How to be Cool

Lesson #1: Don't get your hopes up

So here's the thing. I'm a loser. I mean, in my dads eyes, I'm amazing. To Scott, I'm a fantastic best friend. But to anyone else, I'm nobody. I keep my head down; I don't get bullied. I never raise my hand; I don't get called on in class. If I don't put myself out there, people leave me be. That's the way I liked it. At least, until I realized how beautiful Lydia Martin was. In elementary school, she was the girl every boy chased. When we made it to high school, she became the most popular girl in our grade, and eventually in school. She walked around like she was royalty. I had liked her for as long as I could remember. I thought she was so beautiful, but I knew she would never notice me. I sort of gave up on that idea, that she would ever look my way.

Except, I came up with a plan. A plan to get her to like me, or at least talk to me. I wanted to ask her to the dance, since it was our senior year. First, I had to work my way up the social ladder. Impossible, right? Maybe not. If I could get someone who was already cool to help me out, maybe I'd have a chance. Who better than Lydia Martin's best friend?

I tried explaining this to Scott. We were sitting at Lunch, alone at our usual table. We didn't have many other friends. Sometimes, Scott's friend Liam would sit with us, but he was only a freshman, so he had other friends his own age. Today, it was only the two of us. "You don't want to hear my plan?" I asked, a little offended. I told him I had the best plan in the world, and his stupid response? I don't care. What the hell kind of best friend was he?

"No, Stiles, I don't. If you tell me your plan, I'm going to have to tell you why it's stupid. Your feelings will get hurt and then I'll have to apologize and help you so you don't hate me. So no, I don't care about your plan. Do it, or don't. I don't want to be a part of it." He kept eating his food, as if we weren't in the middle of an argument.

"Seriously?" I grumbled, leaning forward so nobody else could hear me. "Dude, it's a good plan. I'm finally going to get Lydia Martin to like me!" I whisper yelled, hoping to grab his attention. Still, he was unfazed. He took another bite of his sandwich, his eyes staring at me with a bored expression. "I promise I won't get mad if you tell me it's stupid. I just have to tell someone."

Scott swallowed his food, sighed heavily, and then sat his sandwich down and folding his arms on the table in front of him. "Fine, Stiles. Tell me what your plan is this time." Despite the lack of enthusiasm in his voice, I went ahead with my spiel. If I didn't tell someone about it, I was going to explode. It was the smartest plan I had ever concocted.

"Okay, so, you know how Derek Hale is Lydia's best friend?" I started, waiting for Scott to show some kind of indication he was following. He nodded, so I went on. "Well, I'm sort of a genius when it comes to calculus, and I've been asking around about Derek. It turns out he's failing. He can't play football if he fails any of his classes, so I'm going to offer to help him get his grade up. In return, he's going to help me get Lydia." I finished telling him and waited excitedly for his answer. He didn't move, but he kept staring at me. I couldn't read his expression. "So, what do you think?" I demanded, trying to keep myself contained.

Scott shrugged and went back to eating his sandwich. "I think you're going to get your ass kicked," Scott mumbled through his mouthful of turkey.

I raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Scott, why would I-"

"Stilinski!" a voice yelled, making me nearly jump out of my seat. I didn't even have time to turn around before a hand grabbed the back of my shirt, dragging me out of my seat. I managed to turn my head enough to see that it was none other than Derek Hale dragging my ass out of the lunch room. Everyone was staring, some pointing and laughing. Derek's grip on my shirt was not loosening and I had no idea where he was taking me. I couldn't fight it either, because he was stronger than me. He played football and he wrestled, so there was no getting away. When we finally stopped moving, we were in the boy's locker room. Derek let go of the back of my shirt before grabbing the front instead, slamming me against the lockers, his face inches from mine. "I heard you've been asking about me," he said, his voice intensely low.