I didn't return the jacket in school. It was a cesspool for gossip and I worried that someone would oversee the exchange and get the wrong impression. That, and after my breakdown on the side of the road, I wasn't exactly anxious to see the guy who had watched it all take place, from start to finish.

I nearly drove to Octavia's for her to give it to him instead, only to realize how that would've looked to her, having her brother's jacket. it was a situation that would require an explanation that I didn't have. Consequentially, all of this forced me to leave the jacket at home, in the hopes Bellamy would come claiming it himself sooner or later.

That was the most I was anticipating in the week that followed, other than my decision to attempt to smooth things over with Thalia. But it seemed my mom had other plans, because when I returned from school that Tuesday afternoon, she was already there.

"You're early," I said, as I pulled off my shoes by the front door and hooked my bag over the newel. I wandered into the kitchen with her loitering behind me, still dawned in her scrubs. They were adorned in various stains; the badges of her patients.

"Is something going on?" I asked warily when she remained quiet. I spotted a piece of paper clasped tightly in her fist. As if following my gaze, she put that hand on her hip—never a good sign.

"Your principal called," was all she had to say.

I paused, but recovered quickly, fetching a glass from the cupboard. "And?"

"And?" she asked incredulously. "Clarke, he informed me that you were failing half of your classes. And close to failing the other half. What's happened to you?"

I glanced over at her. She looked tired, the underside of her eyes purpled and dark. Frayed hair came out of her ponytail. I wondered how long it's been since she last brushed it.

"Nothing's happened," I said, though I knew what a lie that was. I held my glass under the faucet. "I just . . . I'm not dedicated like I was."

"You're not dedicated at all," she deadpanned, walking up to me. "None of what's happened has been fair to you and I get that. But this won't help. Ruining your education doesn't hurt anyone but yourself."

"I'm not doing it out of spite."

"Then why?" she asked, tossing her hands up. "Because I cannot think of a single reason how this is helpful!"

The glass was overflowing with water, but I didn't shut the faucet off. I had nothing to say. No explanation to give.

"I've reached my tolerance," she said plainly. "I've tried giving you space, but time doesn't seem to be helping matters, which is why I've decided to contact someone who can . . . help you. Who you can talk to about what you're dealing with."

I blanched, feeling my eyes go wide. I set down the glass. Drops of high water spilled over the brim, puddling on the counter. "You're . . . sending me to a shrink?" I asked, stupefied.

Mom crossed her hands over her chest. "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. You're harming your grades, you're out drinking now"—

"Once," I repeated for the umpteenth time. "And I've already decided I'm not doing it again."

"That still doesn't explain everything else," she said, "nor does it address the most important issue and that is your education. Both the school and I are worried about you."

I suppressed the inane urge to laugh out right. "The school isn't worried about me," I said with a shake of my head. "They're worried about my GPA. Can't have one of their best students spiraling downwards. How will that look to the Board?"

Mom crossed her arms over her chest, her stance rigid. "You should be worried about it, too. You've dreamed about going into medicine since you could pronounce the word. And I know this past year has been hard for you. But, Clarke, if you want to get into a good pre-med program, you"—

"I don't want to," I said, the words hushed but loud enough for her to hear them.

She paused, waiting for the catch. For the joke. When she realized it wasn't coming, she visibly faltered, her face crumbling into confusion. "You what?"

"I . . . I don't want to study medicine anymore."

Mom opened and closed her mouth, at a loss for the words. She looked around the room, as though she thought the kitchen could supply her with a substitute.

"Clarke . . . No," she shook her head and came up to me. Her hands gripped my shoulders. "This is what you've always wanted."

I stiffened, trying to dismiss the pang I felt at her disbelief. At the disappointment I'd never before been on the receiving side of. "Not anymore."

"Why? Because of Finn? Because of your father?" Her eyes glazed over. "I know it's hard, but you were born for this, Clarke. It's what you love."

It was ironic, that what I loved couldn't save the people I loved. I stared back at her, swallowing the lump of emotion. "I'm sorry," I said. "But I just can't."

I stepped out of her grasp, her face still twisted in vexation. She didn't get it. And why would she? If it had been her with dad at the time, she could've saved him. She could've saved the both of them.

Slowly, mom extended me the piece of paper with the shrink's address and number. I caught the name Marcus Kane was scrawled neatly above the rest of the information.

"I've already made an appointment for you Friday morning." She looked at me sternly, holding on to the paper a beat longer until I was forced to look her directly in the eyes. "Do not miss it."

************

It was weird, I thought, as the week drew to a close, how I'd never been to therapy. I'd heard of the dead family members' support group, but I didn't once consider it. I was never keen on the idea of sitting around a circle of strangers and retelling the story I would spend the rest of my life trying to forget, with the knowledge that I would never be able to.

And standing across from one stranger I didn't know with the same objective of getting me to talk . . . wasn't much better.

He didn't look like a shrink. That was my first impression of him, with his tall stature and comfortable clothing. No glasses. I was expecting someone old and balding, not fairly young with a headful of dark hair. Yet, after I shook his hand and he gestured for me to take a seat opposite of him in his quaint office, I caught he studiousness of his gaze. The quiet way he leveled me up.

And my impression suddenly flipped.

"Hello, Clarke," he said, crossing his legs and threading his fingers over a knee, as comfortable as if he were in his own living room. He smiled, revealing a set of sterling teeth. "It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard some impressive things from your mother."

