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Coach Bobby Finstock had a lot of things, excellent fashion sense, a wonderful way with people, and unmatched coaching skills, but he didn’t have precognition. If he did, his lacrosse team would be legendary, but alas.
If he did, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find the Stilinski kid in his classroom during lunch. He was sitting hunched over a desk with a textbook and a computer, squinting down at the textbook like it was written in some sort of foreign language, with his hair spiked to a ridiculous degree as usual.
He was supposed to be in lunch though, and let no one say that the coach was a mindless rule follower, but he didn’t appreciate the invasion of his classroom. The kid had no sense of shame.
He opened his mouth to order Stilinski out when he overheard him mutter: “C’mon, Stiles, just one word.” And that piqued his curiosity.
What was the kid doing in here during lunch anyways? It’s not like he had a shortage of friends to sneak around with, in fact, he was in one of the tightest-knit groups of troublemakers in the school.
But he was alone in the coach’s classroom during lunch. And that was suspicious. Which wasn’t much out of the ordinary for the kid, but the coach didn’t like the idea of getting caught off guard by a seventeen-year-old.
Again.
He stayed as quiet as he possibly could and leaned forward slightly to catch the kid out in whatever he was planning. The “textbook” was probably filled with schemes.
Stilinski leaned down again and peered at the book, only to push back in his seat and let out a groan of frustration.
And that was weird. Because the coach had caught a glimpse of the textbook, and it was chemistry. Admit it or not, the kid was smart, especially at chemistry, so he figured chemistry was not a regularly confusing subject for Stiles.
Based on the kid’s appearance though, not a single lick of whatever was on the pages right then was clicking.
Bobby could sympathize. Chemistry was not one of his best subjects in high school. That crap was hard, and he really couldn’t be bothered.
He decided to make his appearance then, chemistry aside, because his soup was getting cold. Before he could say anything, however, he was rudely interrupted when Stiles turned in the seat to access the laptop and quickly typed in a search query.
He then proceeded to repeat the squint and spread of frustration as with the chemistry homework. “You know your life sucks when developing dyslexia is the best-case scenario,” Stiles muttered. And that threw the coach for a loop. Because he knew Stilinski didn’t have dyslexia, he made sure to know those kinds of things about his students, and because that was such a strange thing to say.
“Kid, what are you talking about?” As soon as he heard the coach speak, the kid spun around in his chair and nearly knocked everything off the table. Which was kind of funny. But Bobby’s confusion trumped his urge to chuckle.
“And what are you doing in my classroom? You’re supposed to be in lunch with your little… gang.”
“Hey… coach.” Stilinski had assumed a position that absolutely oozed false innocence, arms folded in a casual position against his chest, which he was using to block the computer screen. “What am I… uh. I’m doing… homework. Chemistry.”
“Oh yeah? I don’t see a notebook out.” He leaned over and read off the computer screen. “Can someone develop dyslexia? You spelled ‘someone’ wrong.” it was spelled smoeonee. ‘Dyslexia’ was spelled with an i where the y should be. “Gee, Stilinski, this doesn’t look like chemistry. What are you looking this up for anyway?”
“Uh.” The kid blinked at him slowly. “Fun.”
“Okay, well can you go have fun in a room that’s not my classroom? I need to get some work done.”
“Sure.” Stiles began to pack up slowly, and the coach sat down at his desk and opened up his soup. He was right, it was as cold as Greenburg’s heart. He grumbled and pulled out his folder to begin grading the most recent tests, unfortunately, when the kid paused by the doorway and mumbled something quietly in his direction.
“What? Speak up kid, you sound like a-”
“Can you tell me what this says?” Stiles held his computer, staring at a corner on the coach’s desk.
“What, you forget how to read?” Bobby said with a grin. When Stiles’ frown deepened and he still didn’t look up, he sighed.
“C’mere, Stilinski. Let me see it.” The kid brought the computer forward and set it on the coach’s desk. “Alright, let’s see, this bit here? Right, it says that dyslexia can sometimes go undiagnosed or be caused by a brain injury. You hit your head recently?”
“Yeah… but it wasn’t that bad. Does it say anything else?”
“Says it can be a result of dementia-”
Oh.
Oh.
That was what the kid’s mom had died of. Some form of dementia. He could see that’s what Stiles thought too, from the way his eyes widened slightly. “Stiles… do you actually think you have dyslexia?”
