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The first time Clarke got hit in the head during senior spring, it was her fault.
Probably.
The field at the edge of Arkshire High’s central courtyard had been the territory of its athletes for as long as anyone could remember, especially during lunch. And given that the soccer team were really the only players who were actually good, they practically owned the area. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that her decision to cut across the space to get from the art wing to the cafeteria put her in the crosshairs of a stray soccer ball.
Except she didn’t really expect to get nailed right on the side of the head so hard that it knocked her glasses off.
Clarke groaned and bent down to find them, hoping they weren’t broken. That was the last thing she needed right now. Lincoln, the art department’s new instructor, hadn’t had the best reaction to her proposal for her senior capstone project, and though his criticism had been kind, she was still wounded that he didn’t like it. This project is supposed to be about you,Clarke, was all he had said, in addition to asking for a new proposal. So, sure, making a mixed media series about the various genocides happening in the world right now wasn’t about directly about her, but it was something she was passionate in raising awareness for. Her art had always been about that—international conflict, global injustice, and the like—and none of her other teachers had had an issue with it before.
Apparently Lincoln was different. He took the guidelines for the senior capstone much more literally, much to Clarke’s dismay. She had to go along with it, though, because Indra, the department head, had made it clear that switch project advisors wasn’t possible.
So, really, after finding out her holiday break of planning had been wasted and she needed to start on her proposal from scratch, breaking her glasses was the last thing she needed.
Just as her hands grazed over the still-intact frames (thank god), pounding steps approached from her right.
“Hey, so sorry about that,” someone, probably male, said breathlessly. “You okay?”
“No.” The word popped out before Clarke could stop it, and when she could finally see again, she noticed it was Bellamy Blake, who was staring back at her, surprised and just a little bit affronted. Sighing, because she did not have the energy to deal with their star soccer player’s ego today, she shrugged. “But I’ll live.”
“Can I make it up to you?” He offered, running a hand through his hair.
“I’m fine.”
He smiled, trying to be reassuring, but there was a cockiness in his eyes that had Clarke’s internal bullshit meter pinging. “Let me take you out to dinner.”
“No,” Clarke snapped, because Bellamy Blake did not take girls like her out to dinner. He dated field hockey girls, or hooked up with girls on the dance team. In fact, he didn’t even usually notice anyone who wasn’t an athlete. Nothing good would come of it, and the arrogant set of his shoulders made her bristle in annoyance. “Hell no.”
And because she had enough trouble for the day, she turned on her heel, striding off towards the cafeteria, hoping Wells had snagged her something at least half-edible to scarf down before her biology class next period. The sound of hoots and male laughter echoed behind her, followed by Bellamy firing a low, pissed fuck off back at his teasing friends.
Clarke smiled, because finally she wasn’t the only one having a rough day.
The second time she got hit in the head was not her fault.
For a day that had started out cloudy, it was outstandingly bright later in the afternoon, the intense sunlight glinting off the sand and deep blue ocean waves alike. Clarke’s team had been making a valiant effort to deal with the brightness as they battled it out on the beach volleyball court, facing off against the other half of Bellamy’s friends. Still, as the sun sunk lower and lower on the horizon opposite them, it grew increasingly hard to hit the ball and not each other.
So when Miller had sent the volleyball sailing high into the sky at an alarming speed, Clarke lost track of it in the white glow of the sun beaming down on them. As she blinked, trying to locate it even as she felt time slipping away, she noticed Raven diving towards her. She tried to get out of the way, but her ankle twisted in the sand underneath her, bringing both her and Raven down. The ball (now she could see the damn thing) bounced right off her head, and then Raven’s ass, before rolling off down the makeshift court.
Miller and Monroe were laughing from the other side, while Octavia groaned in frustration—they’d never make a comeback now, not after losing that point.
“Hey, you okay?”
Clarke turned, too fast, and suddenly her nose was a breath away from Bellamy’s. Concern was etched on his face, his freckles and high cheekbones more familiar to her than she could have ever expected weeks ago. She supposed that’s what happened when you start spending a lot of time with someone, and no one could deny that she and Bellamy had been hanging out a lot lately. What had started out as him practically stalking her—still creepy, she thought, and reminded him of it all the time—had turned into time actually spent enjoying herself. In fact, this was the third beach trip she had joined him on, and she was actually beginning to feel like a part of his group.