I frowned at him. "You know my mom personally?"

He nodded. "We grew well-acquainted over a head injury I took a few years back."

I blew out a breath. "That's . . ." fun wasn't the right word, and I trailed off awkwardly.

He waved a hand airily, a pen fastened beneath his thumb. "But enough about me. After all, we're here to talk about you," he leaned forward, like a man suddenly getting down to business. "Your mother told me you've been having a . . . difficult year and she's concerned. She says you're quite the scholar, but your grades have been suffering the last few weeks. What can you tell me about that?"

I tucked a stray hair behind my ear, hoping my annoyance didn't show on my face. The school had already dug up everything it could into the academic part of my head. And now here I was, having someone sift through the personal part. Was there any piece of myself that belonged solely to me?

I sighed, and met his attentive eyes. "She's right," I admitted. "My grades have been falling."

He narrowed his brows. "And why's that?"

"Well, my dad died last year," I answered brusquely, ignoring how the words stung. "And my boyfriend died this year. So grades aren't exactly the forefront of my thoughts." I gave a small shrug. "Does that seem unreasonable to you?"

Marcus shook his head, giving me that look people were always preconditioned to give me. I'd practically forgotten what it was like to be looked at as just Clarke. Not as the Princess, or the girl with a dead dad or murdered boyfriend. When looking at me, the person's gaze never failed to be saturated with sympathy and horror, both genuine and false alike. That's how this man was looking at me now. Just Clarke didn't exist.

"No," Marcus said, a note of solemnity in his voice. "That doesn't seem unreasonable. I can only presume it's your method of coping. We all have our ways. For your mother, it may be work. For you, it may be removing yourself from the working environment. From school." He sighed, rolling his penned hand in the air. "When a person is suffering from severe trauma it's common for them to . . . "

This was how it went. For the good, solid hour my mom was paying for. Questions from him, small answers from me. Every few seconds he'd jot something down in a notebook balanced in the crook of his bent knee. He would jot me down in that notebook; who I was, my problems. All summed up on a pad of lined paper.

"Are we done yet?" I finally asked, when the hand to the clock over his desk teased two.

Marcus held up a finger. "One last question," he said, tilting his face slightly to the side. "When it comes to school, why do you feel like your grades are slipping? Is it your focus that's impaired? Your motivation? Or do you simply choose not to try?"

I clasped my hands tightly in my lap, glancing between my white knuckles and him. I hated this question as much as the others, because lies in these kinds of rooms were transparent. And only the truth could appease a therapist.

"I've tried," I murmured. "I've spent years trying. And for the most part I succeeded." The area over my heart throbbed. "But I learned the hard way that an A on a paper guarantees nothing. You can answer all the right questions. You can know a dozen textbooks' worth of information. But it doesn't promise you anything; not a scholarship, not a job, and certainly not someone's life."

Marcus stared at me in silence, like he was trying to gauge something from me. Then he nodded thoughtfully, and returned his pen to the paper.

**************

I went to bed early that night, glad for once that my mom wasn't home. I crawled into bed, my body heavy with an exhaustion that went deeper than the physical. But no sooner had I fallen asleep did I regret ever closing my eyes.

The sound of rain in my dream sounded perfectly clear, interrupted by the melody of Danny Boy playing in the background. Broken glass flashed before my eyes. Beams of light blinded me. I heard the skid of tires on slick pavement, followed by a deafening horn.

The image shifted and the sky went from blue to black. Stars sparkled against the ocean of darkness. I saw a white, plastic bag flutter to the ground. And then I heard the gunshot.

I jerked into a sitting position, eyes flying open. My heart was somewhere in my throat and my vision blurred, desperate for the images to fade. But the sound of the gunshot had sounded more real than even the horn. And so close, like the dream was butting into reality. 

A banging noise came from downstairs.

A jolt went through me and I froze, but only for a moment. I quickly stood up, trying to steady my racing pulse as fumbled for my lamp. The light burned and I squinted my eyes as I left my room and came to the banister. That banging noise erupted again.

Someone was at my front door, I realized through the thick fog of sleep. I stumbled down the stairs, nearly falling when I reached the base of it. The tile was like ice under my feet and I groped the wall for the switch. The chandeliers lit up and I pressed my face to the peephole.

Unruly brown hair. Onyx eyes. Freckles.

My jaw popped open, just as Bellamy banged another fist against the door, the sound making me jump. I quickly pulled open the door.

"Bellamy?" I asked, bewildered to see him at my doorstep, and in the middle of the night, no less. I blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear the sleep from my eyes. "What's wrong?" A list of possible reasons for him being here ran through my head and I noticed his black t-shirt, his forearms bare. "Is this about your jacket?" It must've been an important item of clothing, if he decided he needed it so late at night.

But the question that came from his mouth wasn't the one I'd expected.

"Is Octavia here?" he asked, voice breathy like he'd been running, though the white Honda sat idling against the sidewalk.

I shook my head, feeling the confusion on my face. "No. . . Should she be?"

But Bellamy acted as if he hadn't heard me, and it was then that I finally caught the fear in his eyes. It wasn't something I was used to seeing in them. In fact, this was a first.

"No, just—hurry up and get in the car, all right?" he told me sharply. "I'm cashing in that IOU."