Chapter 14

For someone with even an iota of rhythm, learning the Mean Girls Jingle Bell Rock dance wouldn't have been very difficult. For Clarke, it was nearly an impossible task. She looked up tutorials on Youtube, but that didn't help. She went out and bought the movie, just so she have it on the big screen of her TV for assistance. But that didn't seem to work, either. She practiced every afternoon for four days straight after stupidly telling Harper she'd take part in the whole shenanigan, but she just never seemed to get any better. Memorization wasn't the issue; she could see the whole thing in her head, envision what it was supposed to look like. But when she tried to mimic their moves, it all just turned to shit, basically.

Groaning frustratedly, she stomped her feet, getting fed up, and somehow accidentally ended up stubbing her toe on the couch. She grimaced, yelping in pain, and tried unsuccessfully to find the beat again. Not that she'd ever found it to begin with.

"What're you doing?"

She startled a bit when she heard a voice, but thankfully, it was just Raven. "Oh, thank God you're here."

"I got your text." Raven shut the door, cautiously approaching Clarke in the living room. "What's the emergency?"

"This." Clarke motioned dramatically towards her TV screen and paused it, right at part where all four of the girls were doing this hip swirling thing she couldn't get the hang of.

"You're dancing?" Raven looked to be stifling a laugh.

"No, I'm trying to learn the choreography."

"Why?"

"Because I got roped into some stupid idea, Harper's idea," she growled. Maybe it wasn't too late to back out, though? Oh, except Harper had already picked up some material for their costumes, and Clarke would've felt bad if she'd wasted money on her.

"You guys are gonna do this on Christmas?" Raven realized, her whole face lighting up with excitement. "That's awesome!"

"No, it's horrible, because I can't get it," Clarke fretted. "And at first, Harper said we'd have practices, but now she's like, 'Oh, you can just learn it on your own.' Except I can't, because I'm challenged."

"Oh, this looks fun," Raven declared, taking off her jacket. "I wanna learn it."

Clarke breathed a sigh of relief. "I was hoping you'd say that. Learn it and teach it to me."

"Alright, I got this," Raven said confidently. "Let's go."

A mere fifteen minutes later, Raven had already memorized and perfected the entire routine. She could do the whole thing flawlessly from start to finish without even having to look at the screen for assistance. In fact, she looked like she could just be picked up and put right into the movie, along with the rest of the girls cast. She was pretty enough and a good enough dancer to pull it off.

"Oh my god, I got it!" she exclaimed, jumping up and down, clapping her hands excitedly.

"Good for you," Clarke muttered enviously. "I didn't."

"Well, what part are you struggling with?"

"All of it!"

"Okay, let's see what we can do here." Raven stood behind Clarke and put her hands on her hips, trying to get her to move from side to side. "Move your hips. What're you doing, Clarke?"

"I'm trying."

Raven kept trying to direct her movements, but with no success. "No, move your lower body."

"I don't have a lower body!"

Raven snorted. "Pretty sure Bellamy would disagree with that."

He would, but that was different. Sex and dancing were not the same. One was instinctive; the other wasn't. "I can't do this, Raven," Clarke bemoaned, throwing her hands down at her sides.

"Don't give up. You've got this," Raven encouraged. "Come on now. Left, right, left, right. Five, six, seven, eight."

Before they could proceed, a confused, "Whoa," from Bellamy caught Clarke's attention. He was only halfway in the door, eyes fixated on them. "What am I interrupting here?"

"Bellamy." Clarke seized her remote and stopped the DVD. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"Oh, really?" He came further inside, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "'cause I like everything I'm seeing."

"We were just dancing, Bellagio," Raven told him. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

"Dancing?" He wrinkled his forehead in confusion and pointed at Clarke.

"Well, trying," Raven amended.

"Fine, the surprise is out!" Clarke yelled exasperatedly. "You weren't supposed to know, but all the girls are gonna perform this stupid dance for you guys on Christmas. Including me."

Bellamy didn't say anything for a moment, just stood there, and then all of a sudden . . . laughter. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just flashing back to your striptease."

"You did a striptease for him?" Raven gasped. "Way to go, Clarke!"

"Yeah, I got caught in my shirt," she muttered.

"It was hilarious," Bellamy made sure to add.

Raven chuckled. "I'll bet."

"You know what? You guys sit here and laugh, but this is really awful for me," Clarke vented. "It's embarrassing. I'm gonna humiliate myself. And do you have any idea how socially debilitating it is to not be able to dance? I'm actually really stressed out about this."

Bellamy and Raven quit with the teasing and both fell silent for a moment. "Sorry," Bellamy finally mumbled.

"Yeah, we're sorry, Clarke," Raven agreed.

