly behind them—almost like they are hiding something. Letting my curiosity get the best of me, I go stand next to the door, hoping to overhear part of their conversation. Unfortunately, I could only make out a few things: something to do with symbols, Derek not trusting Allison, and then finally my name.
Hearing the group making their way back towards the door, I swiftly turn to the drinking fountain on my right, trying to make it seem like I wasn’t just listening in on their conversation. Sipping the water slowly, I hear the click of heels as Allison and Lydia walk towards their lockers. Stepping back from the fountain, my eyes meet with Stiles’, whose brown ones were focused intently on my chest.
“Not that your staring at my breasts isn’t flattering,” I begin, seeing Stiles quickly look away from my chest in embarrassment.
“Oh-shit-I mean, uh,” he stutters, clearly flustered with being caught.
“It’s okay Stiles, it’s nice to know I still am sort of attractive,” I laugh, even though it still pains me to think of how my face looks.
“What-you, uh, you are totally attractive, like—all your parts,” he says, eyes soon growing wide with what had left his mouth. “I—I mean, you are—everything about you is attractive.”
Smiling slightly at how uncomfortable Stiles’ was quickly becoming, I place my hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm him. Instead, however, all I feel is a jolt pass through my entire arm. It almost felt like someone had shot volts of electricity through my veins. Retracting my hand from him, I quickly begin to walk away, hopefully with enough time left to save myself from more embarrassment.
“Wait!” he calls out, running in front of me. “Are you alright? I didn’t get to see you this morning and wanted to see if you were feeling okay? I know last night must have real done a number on you, and especially with how tired you must look, you must not be feeling well. Oh god, of course you aren’t feeling okay, you practically were murdered in the back of your building. Okay, I think I should stop talking. Are--are you okay, though?”
He snaps of out his rambling; his eyes showing me that he truly did seem worried about me. He didn’t look like everyone else when asking me how I felt; it looked like he genuinely meant it. His golden eyes held sympathy, but also a hint of understanding—like he knew just what I went through.
“I guess I’m alright,” I tuck a few tendrils of my hair behind my ear. “It could have been worse.”
“Well, I’m glad that you’re fine, but I think we should be heading to class,” he says, turning to stand next to me. “Finstock will have our heads if we’re late.”
We silently make our way to class, with Stiles accidentally nudging me in the arm a few times. With each touch, my arm feels like pins and needles; the sensation making my stomach hurt. Once inside the classroom, Stiles takes his seat next to Scott and I take my seat behind Danny Mahealani, a player on the lacrosse team.
“The stock market is based on two principles,” Coach Finstock begins, his loud voice practically making my ears bleed. “What are they?”
Pausing to look at the class, his eyebrows rise in surprise when Scott raises his hands. Soon however, he gets a resigned look on his face—as if he already thinks Scott isn’t going to be trying to answer. “Yes, McCall, you can go to the bathroom. Anybody else?”
“Uh, no, coach, I know the answer,” Scott pipes up, a smirk gracing his lips at the thought of giving the correct answer.
“Oh, you're serious.”
“Uh—yes, it’s risk and reward.”
Coach’s eyes nearly pop out of his head in surprise. “Wow! Who are you and what have you done to McCall? Don't answer that. I like you better. I like you better.”
Finstock heads back to the front of the room with a little more pep in his step at the fact that Scott was able to answer his question. I’m guessing by the amount of surprise on everyone’s faces, Scott really doesn’t participate that much in class.
“Does anybody have a quarter?”
Stiles begins to rifle through his pockets, looking for a quarter to give to Coach to use. Instead of grabbing a quarter, a small square package flies out of his pocket, landing on the ground between himself and Scott. Taking a closer look, I snort, seeing what he had dropped: an XXL condom.
Coach, with a face almost as red as a tomato, picks the condom up from the floor, holding it out for Stiles to take. “Stilinski, I think you, uh--you dropped this…and congratulations.”
Turning back to the class, Coach continues with the lesson, showing us a game of throwing a quarter into his #1 Coach mug. Instead of listening to his instructions, I toss my pen cap at Stiles, trying to get his attention. He flings his head back to look at me, his neck practically snapping with the motion.
“So Stiles, what are you up to this weekend?” I ask, shooting him a wink. Laughing at the look on his face, I have to lay my head down on my desk from how hysterical it is. Looking back up, he is still staring at me, but this time his eyes don’t seem embarrassed—the instead seem to be filled with an emotion I don’t even know how to describe. Sticking my tongue out at him, hoping to show him that I was joking, I turn myself back to Coach’s lesson.
