Last Call

CHAPTER FIVE: 65 DAYS LEFT

LET THE RECORD SHOW that Clarke Wilson is a woman of many talents (see: cooking macaroni and cheese, reading epistemological articles, shoveling snow from driveways). Dancing, however, is not one of said talents. She knows of this because A) her legs are disproportionately long, B) Her mother only ever played Classical music in the house, and C) Calum's dared her to breakdance, and if one thing is for certain, break dancing and Clarke's daddy-long-legs do not go together.

It's an abysmal sight for all parties involved (Derek, Lindsey, Calum) and Clarke's beet red by the time it's over. She pulls her sweatpants up and her hoodie down and plops back onto the hardwood floor of her dorm room and vows to never make eye contact with any of the aforementioned people around her ever again. The paperback spine of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five stares at her from the bottom shelf of her bookcase. Pre chapter nine carbon monoxide poisoned Valencia Merble doesn't approve of Clarke's noodle-esque dance moves.

Derek's slow clap is the first sound that comes from the group. "That was epic."

Clarke squeezes her left hand around a ball of her sweater. "Shut up."

"No really, I loved it," Lindsey says.

"Very artistic," Calum adds (smug as hell).

"Super artistic."

"Great creative license."

"Interpretive dance is really your calling."

"I hate all of you."

They all smile. "We know."

Before Clarke can spontaneously combust and scatter like dark matter, Sawyer appears at the doorway with a signature goofy grin. His chef coat hangs undone, splattered with mustard and some unknown sauce from dinner service. Clarke attempts to give him save me eyes, but Sawyer's hair betrays her and flops messily over his face. By the time he combs it back he's already asking, "What are you all up to?"

And queue more misery.

The boys snicker as Lindsay says, "Clarke missed the bonfire truth or dare, so we're putting her through her paces."

"What we didn't expect was to unearth Clarke's secret pool of talent."

"And what talent is that?" Sawyer quirks his eyebrow.

"Clarke, would you like to share?"

Clarke smacks Calum's arm lightly. "I swear I will make you eat reaper sauce again and I will not feel bad for it when you spend the rest of the night over the toilet."

Calum goes pale at the memory, earning a new burst of laughter from the rest of the group.

"As fascinating as this is, I come with a purpose." Sawyer steps through the threshold of the doorway and nods towards Clarke. She gets up and ambles over to him as Derek launches into a half-baked argument about how he'd rather drink a bottle of reaper sauce than eat a tub of mayo. Which Clarke's pretty sure nobody asked for and nobody wants to think about for too long.

"So," Sawyer drops his voice when Clarke leans next to him in the doorway, "Willow likes you."

A blush that she hopes Sawyer can't see blooms up her neck. "What?"

"What was the word she used – interesting." Sawyer scratches the scruff on his chin. "She said she thinks you're interesting."

"Me?" Clarke feigns indifference, but she's – not so – secretly pleased with this news.

"That's what I said."

If there's one thing Clarke Wilson is sure she isn't, it's interesting. Willow Rhodes is interesting. Kurt Vonnegut is interesting. Sawyer's dirt bike racing older brother is interesting. Clarke isn't. Clarke's painfully normal (and she's okay with that, because she likes average—average is good).