"It's fine." Clarke knew it wasn't really that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, even though it did seem mortifying right now. "Children are dying in Africa. I shouldn't be stressed about this."

Bellamy looked like he felt bad for upsetting her, so he took pity. "Alright, I'll tell you what: We'll go out to TonDC tonight," he said. "I'll teach you to dance."

"Oh, that sounds fun," Raven sad. "Can Roan and I tag along?"

"Sure."

At this point, she would have much rather gone to TonDC to drink, but if Bellamy was going to give her a dance lesson, it was probably best that it happen without all his other friends around. "I have a paper to write tonight," she mumbled, more so as a way of reminding herself than as a way of making an excuse. "Alright, fine." She brushed past him on her way into her bedroom to find something to wear. "But I'm warning you, I'm unteachable."

The thing about Bellamy, one of many admirable things, was that he really did have faith in people. Much like he believed that Jasper would someday stop smoking pot and that Murphy would eventually get a job, he believed that Clarke could dance, even despite everything he'd seen from her so far. He tried to pump her up about it on the drive to the club, tried to inspire some sort of confidence, but her own hopes for success were still dim.

Thankfully, they stopped at the bar first before hitting the dance floor. Even though she wasn't exactly looking to puke her guts out again, Clarke was definitely entertaining the possibility of getting wasted tonight. Clearly she was less inhibited when she had some alcohol in her system, and if she was drunk enough, maybe she wouldn't even remember any of this.

Bellamy ordered them two shots of something—of what? She didn't even care—and asked, "You excited?" as they waited for their drinks.

"Thrilled," she deadpanned. "You're not gonna make me Wop, are you?"

"No, we're dancing together," he assured her. "Trust me, it's easier to dance with someone, especially someone you're insanely attracted to."

She blushed.

He thanked the bartender when they got their shots and downed his right away. Clarke swirled hers around, looking at the bottom of the glass, and then quickly tossed hers back as well. "I'm gonna need another," she predicted.

"One more," he said. "I need you sober tonight."

"Oh, well, dancing with me should be very sobering," she warned.

He grinned at her. "Nah, I'm lookin' forward to it."

They ordered one more shot a piece and brought them back to the booth they were sharing with Raven and Roan. Clarke was happy to be able to sit down and just chill and talk, but the promise of having to go out on that dance floor still loomed heavy in her mind. Only when Roan started talking about the 'new inventory' at his store did Clarke allow herself to become distracted. It was hard not to be distracted when the subject of conversation was sex toys.

"Yeah, the anal beads are selling out fast," Roan said, "but I think the sex swings are gonna sell well, too, once I put them out."

Clarke nearly choked on her drink. "Sex swings?" she echoed.

"Oh, yes," Roan said. "Everyone loves a good sex swing."

Clarke made a face, not able to comprehend how some of that stuff was even all that appealing to people.

"I'm excited to try out . . . that other thing," Raven said, wriggling her eyebrows at her boyfriend suggestively.

"What other thing?" Clarke asked.

"Oh, you don't wanna know," Raven warned her.

"Of course she does," Roan said boastfully and unashamed. "It's a . . . dildo kit, I guess you could say. You can sculpt a replica of anyone's penis and then use it however you want. Vibrator, double penetration . . . it works for everything."

Clarke stared at him in astonishment, trying to wrap her mind around how that could even be a real thing, then looked up at Bellamy.

"What, you want one of those?" he teased.

"No." One of Bellamy's cocks was just about all she could handle. Although the thought of having a replica that could be a vibrator when he wasn't around . . . now that was tempting.

"Next time you guys come in, I'll give you a discount," Roan promised. "Fifty percent off on whatever you want."

"Oh, that's . . ." Even Bellamy seemed a bit flustered. "Alright, then."

"Enough talk," Raven declared, grabbing hold of her boyfriend's shirt collar. "Let's dance." She pulled Roan up out of the booth and led him out onto the dance floor, and Clarke watched as they started right in, both of them moving effortlessly, so in sync like it wasn't difficult for either of them. It probably wasn't.

"You want that kit, don't you?" Bellamy said.

"No, not really," she denied.

"Not really?"

"Just . . ." It was probably a weird process, molding the thing and waiting for it to dry. But if it was something they could do together . . . "It'd be nice to have it on hand when you're not around."

He chuckled, putting his arm around her. "I'm always around, though. Besides, you've got a 24/7 open invitation to this thing whenever you want it."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Ooh." So that meant, if she got seriously horny and he was insistent that he just had to finish up his video game with Murphy and Miller, she could remind him of that. "Alright, I don't need the replica then."

"Yeah, I don't really think we need any of that stuff," he agreed, leaning closer. "We do pretty good on our own."

