Clarke threw her paintbrush down on her palette, sighing at the horrendous sight in front of her. Her latest painting was a mess: the sky was too blue, the water too green, and the clouds looked like cotton balls. Really, it sucked, no matter what Wells said. She had stopped listening to his praise of her work years ago, because he was the type of best friend who always told her that she did well. On the days where she doubted herself or felt lonely, that was a good thing. And Clarke had a lot of those days, not being one of the typical Newport Beach girls who obsessed over celebrity breakups or couture clothes, rather more interested in the medical documentaries or the newest exhibit at the LACMA. Despite her mother's prominence in the community as a talented surgeon and one of the most active philanthropists in Newport, Clarke was a bit of a social outcast within her peers at Harborside Academy, deemed to intense or too serious. Wells, her next-door neighbor and best friend since third grade, was the only one who had really stuck by her through high school, and she loved him endlessly for that. When it came to art and criticism, though, he was a detriment. The college admissions staff viewing her application and portfolio wouldn't be nearly as forgiving as Wells, so his opinions were useless to her as anything except (a sometimes needed) ego-boost.

As Clarke went to pick up the brush again, resigned to at least attempting some kind of last-minute salvage, she heard the padding of soft footsteps on the pool tile behind her.

"Wow, that's almost as good as the real thing."

Clarke turned to see a girl standing behind her, staring with admiring eyes at her painting. An oversized grey hoodie overwhelmed her delicate figure, sliding lopsidedly off of one shoulder. Her long brunette hair was twisted up in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her impressed face.

"Octavia, right?" Clarke confirmed, remembering her dad's conversation with her earlier that morning, and the girl nodded. "Well, thank you, I'm glad one of us likes it."

"You don't?" Octavia asked, raising her sharp eyebrows.

"The colors are off, and the clouds look weird. They're too overwhelming."

Octavia just cocked her head a bit, spending another few seconds looking at the piece. "You're right. The sky needs to be lighter, right? And the ocean is a color that you'd find in a hospital because it's intended to be soothing but it just kind of makes you nauseous. Sorry," Octavia amended quickly. "Didn't mean that in a bad way. It's still pretty."

Clarke laughed at the uneasy expression on Octavia's face. "You're completely right," she said. "You know, not many people would be that honest."

"Bad habit of mine," Octavia said, with a sarcastic grin and no hint of apology.

"You could make that into a career," Clarke offered. "Art critics get paid to be honest, and brutally so. I wish I had more critiques like that. Pretty isn't going to get me into UC Berkley."

"You wanna go to college for art?"

"Sort of. And pre-med."

"Jesus," Octavia exclaimed. "That sounds horrible."

Clarke laughed again. "That's what my best friend Wells says. He thinks I'm nuts, but I love them both and can't imagine giving either up."

Octavia just shook her head in disbelief. "Well, good luck with that. I can barely manage to sit through a single high-school class."

"Yeah, high school sucks," Clarke sighed, noticing Octavia's expression shift in confusion. "I love the academics, but the vapid gossips, brainless jocks, and pointless private school drama I could do without."

"Must be rough," Octavia murmured, her voice tilting just a bit towards skeptical.

Clarke turned toward her painting with the pretense of cleaning up her supplies, her stomach dropping with embarrassment at her thoughtless comment. She knew what Octavia, a girl from the rough city of Chino who had spent the last week in juvie, must think: poor little rich girl. Hastily gathering her things, Clarke faced Octavia again, forcing a bright smile to suppress the awkwardness.

"So, Dad ran out and got bagels from Delphine's for us before he went surfing this morning. They're the best thing this side of L.A. and his favorite, so we should go grab some before he gets to them all."

Clarke hurried past Octavia without waiting for an answer, sighing in relief as she heard the girl's steady footsteps following.

Way to go, Griffin, she thought as she made for the house. No wonder you don't have more friends.

"God, Wells, I was so embarrassed," Clarke sighed as she slammed her head back against his bed, which she had sprawled across the minute she came into his room.

"You said she was fine with it, that breakfast went well," Wells assured her, looking down with an eye roll from his position leaning against the headboard.

"Yeah, but only because Mom was more awkward than I was. She kept offering Octavia everything in our fridge and you could just tell she was trying too hard to be polite, so of course I seemed nice and normal compared to that. I wanted to explain after breakfast, but it seemed too late, and then Dad had to take her to the office to fill out some paperwork."

"Clarke," Wells drawled with a slight chuckle. "Anyone ever tell you that you care too much about what people think of you?"

"You. Every day. Which is annoying, by the way."

"And yet you keep me around."

"Yeah, otherwise I'd have nobody."

"Don't say that," Wells sighed. "You know, people actually like you, Clarke. You just scare them a little bit."

"Because I don't put up with their elitist crap?"

"Because you keep walls up."

Clarke didn't respond, just studied the pebbly off-white ceiling above her. So, yeah, sure, she had some issues with letting people get close. Not surprising after that incident with Finn and Raven freshman year, but a girl didn't forget her first love. Or when said first love had gotten her caught in a messy love triangle with his sort-of-ex-girlfriend.

"You telling me to break down these walls and let love in?" Clarke asked a cutesy tone.

Wells snorted. "Your words, not mine."

"Well, how's about this for letting my walls down: let's go to that party Murphy is hosting and bring Octavia. It'll get us all out of the house."

"So, you tell Octavia that you hate your terrible classmates only to bring her to a party filled with them?"

"I'm trying to be nice!"

"And throwing her to the wolves is being nice?"

"Hah! There, you agree, they are terrible."

"Not the point, Clarke. You'd really bring her to a Newport party?"

Clarke paused, sighing. "I just—I don't know, maybe it'd be less awful with her there, so I'd actually have someone to talk to?"

"I talk to you!"

"Yes, before you get pulled to dance with that girl, and play flip cup with that guy. Face it, Wells, you're popular."

"They just want to stay on the good side of the principal's kid."

"Or it's because you're actually a decent, friendly, fun person."

"You're going to make me blush."

"Wells Jaha, golden boy of Harborside. Has a nice ring to it."

A pillow suddenly whomped against Clarke's face, and she let out a muffled laugh under its weight. Smacking Wells on the leg, she sat up and threw the pillow aside. "So, are we going?"

"Yeah, yeah. We're going."

Clarke smiled brightly at him before bouncing off the bed and towards the door. "See you later, then. Your adoring public awaits, oh Prince of Harborside."

The pillow flew across the room, aiming for her head, but Clarke ducked and left laughing, calling behind her, "Don't be late!"