“Clarke? How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three more than you should be,” she quipped, wrapping her hand around his. “I’m fine. My head doesn’t even hurt.”
“Clarke,” he protested as she tried to get up.
When she rose, however, she cried out, leaning heavily on her right leg as her left ankle throbbed in stabbing pain. She couldn’t even complain when Bellamy’s warm arm wrapped around her from the side, pulling her against him.
“Don’t even try,” he said as she struggled to stand on her own again. His arm tightened around her, plastering every inch of her bare skin against his own. Clarke took in a deep breath, either because of the pain in her ankle or the way her stomach flipped at being so close to Bellamy—she really didn’t know which.
“Damn, Clarke, I’m sorry,” Raven offered, and that’s when Clarke realized the others had gathered in a semi-circle around them, various degrees of concern on their faces.
Shooting the girl a friendly grin, she shrugged. “Not your fault. We’ve established that I’m kind of a klutz. Besides, if I blame anyone, it’s Miller for taking such a cheap shot.”
“That was an awesome shot, and you know it, Griffin,” Miller shot back with a grin.
Clarke rolled her eyes, ignoring Bellamy’s annoyed huff behind her. Twisting her head around, she raised her eyebrows. “You can let go now.”
“Yeah. No.” Then he suddenly bent down, sweeping her up into his arms, bridal-style. “You’re not walking on that thing.”
“Put me down,” she practically growled, feeling her face grow red at the attention.
“Just enjoy the ride, Clarke,” he said lightly, his grip growing firmer as she tried to wiggle around and get free. Then she shrieked in laughter when Bellamy’s fingers tickled her exposed sides, and she slapped at his shoulder in retaliation. It did little to stop him, though the bright smile on his face did have the breath catching in her chest. With a reluctant sigh, because the pain in her ankle was only getting worse, she finally gave in and stopped moving. Then she turned her attention back to the rest of the group.
“I guess I’m done for today,” she said, her voice trailing off as she took in their odd expressions. Raven looked curious, Octavia appeared somewhere between uncomfortable and disappointed, and Dax was giving Bellamy a calculating stare. “Sorry for the loss,” she added meekly, wondering if she had just blown the progress she’d been making with them in a single act of clumsiness.
Raven suddenly beamed at her—a little too brightly for Clarke’s liking—and Octavia’s face softened as well, turning almost sad.
“Won’t stop you from coming to Miller’s party tonight, though?”
Everyone turned to look at Dax, who was looking especially pleased with himself, something Clarke didn’t like to see. He was kind of a dick, but his skill on the soccer field earned him a place with the rest of Bellamy’s crew despite the shitty attitude. What had her more worried, though, was the dead silence that followed. Clarke guessed she wasn’t supposed to be invited. She didn’t want to look at Bellamy, didn’t want to see the reluctance in his face as he tried to smooth everything over. She couldn’t help herself, though, and flicked her gaze up at him. To her surprise, he just looked nervous.
“As long as you feel up to it,” he murmured. As if sensing her hesitancy, he added, sincerely, “Please, come.”
“Um,” she debated. “Sure. I’ve made less responsible decisions.”
Bellamy smiled, all but the slightest hint of apprehension draining from his face. It remained there even as he nodded farewell to his friends and carried her back to the parking lot. It wasn’t until he set her down in the front seat of his jeep that she caught his arm, staring at him pointedly.
“I don’t do pity dates, or go where I’m not wanted. So if you’re going to drag my injured self all the way to some shitty party to get drunk on watery beer after such a half-assed invitation, I at least deserve to know why you’re so reluctant to have me there.”
Bellamy laughed, looking equal parts surprised and impressed. “Fair enough,” he agreed, leaning into the car frame, even closer to her. “My ex is going to be there, and she can be—well, aggressive.”
After a beat, Clarke snorted. “If you’re talking about Echo—yes, I know you two dated, and only because Wells had a crush on her for the longest time, don’t smile at me like that, it had nothing to do with you—then I can take her.”
“You’re injured.”