"Very good," she agreed.

He glanced over her shoulder out onto the dance floor, then back at her. "Do me a favor," he said, his voice lower than usual. "When we get out there, don't overthink it. Pretend it's just you and me, and we're in my bed. Move like we do there."

Her breath hitched as she gazed into his eyes, because something about the way he said that . . . it was so seductive, even if he hadn't meant it to be. Who was she kidding, though? Of course he was trying to seduce her. He always was.

She tried to keep his words in mind when it was finally time to get out there onto that dance floor and give it a shot. They moved pretty far inward towards the center, which simultaneously relieved and terrified her. On the one hand, it was nice to be surrounded by so many people, because she could just sort of blend in and be invisible; but on the other hand, if she looked like a real idiot, then everyone could see her.

"Just you and me," he reminded her as a new song began to play. He started to rock from side to side, completely at ease, completely comfortable, and motioned for her to do the same.

She tried to make her movements mirror his, but it was hard. He didn't have hips and breasts getting in the way.

"Relax," he said, putting his hands on her hips. He pushed gently from side to side, helping her at least get into a rhythm. "There you go. You got it."

She was pretty sure she didn't, but it was sweet of him to be complimentary.

"Keep doin' that." He slid one hand around to cup her ass and pressed the other right below her belly button, pushing her hips in such a way now that they were making circles. "Bend your knees," he said.

She felt like a rejected belly dancer, but at least this . . . wasn't horrible. She was dancing—not well, but it was passable.

"See?" he said, taking his hands away so she could keep moving all on her own. "That's how you circle your hips when you're on top of me."

She felt a shiver race up her spine when he said those words.

"It's not that different."

No, it is, she thought, but to his credit, Bellamy was doing a good job of getting her to see the similarities. She took comfort in knowing that it was his hands, his body out here with her, his eyes watching her every move when there was probably nobody else watching her at all.

He came in close to her, matching his hips to hers, pressing them in to the point where she could feel the bulge in his pants in between her legs. "You like it?" he asked, slipping one of his legs in between hers. Beneath her skirt, his knee brushed against her panties.

She couldn't help but smile, because hell yeah, she liked this. With him standing like that, she was basically able to grind her hips against his leg, and it was easy to forget about how humiliating dancing was when all she could think about was how good that friction felt. She was so glad she'd let him convince her to wear a skirt instead of pants. So fucking glad.

He lifted both her arms and placed them around his neck, telling her to hold onto him. And she soon realized why she had to. He started to roll his hips forward so much that nearly lost her balance. Every move he made was so deliberate, so suggestive, that her limbs shook with delight.

Just when she felt like she was really starting to get the hang of that, he surprised her by grabbing onto her waist and spinning her around. Suddenly, his denim-clad cock was pressing against her ass, and her skirt was hiking up against him. "Keep moving," he urged, his breath a hot whisper against her ear.

Oh, she wanted to move. And she couldn't believe she wanted to. Under normal circumstances, she probably would have just given in to the temptation to go stiff as board and let him do all the moving. That was what she'd done with both Finn and Lexa, both of whom were far better dancers than she was. But Bellamy felt so good behind her, his body so big and strong. Even though she couldn't dance, she wanted to try to dance for him.

She resumed moving her hips from side to side, swirling and circling them from time to time, too, each time trying to brush her ass back against his cock. It was getting harder, to the point where she could feel it more and more prominently through his jeans, and it made her head spin to think that she was the one doing this to him. Her hips, her body . . . his hips, his body. Feeling that bulge in his pants gave her something to focus on, something to center her movements around.

His hands roamed down her body to the hem of her skirt, fingers grazing her skin as he inched the fabric upward; but even though he may have been tempted, he didn't slip his hands in between her legs. He wouldn't do that to her out on a crowded dance floor in the middle of all those people. Not even if she . . . kind of wanted him to.

She leaned her head back against his shoulder, gripping his arm with one hand, tangling the other in his hair. He was pressed in close behind her, she couldn't even tell where he stopped and she began. His hips rolled forward into hers, hers pressed backward into his, and all she could think was that, if they didn't have clothes on right now, if it was just her and him . . .

An hour later, it really was just the two of them, her legs shaking around his waist as she fell apart beneath him, his hips slamming into her a few more times as he found his own release. "Fuck," he swore.

"Mmm." Damn, that had been some good sex. Not that it was ever bad with Bellamy. But tonight, all the dancing had really worked her into a frenzy. Bellamy's definition of teaching her to dance had pretty much been reduced to dry-humping on the dance floor, but whatever. It was foreplay, and it had worked wonders. By the time they'd left TonDC, she'd been so wet that she practically had a river between her legs. Bellamy had made sure he sampled that prior to getting on top of her, of course.

