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“I’m leaving!” Jackson announced, shoving his five page essay into his bag.
He hadn’t planned on writing the stupid thing, despite being given a deadline extension thanks to being the new kid in town, but then one of the girls from his class, Lydia Martin, had emailed him a basic outline, along with a summary of all the research needed. Her instructions had been simple. “Seeing as how you failed to ask me out on Friday, I can only assume it’s because you were in a mad panic about the English essay. I expect nothing less than an A if we’re to be seen in the same social circles.”
Jackson hadn’t bothered to email her back. He understood the game of chase quite well and knew he would be the one coming out ahead by not responding.
But that didn’t mean he was about to let this one get away. Lydia not only had confidence, which was beyond sexy, but knew how to play up her looks to the maximum in their monochromatic world. Despite the student body population swimming in a sea of greys, Lydia still managed to stand out with ease thanks to her uniquely shaded hair, lighter eyes, and dark mascara.
Jackson definitely didn’t mind the idea of having a girl like that under his arm, even if they weren’t meant to be in the long run.
He hopped into his Porsche, a gift to help soothe his disappointment over the move, and sped off to towards Beacon Hills High. The drive wasn’t nearly as fun as it had been in Star City, but the impact it held was just as strong.
Everyone stopped to stare as the car’s roar turned into a purr upon entering the parking lot. Last week, Jackson had enjoyed every inch of the attention. This Monday, he despised it, because it meant everyone saw the way he slammed on his brakes upon noticing the parking spot he had designated as his own was currently occupied by something that looked like it belonged in a junkyard.
Jaw clenching, Jackson eyed the open spot next to the decrepit Jeep and decided there was no way in hell he was about to risk having his doors dinged by that pile of trash. Revving his engine, he went to find a new spot.
By the time Jackson was able to find an acceptable parking spot and visit his locker, the bell had already rung and he found himself late for class.
“I understand you’re new, and things are probably done differently in the city what with the excuse of things like ‘traffic’,” the teacher used actual air quotes here, “but in my class, tardiness is never tolerated and will lose you ten points from a participation grade of thirty.”
Jackson decided then and there that he was going to murder whoever owned that Jeep.
The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. Spooked at the idea of losing so many points, Jackson made it a point to turn up early to every class and ask for a syllabus so that he could actually review which rules he shouldn’t mess around with versus the ones he could disregard without care.
The move garnered a single raised brow from Lydia, despite her eyes being firmly glued to her own reflection in her compact mirror. It wasn’t until Jackson returned to the teacher’s desk with his essay in hand did the compact snap shut. The triumphant smirk he was rewarded suddenly made the whole day better.
Thursday. He was definitely asking her out on Thursday.
“Uh, Mr. Finstock?”
“Oh my God, don’t you ever call me that again. It’s either Coach, or Coach.”
“But…I’m not on any of the school’s teams.”
Coach Finstock’s response was to grin brightly and blindly pick up an injury waiver form for lacrosse from his desk and hand it over. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Uh, okay. I was actually hoping for a copy of your syllabus?”
“My what?”
Jackson blinked, a bit thrown at the vehemence in the man’s voice. “Your…syllabus? The thing that outlines the—”
“Yeah, I know what that is.” Coach crossed his arms as Jackson raised his brows expectantly. “I don’t have one. Go sit down.”
Shaking his head at the odd encounter, Jackson turned to obey, and found himself being barreled over by a fellow student who was in the middle of making a mad dash to his desk to throw his stuff down on it before running right back out.
“STILINSKI!”
“Sorry, Coach, I gotta pee!”
Coach’s head slowly moved in to block Jackson’s dazed sight of the florescent lights.
“I changed my mind. Don’t even bother returning that lacrosse waiver. That was the most pathetic block I’ve ever seen.”
Not even the memory of Lydia’s smirk could stop the deep burn of humiliation from staining Jackson’s cheeks as laughter tittered through the classroom.
Wrinkling the form with his clenched fist, Jackson pushed himself to his feet and stomped back to his desk.
Danny, the boy who had been in charge of showing him around on his first day, and held enough promise to potentially earn the title of friend despite being a bit of a geek, leaned over.
“You might want to avoid Stiles, the guy who just ran out. He’s a bit of a walking disaster zone…and he’s kind of the one who took your parking spot.”
Jackson froze long enough to process the information, then slowly turned his head to stare at the abandoned backpack sitting on the desk nearby.
“Coach, I’m going to bring Stiles his stuff,” Jackson announced, standing. “I’m pretty sure he needs it.”
“What? To pee?” Coach pulled a face, then raised his hands in a clear gesture that said he didn’t want to know.
“This is the exact opposite of what I just told you to do,” Danny complained to Jackson’s retreating back. “Give him a break, he’s recovering from pneumonia!”
Jackson walked out the door just as the warning bell rang.
With a minute left on the clock to act out on his anger, he found himself a bit stumped as to where the nearest bathroom would be. So he grabbed the closest body that happened to be rushing by and demanded directions. A trembling finger pointed him to around the second corner down the hall.
Jackson wasted no time in pushing his way past the thinning crowd, but before he could even round the corner, he found himself being run into again. Rather than being knocked flat on his ass this time around, he took the momentum and pivoted, shoving and pinning his assailant to the wall.
Without warning, the world exploded into from its blacks, and whites, and infinite greys into a complete rainbow of true color that had Jackson blinking rapidly as he stared into the slack jawed, wide-eyed face of one Stiles Stilinski.
Jackson tried to sneer, but the colors were so distracting. The solid brown of Stiles’ buzzcut hair, the softer brown of his eyes, the light pink of his parted lips, the harsh yellow of the bulletin board the was being held against.
“What…?” Jackson brought a hand up to wipe at his watering eyes, finding it to be a bit of a struggle to keep his focus on the man he wanted to pummel into the ground.
“Oh my God, your jawline is amazing. We’re…!” Stiles’ hands came up to wrap around Jackson’s fists, but Jackson quickly released him, backing away and bending over as he rubbed at his eyes.
“You—” Jackson tried to look at Stiles, but it was too much. He brought up a hand (a fascinating blend of light, beach sand brown with a touch of pale peach) to block his vision. “Jesus, why are you wearing blue and orange?”
Stiles looked down at his bright blue shirt and equally bright orange lettering. “Oh hey! So these are the Mets colors!”
“My eyes are bleeding,” Jackson complained, once again wiping them free of tears.
Why was there so much color in the world? How did those who discovered their soul mates even live like this? It was so overwhelming and distracting and what was that color on the fire alarm? Was that red? That was red, wasn’t it? Color Theory taught them that red didn’t exist on the grey scale, since it was too close to black, and suddenly Jackson could hardly wait for Christmas, because he had been told all too often by his uncle that red and green really were different colors and popped amazingly when they were featured everywhere during the holidays and—
“Jackson?”
Both boys turned at the female voice, and Jackson’s mouth fell open as his eyes landed on Lydia. Perfect, beautiful, naturally colorful Lydia Martin.
Despair rose up in Jackson as he looked from Stiles, his unquestionable soul mate, to Lydia, the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. The one who he had planned to ask out, to hold her hand, to make her laugh, to smell her strawberry blonde hair – all those plans were washing down the drain as Lydia looked between the two boys with suspicious comprehension.
Jackson refused to give her a chance to voice her conclusion. Anger at being robbed of the chance to live out a few more years of freedom, he turned and punched Stiles hard in the gut.
Ignoring Stiles’ strangled whimper and questions of why, Jackson stormed off, intent on heading home for the day. The world was far too cruel for him to deal with at the moment.
THE END.