The calendar on the rink wall showed ten days until sectionals and all Clarke wanted to do was cross them all out so she could finally be there. As a child she'd often wished that her test sessions would fly past without her notice so she could she her results, but avoid the bevy of nerves that drove her to distraction as her skate loomed ever nearer. She'd out grown the desire, but not the nerves. Ever since her success at regionals, the pressure had been constant, unyielding. Clarke was used to being the underdog, the skater that just never quite made it, but now she was the it girl. Skating Magazine had called to check on her and several bloggers had reached out to chronicle her journey to sectionals. She'd turned them all down, confused by their interest and wary of the task ahead of her.

Ivan had been patient, well aware of her habit of self-destruction, and she'd almost been able to imagine they were training for an exhibition or a summer competition. Almost. Finn had tried to help in his own way, but the constant vibration of dread never quite left her stomach.

On the plus side, her programs had never been skated with more feeling, her expressions never quite so raw. Clarke felt every nerve burning each second she pushed across the ice. If not for the accompanying sense of utter dread, the high could have been addictive.

In the end, she found there was little to do but continue to train. So she tried her best to push past the oppression of her nerves and the weight of dread upon her chest. She'd done it before; she could do it again. She'd repeated the phrase until it was merely a jumble of vowels and consonants against the sound of her breath.

Finn's music was blasting out of the speakers and Clarke felt embarrassingly glad that Ivan's last lesson of the day was him, not her. She'd had enough of his disappointed stares after she'd popped not one, but all of her jumps in her last rendition of her long. It had been nearly as bad as Gracie Gold the year before at nationals. At least Ivan wasn't going to publicly dump Clarke in the middle of a National Championships; she was never going to get to a National Championships.

Finn flew past, the setup for his triple lutz sending air rushing through her hair. She glanced at the clock, fifteen minutes left. Clarke took a deep breath of chilled air and pushed off. She'd already run her programs enough that Ivan wasn't going to admonish her if she spent the last few minutes on her footwork sequences. They needed work anyway. Clarke had spent so much of her skating career as a jumping automaton that fully embracing a step sequence was still a new experience. No more throwing her hands wherever she felt and providing the most basic edge quality. This year her blades dug deep and her fingers reached to the rafters.

She dove into her circular step, arms stretching high as her right blade dug into a swing rocker. Then her left toe pick was skidding across the ice into a back pivot, rotating her in perfect circles before pushing into a series of twizzles that spun her down the ice. She bent her knees further, letting the side of her boot kiss the ice as she danced through a sequence of counters and wide flowing choctaws. Her hand caressed the ice as she continued through an illusion, her leg high as her body dipped dangerously low. Then she was on her toes, twirling to the beat of Finn's music, before dropping low again into a back lunge variation that had her knee bent and her back arched like a swan's neck. The sequence ended with a bang as she surged up above the ice in a flying split that had her floating for an infinite second before settling back to solid ground.

Ivan's watchful eyes were on her as she skated back to the boards. "That was better. More of that."

Clarke took a gulp of water before nodding. "I'll try."

"Do or do not. There is no try."

Clarke stared at him, jaw working silently. Finally she managed to speak. "Did you just quote Yoda?"

He shrugged, his eyes already focused on Finn as he skated toward them, program complete. "Whatever works, Ms. Griffin."

By the time Clarke could come up with a reply, he was already facing away from her, hands moving in an elaborate demonstration of Finn's flaws. Great. Ivan had resorted to Star Wars for his coaching strategies. Maybe she really was that impossible. Yoda probably had a quote about that too, she reflected. Another look at the clock had her groaning again. Ten minutes. So often her sessions flew by so fast she was hardly aware they were ending, but since regionals they'd dragged on so slowly she could hardly stand it.

She pushed off the boards again, but instead of heading into another footwork sequence or spin, she headed into crossovers in the clockwise direction. Most skaters took off for their axels, salchows and loops in the counter clockwise direction, as did Clarke, but she had taken to practicing jumping and spinning the opposite direction to help her technique and challenge herself in a way that would never be tested in competition. She few through a series of waltz jumps, enjoying the novelty of landing on her left foot. A few more laps around and she'd ticked off

Salchow, loop and toe. Flip was fairly easy as well, the right back inside edge leading cleanly to a toe assisted takeoff. Lutz, however, was her personal nemesis when it came to jumping this direction. The jump involved a windup to the left while on a back outside edge and then a sudden reversal of momentum to the right with a toe assisted takeoff. Without the reversal and the outside edge, the jump was merely a flip in disguise. Despite several years of training this direction, Clarke still fell over her feet on most of the takeoffs.