He rolled over onto his side of the bed, except it wasn't his bed this time. They were in her bed, which was technically nicer but somehow not as comfortable. She missed his cotton sheets, his lumpy pillows, his squeaky mattress. Bellamy had insisted that they come here after TonDC, though, so she could work on her paper for art history class, but right now, that was the last thing she wanted to do. It was late, and she was tired, and she kind of just wanted to lie there next to him and fall asleep.

"I think you really were looser tonight," he blurted suddenly.

She shot him a look. What the fuck did that mean?

"On the dance floor," he clarified quickly. "Not . . ."

"I was gonna say . . ." She did Kegel exercises on a daily basis, just to keep things tight down there.

"I'm not sayin' you're Fred Astaire or anything," he acknowledged, "but you went for it. You did good." Kicking the covers aside, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up, and for a moment, she feared he might get dressed and leave. But she should have known better. Bellamy was very good about being present after sex. He rarely ever left her alone.

Buck naked, he strolled on over to her desk and unhooked her laptop computer, brought it over to her, and set it on her stomach. "Write your paper," he reminded her.

She groaned. "I don't want to."

"It's due tomorrow, right?" He wandered back over to her desk.

"Yeah. I should've done it earlier, but I was . . . distracted." She tilted her head to the side, happily admiring the view of his ass.

He seemed a little distracted, too, peering down at her open sketchbook. She was working on a wintery drawing right now of an old, cozy house with snow-covered evergreens out front. "Can I look at this?" he asked.

"Sure." She'd had that sketchbook for such a long time, she didn't even know half of what was in there. Hopefully nothing too embarrassing.

He brought the book over to the bed and lay down, crawling back under the covers. She propped herself up with some pillows behind her back and reluctantly opened her computer, moving the mouse to get the blank sleep screen off. Her empty Word document nearly blinded her, taunting her with the one and only word she'd written of her introductory paragraph thus far today: The. She'd written the word The.

"Whoa," Bellamy said, showing her a drawing she'd done of Lexa around this time last year. She was sitting in front of the fireplace wearing plaid flannel pajamas, hair in a messy ponytail, sipping cocoa and somehow managing to look beautiful even when she wasn't trying to.

"Lexa," she explained.

"Hmm. Hot."

"You're not her type."

He chuckled, going onto the next drawing, which was another Lexa one. The one after that was of Clarke's mother, sort of a throwback drawing to a simpler time in their relationship when she'd been small enough to push on the swing set.

"Your mom?" he guessed.

"Yep." There were none of her dad in there, though. She'd tried to draw him before, but it never seemed to turn out just right. So eventually, she just gave up trying.

"These are really good," he complimented, continuing through the book. She tried to get some words written while he looked at all her drawings of Raven, Wells, and Niylah, as well as some of the more recent drawings of her new friends. But the only thing her fingers accomplished was to delete the word The because she couldn't think of anything to put after it. So then her blank word document was really blank.

"Damn, Clarke."

"What?" She peeked over and saw that he'd found the sketch she was working on for Niylah. It was a steamy drawing of her and her girlfriend kissing, which she'd requested. "Oh, yeah, that's a gift," she told him. "I'm gonna color it up, and then Niylah's gonna give it to Luna for Christmas."

"That's . . . a great gift," he said, looking like he wanted a copy for himself. "Am I in here at all?"

"I don't know, maybe."

"Maybe?" When he flipped to the next page, he got his answer. She'd drawn a picture of him just recently, no more than a week ago. She had a ton of ideas for Bellamy sketches, but the actual process of getting his image down on paper was a challenging one. It was so damn hard to capture that angular jaw and to replicate his skin tone. Seriously, a pencil just could not do justice to that skin tone. The finished product, though—a picture of him looking off the page while laughing—was a pretty decent likeness.

"There I am," he said, smiling. "Hey, I look good."

"You do," she agreed.

"I don't know if I have quite that many freckles, though."

Oh, he totally did, but she found it adorable that he reached up to touch his cheeks, as though he could somehow check.

She eagerly anticipated his reaction to the next drawing, because it was one of the steamiest ones she'd ever done. And it involved him. "Well, well, well," he said when he saw it. "Look what we have here."

She blushed, a little bit embarrassed that she'd taken the time to draw the exact image she saw every time he went down on her. Yes, she had drawn Bellamy Blake with his head between her legs, eyes closed, cheek grazing her thigh the way it did right before he started to devour her again.

"That's . . ." He seemed to be at a loss for words, but he gazed at her drawing in awe.

"I couldn't get the image out of my head," she confessed.