She just stared at him. “What’s she going to do, fight me?”
“Wouldn’t put it past her,” he muttered darkly.
Clarke giggled, which drew a wry smile from Bellamy.
“I can take her,” she repeated, more seriously this time.
With an appraising stare, Bellamy considered her for a moment, careful and fond, with the wait making Clarke’s pulse quicken. Finally, he nodded, another smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Brave princess,” he murmured right before he shut her door.
On the contrary, as she watched him jog around the other side of the car, Clarke felt her strength wane, her courage falter, because the way Bellamy had just looked at her—as if she was a wonder—contradicted everything she knew about him, and that was more terrifying than anything she had faced with him so far.
So maybe the third time she didn’t actually get hit on the head, but it certainly felt like it.
She can go with whomever she wants to prom, Bellamy. Let it go—it’s just a stupid bet.
A bet.
A stupid bet.
Dax’s words clapped her over the head like a walloping blow, a blunt trauma. Barely two sentences, and her head was throbbing, aching, her brain rattling around as she viewed all the smiles and laughs, soft touches and vulnerable moments (about his mom, about her dad) she and Bellamy had shared over the last few months with new eyes. It was just a show, a ploy, and she had fucking fallen for it. Suddenly, her pain turned searing, hot and angry, and before she knew it she shoved Bellamy, hard. He stumbled back, looking like he was in pain himself, but she knew better now.
“Am I bet?” She screamed, not caring that the entire student body in the courtyard was staring at her. Shoving him again, she wished he would fight back, not just stand there dumbfounded. “Am I a fucking bet?”
His silence was answer enough for her, and after giving him one more furious, desperate, wounded shove, she stormed off, ignoring Wells’ concerned calls after her. She tore out of the school boundaries, practically running down the sidewalk until her still-healing ankle forced her to stop.
She was barely limping along when Wells caught up with her, darting in front and catching her shoulders firmly.
“Clarke,” he pleaded, and the sympathy in his voice was enough to break her. She started sobbing, curling in on herself, and Wells tugged her in tight, wrapping his arms around her in comfort and solidarity.
The tears, like her anger, were hot and sudden, rolling down her cheeks uncontrollably. For a while, the release of pressure from within her did nothing to help her aching head, but the soothing rhythm of Wells’ hands rubbing her back and his teasing offers to kick Bellamy’s ass brought the sharp pain down to a dull thudding.
“You wouldn’t win,” she mumbled.
“Hey!” Wells accused softly, his voice warm. “Way to stand by me.”
“Sorry,” Clarke offered, breathing in his warmth and calming steadiness.
“I’m sorry.”
At that, Clarke jerked her head up, looking at the regret-filled expression on her best friend’s face. “Why?” She asked, incredulous.
“I encouraged this, you and him. I thought—well, I thought you were good for each other. In all my classes with him, when he’s away from the soccer team, he’s different. And I thought—never mind,” he trailed off, sighing. “I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” Clarke said suddenly. “I’d rather know now. It’s better this way.”
Wells threw her a doubtful stare, which had her laughing weakly.
“You’ll be okay,” he stated, not a single tinge of doubt in his tone.
“Yeah,” she agreed, wiping away her tears. “I will be.”
Wells slung his arm around her shoulder, swinging her back around to school so they could go home.
As Arkshire High came back into view, the school sign displaying some cheesy, lackluster saying about prom, an idea popped into Clarke’s head.
“Hey, Wells?”
“Yeah?”
“Wanna go to prom with me?”
With a soft laugh, Wells leaned in a pressed a kiss to her temple before replying, “I though you’d never ask.”
Getting beamed on the forehead with one of the pebbles from her house’s front walkway was the fourth time it happened, and probably the least painful so far. Maybe she was just used to it by now, or maybe the champagne she and Wells’ had snuck swigs of on their way home from the prom had dulled her senses.
She still had her dress on—a haltered cocktail number with a sweetheart neckline and full, tulle-filled skirt, the fabric depicting Van Gogh’s Starry Night, complete with glitter and gemstones sewn into the swirling sky. Even though she and Wells had spent barely an hour actually at the dance, all sixty minutes filled with stares—either pitying or deriding—from her classmates, getting to wear this dress had been worth it. It had given her courage, especially when she had tipsily dragged Wells to the deserted art room to show him her finished capstone project: five mixed media portraits of her dad, each representing a different stage of grief.
