Stiles stared at the paper announcing the date of the winter formal, rubbing at the back of his neck. Breezing past with Isaac, Scott stopped to look at it too, eyebrows lifting slightly. “You think Malia will want to go?”
“Oh, yeah,” Stiles replied, still rubbing at the back of his neck. “Just, you know, last year was … ” He shrugged, leaving the words hanging.
“Yeah,” Scott repeated. They stood there, staring at the page and lost in their own thoughts, until Jackson stuck his head through the locker room door and shouted at them.
Isaac hovered behind Scott, listening to the conversation but not interjecting, torn between crippling nerves and excitement at the approaching dance. How on earth was he supposed to ask Summer to the dance? Not only was she a college girl, but it would just reinforce their age gap — which wasn’t important to him, not at all — but it was situations like this in which he was painfully reminded of it, and how their relationship might be perceived by those around him.
Unaware that he had in fact voiced this aloud for a brief moment, he flinched as he noted the others turning to face him, and he rubbed at the back of his neck, making a show of rummaging in his locker for some lost item.
Scott gave Isaac a funny look when the curly werewolf abruptly buried himself in his locker. “There’s a girl you want to ask? That’s awesome!” he bubbled. “Uh, I guess you just — do it.”
“Real helpful, Scott,” Stiles remarked. The room filled with boy-changing noises for a moment before Jackson came around the lockers, arms folded and frowning.
“What is taking so long?”
“Isaac’s having a crisis,” Stiles said helpfully. “He wants to ask a girl to the dance and doesn’t know how.”
Jackson scoffed. “What girl would agree? He doesn’t even like to be touched.”