He smiled, almost as if he were proud—and honestly, he had every reason to be, because his oral skills were seriously the Bellamy Blake MethodTM—and said, "It looks good."

"Yeah, I think so, too." That was why she'd drawn it.

"Where'd you learn how to do this?" he asked, flipping more quickly through some of the still life sketches towards the back of her book.

"I don't know. I just doodled a lot when I was young," she answered. "And then I took a lot of art classes in junior high and high school. It all just sort of took off from there."

"Well, you're good, Clarke," he praised.

"Thanks."

"No, I mean you're really good," he emphasized. "You're definitely studying the right thing."

Clarke sighed, tapping her fingers on her keyboard without typing anything. "My mom doesn't think so," she said sadly. "She always wanted me to go to med school and become a doctor like her. But I didn't." She let out a shaky sigh, remembering how that conversation had gone when she'd revealed her plans and goals for her future, much to her mother's bewilderment. "When I told her I wasn't going to the University of Maryland and that I was going to art school here in Arkadia instead . . ." She shook her head. "It wasn't pretty."

Bellamy frowned, hesitating a moment before he said, "Seems like she kinda . . ."

"She loves me," Clarke filled in, because she knew that was true. "But I think she had all these really high expectations of me, and in her mind, I just haven't lived up to them."

Bellamy's frown intensified, and he shook his head. "That's crap."

"Well, that's the way it is." She'd learned to accept it, and on the bright side, things were gradually getting better. When she'd first revealed her decision to be an art major, her mother had been furious. Now, she begrudgingly accepted it. When she'd first revealed her bisexuality, her mother had been devastated. Now, she begrudgingly accepted that, too. It wasn't hostile anymore; it was just . . . tense.

"On a lighter note," she said, not wanting to bring down their night when it had been such a good one. "Can you draw?"

"Can I draw?" he echoed. "No, I suck at it."

"Really?" She didn't even believe that. "But you're good at everything."

"Not drawing. I have no artistic ability whatsoever," he readily admitted.

"What?" It was almost shocking, actually. He could dance, he could cook, he could do acrobatic things with his tongue, but drawing was a challenge? Seriously? "Draw me," she told him, wanting to see what he could come up with.

"Oh, shit, this is gonna be bad." He opened her sketchbook to one of the blank pages in the back and asked, "Got a pencil?"

"Drawer."

He reached over to her nightstand drawer and took one out, a crappy mechanical one. If he thought for one second that he could draw anything decent with that, then he was sorely mistaken.

"Alright, here we go," he said, angling the sketchbook away from her so that she couldn't see what he was doing. "Write your paper."

She didn't want to write her paper, though. It was so boring.

It only took him a minute, if that, to complete his sketch. "Alright, here," he said, holding it up for her to see. "A masterpiece."

It really was pathetic. Bellamy's drawing of her was little more than a stick figure with a couple strands of hair. And two huge circles on her chest. Boobs? She huffed and clutched her chest.

"Well . . ." He shrugged. "They're big, Clarke."

"Oh my god. You're right, though. You can't draw."

"I told you."

"Wow." This was rare, like finding a unicorn or a leprechaun or something. This was something that Bellamy Blake couldn't do. "You made a mistake, though. You drew my right one bigger than my left one. But the left one's bigger."

"Uh, I think they're the same size."

She shook her head. "Nope. Left one's bigger. I know my boobs, Bellamy."

"Well, I know your boobs, too," he claimed, reaching over to put his hand on her left one. He switched it over to her right, then switched it back, almost as if he were comparing the weight of each. He kept switching back and forth between the two rapidly, to the point where he was basically just rubbing both of them. "Oh, yeah, that's good stuff."

"Bellamy!" she squealed, swatting his hand away. "How am I supposed to write this paper if you're doing that?"

"Ah, you don't wanna write your paper anyway." He took the computer off her lap and sat up, positioning his fingers on the keyboard. "How long does it have to be?"

"Three to four pages," she droned, not sure if she could even crank out one page tonight.

"What's the topic?"

"The impact of Renaissance art." She made a face, not particularly inspired by that time period. It was important, certainly, but she was far more interested in some of modern history's painters.

"That's not bad," he said. "I can do that. Just go to sleep."

"What?"

"Just go to sleep," he repeated. "I'll write your paper for you." He started typing, and before Clarke knew it, there was actually an entire sentence on that page, an introductory one.

"That's my last assignment before my final exam," she informed him.

"I know. That's why I'll do well on it." His eyes were locked on the screen now, and more and more words were appearing.

"Bellamy, I can't ask you to-"

"You didn't ask," he cut in. "I offered. Besides, I'm not really that tired yet. You're tired. Go to bed."