Seeing Wells crying and speechless at her work had set her off too, but as her mascara ran, smudging her rosy cheeks and his shirt as he pulled her in for a hug, she felt a weight lift from her, disappearing into the air until it was as faint as the thudding bass echoing from the gym way across campus.
The buoyant feeling had stayed with her the rest of the night, even as she lay on her bed, restless, until the soft pinging at her windowpane caught her attention. As she threw the sash open to see what was making that noise, the small stone connected with her forehead.
Octavia stood in the yard underneath her window, apologetically staring up at her with her fist full of more stones. “I knew you were here.”
“What do you want?” Clarke asked shortly.
“What you think.”
Sighing, Clarke said in a stiff tone, “So. You knew. About the bet.”
“He’s my brother,” was all the girl said, shrugging. “He’s a dumbass, but he’s also my brother,” she finished, almost defensively. “I’m always on his side.”
“I know,” Clarke replied, exhaustion washing over her. She thought this whole situation was over, resolved, finished. Yet here Octavia was, probing at only just-healed wounds. The night had already been emotional; this was the last thing she needed. Defeatedly, she braced her elbows on the sill, dropping her head as she waited for the question she knew was inevitably coming.
“Will you at least talk to him?”
Clarke swallowed, considering her options. Bellamy had been trying to talk to her for weeks now—he needed to explain, he claimed—but in the days before prom, it seemed he had given up. The way Clarke’s heart had sunk at that realization had just made everything more confusing, because his distance should’ve made her happy. Instead, it just made her ache.
“I’ve said all I needed to say,” she replied slowly. “And so has he. There’s nothing else for me to know.”
“He came here tonight, twice,” Octavia offered. “Once before prom, but you’d already left. Then again, about an hour ago. Your mom said you weren’t home.”
The skeptical look on Octavia’s face almost had Clarke smiling—she’d have to thank her mother for that fib later—but the sobering thought of Octavia’s request quickly drained away any amusement she was feeling.
“I told him you were here,” the brunette continued. “He didn’t believe me, so now he’s sitting at home, depressed and moping. It’s pathetic, really.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?” Clarke bristled at the tactic his sister was taking—because really, this was not convincing her in the least.
“Not at all,” Octavia snorted. “Pity, maybe, because the boy is in deep trouble—with both me and Raven, for the record. She says if she hadn’t known him as long as she had, she’d definitely be picking you first. We’re both giving him hell about it.”
Touched, Clarke ducked her head to hide the smile creeping back onto her face.
“He’s also deep in something else.”
She froze at Octavia’s words, not daring to believe them.
It’s just a stupid bet, Dax’s voice hissed in her head.
“He loves you, Clarke,” Octavia confirmed softly, almost mournfully. “God, he’s so in love he can’t even see it.”
“He has a funny way of showing it,” Clarke responded bitterly.
“Like I said, he’s a dumbass, and terrified of you to boot, which is why I’m here doing the ‘what light through yonder window breaks’ routine instead of him.”
“He’s not in—,” the words, too heavy and too close to what she actually wanted, stuck in her throat, so she amended, “He doesn’t care about me. What he did, you don’t ever do that to someone you care about.”
Ignoring her anger, Octavia plowed on, “He loves you. And I think you love him too.”
Clarke didn’t bother to respond, just backed away from the sill and slammed the window shut. Spinning around, she pressed a hand to her stomach, which was writhing in indecision, and another to her mouth, which felt like it was filled with cotton as tears welled up in her eyes for the second time that night.
When her vision finally cleared, her gaze fell on a sweatshirt half hanging out of her dresser drawer—her father’s old one from his college days, the lettering faded and the cuffs torn. All of a sudden, the uncertainty paralyzing her faded—she had made her decision. She grabbed the sweatshirt and tugged it over her head, clattering down the stairs as she headed for the front door..
“Clarke?” her mother inquired sleepily from the couch. “Where are you going?”