She took a steadying breath and visualized her normal lutz takeoff. Then she walked through the reverse, feeling the take off edge firmly on the outside. Holding on to the confidence of her walk through, she gained speed and held along a diagonal for her takeoff edge. When the jump sprung from the ice it was better than her usual attempts and she couldn't help the smile that adorned her face.

Unfortunately Ivan didn't appear to share her joy. He stopped beside her as Finn flew past, a blast of cool air in his wake. "Perhaps we should change the direction of all your jumping passes."

Deep Russian accent or not, Clarke knew sarcasm when she heard it. "It helps my concentration."

"Apparently not enough to have you land any of the seven jumps in your program. You're not going to be placing in the top ten if you only hit a double axel." The sarcasm had faded and now Ivan simply looked tired. Clarke couldn't blame him. Her successes came it such fits and starts that even she felt frustrated.

"I'm trying," she insisted, skating with him to the boards as they gathered their belongings. "I just don't know why I can't do it sometimes."

Ivan turned her, dark brows drawing together. "Do you even want to win?"

Clarke blinked, staring back at him. "What?"

"Do you want to win?" he repeated.

"I want to skate." It clearly wasn't the answer he was looking for, but Ivan nodded and turned away to chat with Finn as they slipped the rubber guards onto their blades.

A flash of dark hair caught her attention and she turned to find Bellamy Blake decked out in full hockey gear, helmet under arm. She blinked at the sight of him, so different from the janitor she was used to seeing.

He frowned at her, his full lips tilting down. "Do I have dirt on my face or something?"

Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she powered on. "No, it's just I've never seen you with skates on before. At least, not that I remember."

"I can skate," he said, defensive.

She shook her head quickly, pony tail whipping back and forth. "No, no… I knew that, but I just… well, it's different."

His dark eyes softened and a hint of humor twisted his lips. "Good different?"

Now she knew he was teasing her. Since regionals they'd spent more time talking casually, acting like being normal human beings together, and she knew exactly what that quirk of his lips meant. She stamped down on the frenzy of butterflies in her stomach. Slightly short of breath, she replied, "Just different, different."

His knowing eyes gleamed back at her, forcing her to look down. Her laces had gotten rather dirty; maybe she'd replace them before sectionals? "So are you coming to the game on Friday?"

"Huh?"

"The charity game," He clarified and she found the courage to look back at him. The humor still danced his eyes, but she could breathe again.

"Oh," she recovered, graceful as ever, "I'm kind of required to attend. Not that I wouldn't go anyways, but since my dad and Wells' dad are in charge of the game and yeah…"

Now he was truly smiling down at her, the constellations of his freckles stretching around his wide grin. "Relax, Clarke. You sure you're not training too hard out there?"

Clarke couldn't help the snort that escaped. "Most definitely no. I'm pretty sure Ivan is ready to toss me to the wolves and be done with it."

"What do you mean?" The smile had slipped from his face and now his dark eyes bored into her.

She wasn't the biggest fan of sharing her deep dark secrets with Bellamy Blake, but wasn't like she wanted to talk to Finn and Wells just wouldn't get it. So she took a deep breath and let the jumbled words flow. "I'm supposed to want this more than anything, but I just don't feel it these days. Like regionals were the most amazing thing to ever happen to me and of course I want that moment back, to do that again, but I'm not sure that I can…. I feel like I don't want to skate most of the time, but that's not true. I do want to skate, just not the way Ivan wants me to. I've been popping all my jumps and I feel totally disconnected. I keep asking, why am I even doing this? But at the same time I can't imagine myself anywhere but the ice rink." She paused, biting her lower lip as she tried to make sense of her thoughts. "It's just so damn confusing… all of it."

Bellamy shifted to lean against the boards, his expression shuttered as he digested her words. His eyes darkened as he spoke, "What do you even want, Clarke? Do you want to go to nationals?"