She yawned, unable to hide the truth of that. She'd been exhausted even prior to the dancing and the sex. If she let her eyes fall closed, she'd probably be asleep in no time. "You really wanna write my paper?" she said mid-yawn, feeling a bit guilty for even entertaining the idea.

"Yeah." He had half a paragraph done already, which was surreal to her. It was like he didn't even have to think about the words to type them.

Well, she thought, it is for art history. Bellamy may not have been the world's greatest artist, but he definitely knew more than she did about the history aspect of it. And in a weird way, he actually seemed excited about the prospect of getting to do an essay. Maybe because he hadn't done one since he'd been in high school?

"Alright," she agreed, rolling over onto her side. "Don't screw it up."

"I won't," he promised.

"Goodnight, Bellamy."

"Night." He reached over and shut off the lamp so that only the computer screen was illuminating the room.

As predicted, a mere minute after her head hit the pillow and her eyes fell shut, she felt herself starting to drift off, the sound of a clicking keyboard lulling her to sleep.

...

When Clarke awoke, Bellamy was already gone. He'd probably had to get an early start for work. It seemed like he'd had a lot of jobs lately, mostly car stuff. With winter making its presence known, lots of vehicles were having problems, and everyone in his part of town seemed to view him as the guy who could fix them.

The first thing she did when she got out of bed was to go over to her desk and see if he'd actually gotten that paper done. And indeed, he had. It was sitting atop her computer, three and half pages, stapled in the left-hand corner and double-spaced. She skimmed it, pleased to see that it did look well-written. Hopefully her professor didn't know her well enough to recognize that she'd never have been able to write that. Art was her thing. Art history? Not so much.

It took five days for her professor to get all the essays graded, which, in college time, wasn't actually that bad. Clarke got a little nervous when she saw the grades of some of the people sitting around her. C-minus. D-plus. An F? A legitimate F for the girl sitting beside her? The professor had scribbled a note on the front in red ink that said, 'Plagiarism is a crime. See me.'

Oh my god, Clarke thought worriedly. What if he thought she had plagiarized, too? Had she, technically? If they were Bellamy's words and not her own, was that a crime? Surely not when he'd volunteered to do it, right?

The worry became panic when everyone else seemed to have gotten their paper back, and Clarke had yet to see hers. The professor stood up in front of the lecture hall, clearing his throat, holding one paper in his hand. "I do have one essay I need to point out," he announced.

Clarke clenched the arms of her chair. Good God, he was going to tell the whole class she'd cheated, wasn't he? He was going to make an example out of her for the others so that, when the final exam rolled around, nobody would dare break any rules.

"This paper," the professor boomed, "is an exemplary piece of work."

Her eyes widened in astonishment. Wait, what?

He smiled at her. "Clarke Griffin."

Everyone turned towards the back of the classroom to look at her, seemingly surprised. And no wonder. She sat in that class without ever raising her hand, barely saying a word. She was such a non-entity that, on the rare occasions the professor did address her, he called her Connie.

"Clarke, would you come on up here?" the professor invited, stepping aside from the podium.

Holy shit. She rose out of her seat slowly and slinked towards the front of the room, petrified of where this was going. She had a feeling she already knew.

"Step up to the podium," her professor said.

She did as he instructed, trying to not look like a deer caught in the headlights, hoping the rest of her peers couldn't see that she was shaking.

"I'd like you to read this to the class," the professor said, setting her essay—'her' essay—down on the podium in front of her. "Whenever you're ready."

Oh. God. She tried to take a deep breath without actually looking like she was taking a deep breath, and stared down at the first page. Good God, there were words on there she didn't even know how to pronounce. Had Bellamy gone nuts with or something? He didn't even talk like that in real life.

They'd arranged to meet up on campus after that class for lunch, so that worked out well. She was able to sit down with him at Sbarro and tell him all about the single most mortifying academic experience of her life. He was laughing so hard, he almost choked on his pizza. He did choke on his breadstick and had to drink half his soda to get everything to go down the right pipe. She'd seen Bellamy laugh before, plenty of times, but this was at another level. It was a literal knee-slapper for him. He kept rocking back and forth, tossing his head and cackling as she recounted the incident for him. A couple other customers even gave him curious looks, like they thought he was having a seizure or something.

"It's not funny," she argued.

"No, it's hilarious."

"I had to read it in front of everyone. I had to answer questions in front of everyone."

"Questions?" he echoed. "Oh, god, what'd he ask?"

"Oh, you know, just how I'd done my research, how I narrowed down my topic, how I had generated such 'unique and interesting ideas.'"

Bellamy laughed some more.

"It was horrible." He hadn't exactly referenced Da Vinci and Michelangelo, as she'd quickly discovered. No, he'd referenced the works of a ton of artists she'd never even heard of before, which, as the professor had told the entire class, added to the paper's uniqueness.