“I need to–,” Clarke trailed off, letting out a desperate laugh, because she had no idea what she needed anymore. “There’s something I have to do.”
After a careful, considering pause, her mother nodded. “Alright. Don’t be home too late.”
“Thanks,” she replied, sending her a grateful smile before darting out the door.
Unsurprisingly, Octavia was waiting, leaning against her car. “Ready?” She asked, opening the driver door.
“Not in the least,” Clarke said with a weak grin.
Octavia laughed. “No one ever is.”
With an agreeing nod, Clarke slipped into the car, sinking into the comforting softness of her dad’s sweatshirt, drawing strength from the fact that she already knew what it was like to lose someone she loved, and if she there was a possibility of stopping that from happening again, the least she could do was try.
When the soccer ball came flying at her face, Clarke managed to catch it before her graduation cap got knocked off her head. Clutching it to her chest, she laughed along with the rest of the crowd, an intense blush also gracing her cheeks because her boyfriend was naked—bare-ass naked—as he accepted his diploma from a disgruntled Principal Kane. The soccer ball now in her possession had been strategically positioned as he walked up to the stage, because the bet with Dax had specified full nudity during the diploma walk, and since Bellamy had technically lost, discarding the soccer ball was apparently necessary. Clarke would be lying if she didn’t enjoy this quite a bit—not only because she got to see all of her boyfriend in the bright light of day, but because, as shallow as it sounded, it was a little bit comforting to know the disaster of their getting together resulted in some public discomfort for him as well. From the way he was grinning, waving for his sister’s camera, it didn’t seem like it, but Clarke knew him well enough to read the apprehension in his eyes. He had nothing to be ashamed of, that was for damn certain, but still—lack of clothing didn’t quite exactly jive with his status as salutatorian.
Even if some of the parents were shocked and disgusted, practically all of their fellow students cheered, knowing the story behind the antic. Some girls even considered it sweet, a fairytale love story that had unfolded right before their eyes. A little bitterness always bubbled up in Clarke when she heard them fawning like that, because things with her and Bellamy had been painful, and difficult, and almost too damaging to fix. And they still had problems, as did any couple. Even so, she supposed there was something to the theory, because despite their rocky start, she had never been happier.
It helped that their colleges were only an hour apart, and they had the whole summer to spend together. That was, if her mother ever got over her boyfriend flashing the entire audience of their graduating class.
Suddenly, it was Clarke’s turn to walk across the stage, and as she accepted her diploma from Mr. Kane, her thoughts flitted to her father, and though the sharp ache of missing him was present, as she had expected it to be, it didn’t overshadow all of the other things she was feeling: joy, relief, excitement, fear, readiness. Smiling through her tears, she bounded down the stage, waving to her also teary mother, and to Wells and Raven in the sea of soon-to-be graduates.
Then, as she stepped off the platform, her phone buzzed from inside her gown. Fishing it out, she saw it was a text from Bellamy.
I’m behind the white van.
Looking up, Clarke spotted the right vehicle, hurrying over. When she rounded the front of the car, Bellamy spun around, a sheepish grin on his face. With a happy shout, Clarke flung herself at him. His arms clapped around her in a tight embrace, and he chuckled deeply into her hair.
“You didn’t think I’d actually do it, did you?” He asked dryly as she pulled away.
“What—graduate, or walk naked in front of hundreds of people?”
“Please,” Bellamy scoffed. “I almost beat Raven out for valedictorian.”
“Not the way she tells it.”
He just laughed and then tugged her in for a long, deep kiss that took her breath away.
“So,” he said, smiling when they finally broke away. “Any chance I can borrow your gown so I don’t continue to shock ye olden folk?”
“Only because I want to take a million pictures of today, preferably non-X-rated ones,” Clarke teased, unzipping her blue gown with a grin of her own.
“My savior,” Bellamy quipped, giving her another quick kiss after he shrugged on the graduation garment.
Clarke giggled underneath his lips, because he looked absolutely ridiculous in the too-small gown, but it was certainly better than nothing. Then she tugged on his hand, towing him back towards the crowd and their waiting friends and family, knowing that no matter what was coming her way in the immediate future, Bellamy would be by her side, and that was enough to make her ready to face whatever it was, head on.