That was the million dollar question, wasn't it? Did she want to kill herself day in and day out to skate at the premier venue for figure skating in the United States? Did she want that goal she'd set all those years ago when she'd convinced her parents to buy her a rink and make her dreams come true? Clarke wasn't sure. She wanted to be on the ice, she wanted to be part of that world, but she didn't know how to do that, not with these monumental expectations looming over her.

Bellamy shifted and her focus snapped back to him. His lips twisted in a wry smile. "I'm pretty sure the fact that it took you so long to even think about the answer means you probably don't know." He ran a hand through his hair and turned away, studying the empty rink. "It might even mean you don't want it."

Clarke could see the logic behind his words. Nevertheless, her stomach turned as she imagined their implication. She was the golden girl, her parents' hopes and dreams and all she wanted to do was quit. What type of person did that make her?

"It's okay, Clarke." He'd moved closer, his tall frame made all the more imposing by the hockey pads. "You don't have to know right now."

"But I do have to know."

"Eventually," he admitted.

Clarke bit her lip, the pain a welcome distraction from the battle waging within. Bellamy was right, and while he wasn't exactly a friend, he'd come the closest to sensing the truth that hid beneath her skin. She needed to decide what she wanted, even if it meant telling her parents that tens of thousands of dollars had been spent on nothing. Just the thought of trying to voice that was too painful to dwell on.

"Clarke!"

She broke away from Bellamy's stare to find Wells' striding toward them. "Wells… hi."

It was clear he found her greeting lackluster at best, but Wells was polite enough not to comment. He placed an arm around Bellamy's back, making him stiffen ever so slightly. "I see you and Blake are catching up."

"Yes, Captain obvious." Clarke smiled back, her lips a little too wide and her eyes not quite in it. "Ready to beat West for the 4th straight year?"

Bellamy stiffened even further, his expression clearing of all emotion. Clarke swallowed, heart sinking to her stomach. Of course he wasn't going to take kindly to that particular comment. He'd attended West and it was only by some minor miracle known only to Wells Jaha that he was skating for East Arkadia this year.

Sensing Bellamy's discomfort, Wells loosened his grip and stepped closer to Clarke. "It's not really East vs. West this year. We've opened it up beyond the high school teams and I think we're going to bring in a lot more for charity than we did before. Better to include the whole town and all that jazz."

"Right," she murmured, remembering hearing Wells and Finn talking in the weeks prior. "I'm sure you guys will play great."

"We will definitely kick all the ass, just like you," Wells replied, pulling the rink door open with a final wave.

She watched him skate off, expression wistful. If only skating were as simple as hopping on the ice like that. Bellamy shifted, eyes sliding toward Clarke. "You'll figure this out."

Then he was off, a blur of black and red against the ice as he raced to catch up with Wells. She watched them for several long moments, eyes tracing the dance of their blades upon the ice. Even out of practice, as he must be, Bellamy was good. His presence on the ice was natural, as if he belonged as much as she did.

Bellamy had assumed Thanksgiving without his mother would be as morose as it sounded. They'd never had the money to have a larger dinner, but they'd always celebrated the best they could, embracing the holiday as a chance to finally sit down as a family no matter what tribulations they faced. Now, though, Octavia had gotten the idea to host dinner for an assortment of their co-workers. She'd invited Miller, his boyfriend Bryan, Murphy and Emori and a new girl from the Snack Bar named Harper. Bellamy had said less than ten words to all of them except Miller and Murphy, but he figured if his sister wanted to do something festive, he wasn't going to stop her. The school hadn't called and her last report card hadn't been a row of F's. It hadn't exactly been college admissions material either, but he'd worry about that later.

"Do you remember what mom used to put in her stuffing, Bell?" Octavia stared at him from across the kitchen, bowl in hand.

"In her stuffing?" They'd never had a real turkey, but their mom had made sure they got some of the trimmings. She'd had several tricks to reduce cost and increase flavor, but Bellamy honestly couldn't remember any of them. Cooking had never been his thing to begin with.

"Ugh, you're no help," she huffed, turning back to a cookbook sprawled open on the counter.

"I'm sure whatever you make will taste good," he offered, unsure of what else to say.