"So what'd you say?" Bellamy asked eagerly.

"Uh, I channeled my stepdad and tried to do what politicians do: answer without really answering."

"Did it work?"

"I think so, but it was terrifying." She shuddered, happy to have made it throughout without fainting. Although maybe fainting would have been better, because then she could have sat down sooner. "Oh, and I stumbled over so many words. I mean, what exactly is a basilica?"

He laughed some more, looking on the verge of tears now. "This is awesome," he said.

"Awesome for you, mortifying for me."

"But you said you got an A, right?"

"A plus."

"Well . . ." He shrugged. "I did my job."

"You did." She had to admit, as heart-pounding as this whole experience had been today, it was probably worth it. Her grade in that class had been average at best, but this would bump her up. It was the best grade she'd ever gotten on an art history essay, and this was the third art history class she'd ever taken.

"Man, I wonder what your professor would say if knew some low-life street urchin wrote that," Bellamy pondered.

"Low-life street urchin?" she resounded.

"That's probably what he'd think of me."

"No." She didn't know what her professor would think of Bellamy, what any of her professors would think of him, but . . . well, truth be told, they probably wouldn't expect that someone with only a high school diploma could write like that. "You're very smart, Bellamy," she told him.

"Not really," he said modestly. "I just know history."

He knew history? She was thinking it went a step beyond that. Miller had told her that he had once come home and found Bellamy reading an encyclopedia for fun. When she'd asked him about it, he'd vehemently denied it, of course, but more so and more so, the story was starting to sound legit.

"Well, I could write more for you, if you want," he volunteered. "I didn't mind."

"No, I'd better do it on my own," she said, not willing to risk another potential public humiliation like this one. Besides, it was technically cheating, and she wasn't about to make a habit out of that. "I will let you proofread some stuff, though."

He shrugged. "Yeah, sure. I'm an okay writer."

"Oh, yeah, just okay." She picked up what remained of her breadstick and chucked it at him, and that just made him laugh again.

It was kind of nice having Bellamy on campus. He didn't have to be anywhere until 3:00—apparently that same Diana woman wanted him to do some sprinkler repair, but really, was she needing to use a sprinkler in December? He said he was able to hang out for a few hours, do whatever she wanted. And as much as she wanted to do him, the week before finals, a.k.a. "Dead Week," was quickly approaching, and she wanted to get a jump-start on it more.

"So what am I helping you study?" he asked as they walked up the steps to the campus library.

"Art history. I have to do really well on that final now. My professor expects 'exemplary work' from me."

He smirked, holding the door open for her.

Right inside the entrance of the library was a desk where students had to check in. Clarke took out her university ID, brought it up to the girl behind the counter, and held it out to be scanned. The scanner flashed a green light, made a beeping noise, and she was good to go. But when Bellamy tried to follow her, the girl said, "Oh, sir, I need to scan your card."

He and Clarke both stopped, looking unsurely at each other. "Uh, I'm not a student here," he admitted.

"Oh." She cringed. "I'm sorry, I can't let you go in then. The library's for students only."

Bellamy lowered his head, a look of disappointment on his face.

"He's just helping me study," Clarke said.

"I'm sorry." Clearly the girl at the desk felt bad, but she was also trying to follow the rules.

Clarke met Bellamy's eyes helplessly. No, this wasn't fair. Did it really matter if he wasn't a student? Was it really that big of a deal? She wanted him there with her. Even though he'd be a little bit of a distraction and she might not be able to focus . . . she wanted him there.

She was about to give up and just leave with him, but Bellamy wasn't so easily dissuaded. He leaned over the desk, turned on the charm, and said, "Listen, I understand you're just trying to do your job. But I'd really appreciate you bending the rules for me," grinning flirtatiously as he said every word.

She shifted in her seat unsurely.

"Please?" he pleaded. "Just this once. It'll be our little secret."

Oh, Bellamy. Clarke had to hide her smile, because she knew exactly what he was doing. That charisma of his was a powerful thing, and he could easily weaponize it when he wanted to. Case in point . . .

"Okay," the girl said, blushing. "Just this once."

"Thank you." He smiled at her, then fell into step beside Clarke as she brought him up to the second floor where the best study areas were at. "This is nice," he remarked on his way up the stairs.

When they got up to the second floor, he just stood there for a second, staring at everything in awe. Arkadia was a small university, so its library was on the smaller end, too. But it must have looked huge to him. It dawned on Clarke that he had probably never seen a library quite like this before. There were shelves upon shelves of books, rows and rows of computers that were all in use. It was quiet and smelled a bit musty and probably seemed like heaven to Bellamy. His mouth was slightly agape as he took everything in, and there was a look of pure wonder in his eyes. "Wow," he said quietly.

