She stands at the top of the hill, the wind a beast winding near-silently through her hair and fingers, brushing sickly-sweet against her face in the afternoon sun. She’s sure that, if there were any to be found, the trees would be swaying almost gently, not betraying the force behind it at the altitude. Her board is sure and sturdy under her arm, but after only so long to practice the movements she could do in her sleep, she suddenly finds herself panicking. I can’t do this, she thinks.
Lydia takes her hand, all class and fashion and deceptively messy ponytail despite the knee and elbow pads that don’t seem to be even close to cramping her style. She’s a wild child, a hawk’s daughter perched precariously at the edge of the precipice, ready, willing and able to stand the fall. She doesn’t smile at her, but smirks, like she’s challenging the world to prove her wrong. The wind doesn’t batter her like it does Allison, it caresses and embraces her, plays with her hair like the most gentle of lovers, toys with her clothes like a shameless flirt, and Allison nearly smacks herself when she finds she’s jealous of a simple afternoon breeze.
“You ready?” Lydia asks, in a way that manages to imply that not being ready would be the immediate equivalent of suicide.
Allison turns, eyes now trained on the thread of pavement before her that winds its way all the way down the sides of the rolling hills around them, a ribbon of asphalt that at once look inviting and demonic, both enticing and terrifying in its length and curves. She squints into the sun to see Scott and Isaac’s backs, winding between each other in some bizarre, longboard courting ritual, with Stiles and Jackson and Danny just a short distance ahead, and Derek already halfway down, as usual. She turns back to see Boyd and Erica strapping themselves into pads, Boyd’s camera securely in hand.
She smiles, takes off at a jog and slams her longboard to the ground, leaping on it easily and holding a hand out to the giggling, fast-retreating Lydia, pale and lovely in a billowing white tank top and high-waisted cut-offs, Allison’s image of perfection.
“Meet you at the bottom, honey,” she offers with a wave as Lydia gets started, facing forward and focusing on the first turn she hits.