The kid shuffled awkwardly to pick up his computer, looking suddenly like he regretted re-entering the room. “N- I don’t- m…aybe? I-”
“Read this for me.” He held up a random sheet of paper from the desk to Stilinski’s face.
“I- uh.” His demeanor shifted to one of focus as he stared at the paper. After a few seconds, he backed away, looking frustrated and worried. “I can’t. M’sorry.”
The coach frowned and felt a twinge of sympathy for the kid. He didn’t know what the heck was going on with him, but it was relatively obvious that the reading thing wasn’t all.
“Alright, Stilinski, sit down. You look dead on your feet.”
“What?”
“Sit. In the chair. Right there in front of my desk.” The kid looked too surprised to argue, so he complied. He dropped into the chair with a faint sound of bending plastic, and his bag hit the ground next to the chair at the same time.
“Have you thought about getting a vision test? Is there a chance you need glasses? How many fingers am I holding up right now.”
“Uh- no, no, and three.” Bobby frowned. He had been holding up three fingers. “It’s not blurry, it’s like the letters just slide off the page. Or like they’re written in a foreign language. It’s like- here.” Stiles’ eyes flit around the desk until they landed on a blank piece of paper, and he pulled it towards himself before grabbing a pen from behind his ear.
He drew a handful of odd symbols within a few strokes and slid it across the table for the coach to examine.
“Huh. Sure you haven’t been abducted by aliens recently?”
The kid rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, coach, pretty sure.”
“When did this start?”
“I don’t know, recently? It was right after…” Stiles shook his head in a doglike fashion like he was trying to clear it. “Recently.”
“Does your dad know about this?” That had been the wrong question to ask, apparently, because the kid’s brow furrowed and he looked suddenly shifty.
“Not yet, he’s still dealing with hospital bills. I didn’t want to…” He stood up abruptly, looking pale. “I gotta get to class”
“Wait- Stilinski- Stiles, hold on.” Stiles turned around for half a second, his expression tight and exhausted. It surprised the coach with it’s depth, there were layers to it. His eyes were the most telling. They were widened slightly and darted from object to object- anywhere but coach’s face.
That was the look of someone who’d been through hell and back. He’d seen it in his brother’s eyes, and his own before.
Bobby took a few careful steps closer, surprising himself slightly with the notion that Stiles might bolt, and tentatively placed a hand on the kid’s shoulder, feeling the tension ease marginally.
“Are you okay, kid?” And it took a second for the response to come, which made Bobby doubt in that second whether he made the right call in asking that, but then the kid met his eyes. It was like he loosened, letting out a breath and dropping the defensive posture.
That should have been better, but somehow, it wasn't. Bobby felt like had been picking at a piece of thread and accidentally unraveled the whole shirt.
Because the kid really did look like he was unraveling slightly, with the way his shoulders dropped inward and how he leaned against the wall for support.
“Hard to know when your brain forgets how to read. Maybe? Yes? But at the same time it’s like- I can’t think straight. None of this makes sense, and I’ve been taking my meds so it should, but it doesn’t. I feel like I’m missing something important.” The words come out rushed and delicate and with a barely concealed well of frustration that surprises the coach for the umpteenth time that day.
“It doesn’t have to make sense- I mean you’re a teenager, for hell's sake. You should be out kissing girls and annoying the crap out of teachers like me without a care in the world.”
He was rewarded with a small smile, but it vanished just as quickly as it appeared.
“Yeah, well, sometimes it doesn’t work like that.”
The bell rang then, and the kid turned away again, picking up his bag from where he’d dropped it, and pushing off from the wall. Right before he stepped out the door, he gave Bobby a mock cheerful two fingered salute and a half smile.
“Thanks, coach. See you at practice.” And then he was gone.
But Coach Finstock didn't see Stiles at practice the next day, instead, he got to make the announcement that the kid was missing in front of all of the boy’s peers.
And the day after that, he heard secondhand that they’d found him miles out from town. They said he’d been sleep walking, somehow he was tracked down to a coyote den, and it was lucky he didn’t have hypothermia.
The last thing he’d heard before he’d left the teacher’s lounge to go home for a long drink, was that they were testing him for dementia.
Stiles Stilinski finished out the year with a perfect economics grade.