She smiled, loving that he was just letting his inner geek flag fly.

Clarke sat down at one of the biggest tables, setting up her study station. Computer, notes that she could barely read, textbook that she dreaded opening . . . she sprawled everything out in front of her, trying to figure out the best way to go about this. Maybe deciphering her notes was a good first step, or having Bellamy look through the book and quiz her on all the vocabulary words?

Bellamy was busy looking at everything, though. He sat down across from her, but his eyes danced all over the library, taking it all in. Clarke tried not to make it too obvious that she was watching him, but it was impossible not to watch him. He looked so energized, which nobody else in the library did. He looked excited to be there, perhaps because he wasn't even supposed to be. When Clarke looked around that library, she saw . . . books. Just a lot of big old dusty books. But Bellamy . . . it was like he was seeing something else.

"Sorry," he said, shaking his head to refocus himself. "What do you want help with?"

"Um . . ." She had to break herself out of her own stupor, because she was so damn mesmerized by him. "I need a book," she said, locating her wrinkled syllabus from the first day of the class. "A couple books, actually. There were some things I never read that I was supposed to read."

"I'll go get 'em," he volunteered eagerly, grabbing the syllabus from her.

"Thanks."

He was already gone, disappearing into bookshelves with a happy smile on his face. He probably didn't even know where these books were located, but he'd have a blast finding them.

Clarke tried to start studying, scribbling down some of the course-related vocabulary after taking a moment to Google what a basilica actually was. Much to her surprise, she managed to review a fair amount of material, which scared the crap out of her, because she realized how much she didn't remember; but when she finally let herself check the time and saw that nearly thirty minutes had passed since she'd gotten there, she got up and went looking for Bellamy.

He wasn't hard to find. At all. He'd planted himself in some hardcore history section with books about events from the past Clarke had never heard of before, and he sat on the floor, rifling through the pages of one book while three more lay around him, already opened. He was so absorbed in what he was reading, he didn't even hear her walk up on him, and it took her sitting down next to him for him to glance up from the page and say, "Oh, hey."

"Hey." She peeked over at what he was reading, saw a photo of some ancient ruins, and knew instantly she'd have no interest in it. "Long time no see."

"Yeah, sorry, I . . . got lost," he said.

Oh, he'd gotten lost alright. Not in the library, though. In the books. Bellamy Blake loved learning.

"There's some cool stuff here," he said, shutting the book he'd been looking at. "I wish I could check some of it out." He sounded so genuinely wistful that Clarke felt her heart go out to him. Sure, he could go to the Arkadia public library if he wanted to, or he could get online and read anything about everything. But this must have just felt different for him. After all, if his life had gone differently, if he and Roma had just taken one different turn on the way to their destination or gotten in the car a minute or two earlier, then maybe he would have had ample opportunity to sit in library like this, lose himself in all the knowledge he so desperately craved.

She felt bad, guilty even. Because to her, being here right now and having to study for finals for a chore. For him, it would have been a privilege.

"I can check out some stuff for you," she offered, more than willing to do that if he'd seen something he liked.

"No, it's okay," he said. "When would I have time to read any of it?"

He didn't have time, but she was sure he'd make time, even if it meant using his phone to illuminate the pages during the middle of the night.

"You should go to college, Bellamy," she blurted suddenly, without really thinking about it. He just . . . he looked so right here. "It's not too late."

He didn't shut down her suggestion right away, but he still shook his head after giving it a moment of thought. "I don't know . . ."

"I know it's expensive, but you could take out loans. And you could still work. It's not like you have to take five classes at a time," she pointed out. "You'd be so good at it. You'd love it."

"I would," he admitted. "Well, you know, never say never."

She smiled at him, happy to have gotten at least that much. It wasn't an outright rejection of the mere possibility. Maybe if he had the time to think about it, he'd get serious and give it a shot.

"It's just hard for me, you know?" he said. "I've been out of school for five years. It's just not the easiest thing to try to go back."

She supposed she could understand that, as much as possible. Her circumstances were clearly different, but if Bellamy still had a burning passion for knowledge . . . well, that was probably far more important than having money or a completely open schedule was.

"Just think about it," she urged him. All she wanted him to do was keep the idea in mind.

He nodded mutely, but it was something. It was definitely something.

She didn't want to put any undue pressure on him or stress him out about it at all, didn't want to suggest that he might look into teaching because of how he'd tried to teach Octavia to read back when he was only six. For now, this was enough, the mere seed of an idea planted in that brilliant brain of his. Maybe the rest was another conversation for another time.