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thirty nine
warnings: mentions of stab wounds and corpses, some violent threats, and even more jealousy.
★
Valerie
I was sitting sideways in my chair in Econ, listening to Coach giving his lecture. Stiles was sitting in the desk behind me, going through the crime photos from the murder of a young werewolf that had occurred last night, and Scott was sitting next to him. Why had that werewolf been murdered? Oh, because there was a deadpool out there with several supernaturals in Beacon Hills on it, that apparently every weird assassin in the country had gotten their hands on. How did we know that? Lydia had transcribed the whole thing without knowing when she was supposed to write math notes. She had discovered a cipher-key at the party that unlocked half of the list. Allison's name.
"Economic disparity..." said Coach, pacing through the desk in the classroom, holding a tattered lacrosse stick in his hands, "exists in all forms. We'll take sports, for example. Some teams have better training facilities. Some have better equipment. Unlike Beacon Hills, that can barely afford the duct tape to keep our equipment together."
When he reached Stiles, who was way too immersed in his crime photos to hear a word of what Coach was saying, he banged the lacrosse stick against the side of his desk. Stiles flailed and jumped up in surprise.
"You know, Stilinski," Coach leaned over the desk, looking at the pictures of multiple stab wounds on the dead bodies, "if I could grade you on how profoundly you disturb me, you'd be an A+ student."
I snorted, grinning at the two of them.
"Thanks, Coach," said Stiles genuinely.
Coach straightened up. "Put those pictures away," he ordered, patting Stiles' desk with the lacrosse stick a few extra times. Stiles nodded and mumbled an agreement under his breath, but then his eyes narrowed on the end of the stick still resting on his desk, and he grabbed it in his hand, preventing Coach from moving away.