“Danny. Risk and reward,” he tosses the quarter to Danny. “What's the reward? You don't have to take the pop quiz tomorrow.”
“Coach, it's not a pop quiz if you tell us about it,” Danny smirks, clearly used to Coach’s antics.
“Danny, you know, I really expect more from you at this point. Really,” Turning away from Danny, Coach turns his eyes on Scott once again. “McCall, risk or reward. The risk--if you don't put that quarter in the mug, you have to take the pop quiz, and--and you have to write an essay.”
Scott seems to contemplate his odds, his eyes looking over the distance between where he would have to stand and where the mug now sat on the floor.
“Risk, more work—reward, no work at all,” Coach raises his eyebrows at Scott, practically challenging him. “Or choose not to play. You know your abilities, your coordination, and your focus, past experience all factors affecting the outcome. So what's it going to be, McCall? More work? No work? Or choose not to play?”
“No play,” Scott finally answers.
“Okay,” Coach replies, clearly disappointed that he declined the opportunity to do extra work. “Who's next? Who wants the quarter?”
Stiles hesitantly raises his hand, choosing to take the risk of the extra work. Way to go Stilinski; let’s hope your aim is better than your luck.
“There you go! There's a gambling man! Come on! Step up, step up,” Coach almost skips in excitement, handing Stiles the quarter. “All right, Stilinski.”
Stiles stands across from the mug, his eyes staring intently at it in concentration.
“Stiles,” Coach says after a few seconds of Stiles lining up his shot.
“Yeah, coach, I got it.”
“Stiles,” another voice calls from the doorway—the sheriff, or as I’ve been told, his own dad.
His father waves Stiles over to the door, grabbing a hold of his upper arm and basically drags him out of the open door.
“Well, who’s next?” Coach calls out to the rest of us.
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Parking my car in a spot close to the entrance to the apartment building, I turn the engine off and grab my bag out of the passenger seat. I shut the door and begin making my way towards the building, clicking the lock button my key fob. The streetlamps have already turned on—with fall arriving, darkness was starting earlier and earlier every day. As I get closer to the door, I feel a tingle on the back of my neck—a feeling like someone is watching me. Turning my head left and right, I try to focus in on what could be the cause of it. Just as I’m about to start walking again, I see a man standing across the street; his pale face hidden partially by a pair of sunglasses. The man is holding a walking cane in his left hand, tapping it against the ground in a smooth rhythm.
Why is he just staring at me? After last night, I don’t think I want to wait around outside and find out. At a pace that resembled a sprint, I make it to the front door of the building. Inserting my key into the door, it decides not to turn correctly, making me have to try again. Just as I try to fit the key inside again, I hear the tapping of his cane moving closer to where I am. Checking behind me, the man is making his way across the street—walking right towards me.
Beginning to panic, I start to shove the door handle, hoping that it will magically open. His steps are getting closer and closer—my panic continually growing with each clunk of his shoe on the pavement. Just as he reaches the sidewalk on my side of the street, I can feel a wave of anxiety begin to roll over me. This cannot be happening right now. I do not need to freak out—I just need to get out of here!
My breathing begins to become erratic; I can feel the panic coursing through my veins. When the man makes it to the grass, he stops in his tracks--looking up he tilts his head when he sees the streetlamps begin to flicker on and off. He turns back to me and I can feel my palms begin to sweat. Shoving the key inside the key hole, I try to turn the key again. Just as I do, all the streetlamps around the complex burst; explosions of glass falls to the ground, making the man take a few steps back.
Finally, my key turns and I run inside, slamming the door shut with all the strength I could muster. Racing towards the stairs, I take them two at a time, making it to my own apartment and slamming the door shut as quickly as possible, locking every lock I could.
Running into my bedroom, I lock that door as well and run over to my closet, pulling a baseball bat out from behind a pile of boxes. Going over to my bed, I sit and lean against the wall, the bat poised to attack anyone who tried to walk through my door.
This is going to be a long night.
[Oh, hey there! Here is a second update for ya'll, since I was able to be home tonight! Please leave me some comments, I really do want some feedback or something! Thanks for getting my story to 4,000+ reads! Any thoughts about what is up with Selena?]