"I don't want it to taste good, I want it to taste like mom's!" The sudden explosion from the other side of the kitchen caught him by surprise. The bowl she'd been holding was now rolling slowly to a stop in the doorway behind him. Octavia looked like a semi truck had hit her and suddenly Bellamy felt lost as ever. He'd hoped, prayed, that O was okay, but the tears racing down her cheeks and the clanging of her mixing spoon against the sink said otherwise.

He swallowed, keeping the dread creeping up his throat at bay. He could handle this, mom was gone and now Octavia was his responsibility. Bellamy took a small step closer. When she didn't react, he closed the distance between them, gently prying the spoon from her trembling fingers.

"It's going to be okay," he murmured, pulling her against him.

She immediately pulled away, face contorting in ways that sent icy waves down his spine. "No, Bell, it isn't! Mom is gone. Forever! She's never coming back to us!"

O was right of course. It wasn't okay, but then again, as far as he was concerned, it had never been okay. They'd been falling apart as long as they'd been a family and this was just another day in the misery that was his life. How he wished he could melt away, go be someone else, do something that didn't fill him with weary disgust. But that wasn't how life worked, so here he was, watching his sister breakdown in the middle of Thanksgiving, without a clue how to help.

O had turned away from him and now the contents of the pantry were flying past his head, landing with thuds upon the floor behind. Bellamy knew he should stop her, tell O that it would pass, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't fool himself into even trying. So he stood there and watched the kitchen explode around him. Only after the knives started flying did he move for cover and even then, only enough to not risk imminent bodily harm.

He could feel the moisture on his cheeks, hear the raggedness of his breath, but he stayed still. Eventually Octavia slumped to the ground in front of the pantry, her face of mess of red and devastation. He edged slowly toward her until he sank to the floor beside her.

"Well, shit."

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry again. Instead he tilted his head toward her, a hand tangling in his unruly hair. "Yeah."

"I thinking we're going to have to uninvite everyone."

"No shit." His head thudded against the wooden cabinets.

"Worst thanksgiving ever?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. "Unfortunately, no. You were too young to remember, but mom took us to Thanksgiving at one of her clients. It was the most humiliating night of my life and that includes that time Johnny Foster dumped the port-a-potty over with me in it."

Octavia winced. "That sounds…"

"As bad as you think," Bellamy sighed. "I didn't speak to her for a month. Not that I wouldn't take all that time back now."

"I know what you mean. I just wish we'd had more time with her, Bell." She captured one of his hands, her small fingers gripping with surprising strength. "I know mom wasn't the best and I know you dealt with that a lot more than I did, but I still miss her, Bell. I'll look across the street and think I see her before I remember I'll never see her again. It drives me crazy and it makes me so damn angry. What have we ever done to deserve this?"

That was a question Bellamy had stopped asking nearly a decade ago. There was no point thinking about what he and O deserved; they weren't going to get it. "Life doesn't make sense, O, and I can't tell you more than that."

She eyed him silently, her fingers twitching where they grasped him. Finally she turned her gaze down. "Do you think you'll ever stop hating mom?"

Bellamy swallowed. "I don't hate her, O, but I'm still working on forgiving her."

"You think she did it to herself, don't you?"

He sucked in a breath, turning to stare at O. They hadn't talked about how she'd died, not once. The doctors had told him the combination of antidepressants and alcohol had been fatal, but the obituary had left out the details of her death, only mentioning her ongoing fight against cancer. She'd been winning the cancer battle, but losing another. Octavia had been out when Bellamy had found her, forever asleep on her bed one afternoon. He hadn't dared to even open that rabbit hole, had never given himself the chance to consider it was suicide. Because if it was suicide that meant she'd deliberately left this mess in his hands and he wasn't sure he could ever forgive that, no matter how much he loved her and missed her.

"I don't know. I don't want to know." The words were barely a whisper. "I can't go there, O."

She nodded, her head falling against his shoulder. "Neither can I. I just want life to be better."

"It will be. I promise." He would make sure Octavia had all the opportunities their mother never did.

"I'll get the kitchen if you make those calls?"

He could see the desperation in her eyes, the urge not to be embarrassed yet again. "I'll just tell them our oven is broken. No one will think twice about it. I'm sure everyone had someplace else they could go."

"Thanks."

He pressed a kiss the crown of her head. "Anytime, O. Anytime."