Chapter One
Fall of Sophomore Year

I hate movie trailers—especially ones for those obtuse rated-R comedies—because they always reveal the funniest jokes, the most intense cuts of action scenes, or the most anticipated on-screen kiss. The funniest joke part bothers me the most, because while actions scenes and kisses can be re-watched and enjoyed more than once, a clever punchline wrings out a chuckle on its first try, but becomes stale and annoying the next go around.

"Well, I disagree," says Simon. He's sprawled across my baby blue bed, his calculus homework a wrinkled mess beside him. He thoughtfully nibbles on the eraser of his mechanical pencil. "Some jokes never get old."

With my arms crossed and eyebrows raised, I lean back against the glossy Fitz and The Tantrums poster on my bedroom door. "Oh, really? Name one."

"Remember when you got mad that Maureen didn't hire you to mow her lawn for twenty bucks per mow? And she hired scrawny little Raphael instead?"

"Oh, jeez." I bite back a smile. "And he said that it was because he was Maureen's 'manly macho friend' and he flexed his non-existent muscles and-"

"-He got a charley horse in his arm." Simon interrupts. I can't suppress the smile that breaks across my face. "See? It's funny."

"Fine. That one doesn't get old. But, you must admit, movie trailers still spoil all of the best parts of a movie. Like-"

I'm abruptly cut off by ominous owl hoots. Simon commences an unhurried search through the pockets of his purple skinny jeans for his cell phone. He rolls over, plowing across several sheets of calculus homework, crinkling the notebook paper even further.

"Si, you are in dire need of a new ringtone," I say. "That owl thing is so creepy."

Simon rolls his eyes. He's now fumbling across my bed, throwing aside papers and pencils and pillows. "If my ringtone were catchy, I'd be so absorbed in listening to it that I'd forget to even pick up the call." He discovers the source of the owl hoots under one of his miscellaneous homework folders, and he doesn't even glance at the caller ID before bringing his phone up to his ear and saying, almost indignantly, "what's up, Maia?"

After a long pause, Simon's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He rakes his free hand through his mountain of coffee brown curls. "I'm so sorry, babe." But his apology doesn't sound sincere; it sounds agitated. His eyes stare down the vintage forty-watt Coca-Cola lamp that sits on my bedside table as Maia babbles on the other end of the line. Maia and Simon have dated for about a year now, but now that Maia is a senior, she's under so much stress applying for colleges and maintaining her three part-time jobs that she's created a chasm in their relationship. My brows knit together in concern as I watch Simon carry a tension-strung conversation with Maia. He refuses to meet my gaze, which is burning holes into the side of his head.

Simon's nose suddenly crinkles in frustration. "Look, I'm sorry that happened. Parents suck. But I'm studying with Clary right now, and we have a big calc test tomorrow, and I really don't have time to crash with you tonight. I'm sorry."

I hear Maia's voice rise on the other end of the line. Simon clutches his cell phone so tightly that his fingertips are fluorescent white, and his lower lip trembles as though he's about to cry. But he does the complete opposite of cry when he opens his mouth.

He explodes.

"I never have time for you anymore? I never have time for you anymore? As if you ever have any time for me these days! Maia, I'm your boyfriend-not your pet or your slave or whatever. You can't just ignore me when you don't need me and then demand me to do this and that when you do. All you do now is complain about how much your life sucks, and I try to be there for you, but you won't let me! And, excuse me, Miss Hypocritical, but you're never there for me anymore, either.

"Oh, and for the last fucking time, I'm not cheating on you with Clary, because I'm trying to be a good boyfriend. But, clearly, you're not good enough of a girlfriend to trust anything that I say to you anymore, because you think that everyone in your life right now is just trying to make it worse. Am I right? Do you have any more complaints that you're just dying to tell me? Well, guess what? I don't want to hear any of them!"

Panting, flushed, and shaking with rage, Simon hangs up and throws his phone onto my bed.

What a harshly sassy monologue, I think. I've never, in the two years that we've been friends, seen Simon so rampantly furious. His face is as red as hot lava, and his breathing is ragged.

I suddenly feel guilty about not realizing how much Simon and Maia's relationship had crumbled. For all of this time, Simon had kept secret that Maia thought he's cheating on her with me. I taste bile in the back of my throat at the absurd thought.

"What happened?"

Simon drops his head into his hands and sinks down to his knees. "She's pissed because her parents got into a fight again. And she's 'scared' that this fight will be 'the one' and now she wants me to haul my ass over to her house to have sex with her and make her feel better and what not." He shakes his head. "I mean, my parents got divorced and I'll admit that it sucked, but I hate how everything nowadays is all about her problems. I hate how she's moody all of the time, and how she won't tell me anything because she loves pitying herself, and I hate how she only ever talks to me anymore because she needs some cheer-up sex."

My eyes widen in horror.

"Then she blames me for not being there for her, which is so unfair, since she doesn't let me be there for her because she never talks to me anymore! Well, except asking me to have sex with her. Like just now."

It takes a minute for me to absorb his words, which tumble out of his mouth more quickly than my brain can string them into coherent sentences. I'm utterly incredulous when I finally realize what Simon is telling me. "Maia is using you?"

"I feel like she is."

"Oh, Si, that's just awful."

Simon takes a deep breath. Then he collapses face-first onto my bed. "And to make things worse," he says into my pillow, "she thinks I'm cheating on her with you, because once again she wants to blame me for never being there for her, so she's just making up excuses to make it seem like it's my fault that our relationship is falling apart."

"Oh, Si, I'm so sor-"

"God, I hate her so much."

"I know, and-"

"God, I can't believe her. What a bitch."

"Si-"

"FUCK MAIA! FUCK HER TO THE MOON!"

His words slice the air, so fiercely that the silence that follows feels scorching. I'm shocked. I'm so shocked, in fact, that I'm paralyzed, incapable of peeling myself away from my Fitz and The Tantrums poster. I frantically scramble through my mind to conjure up something—anything—to say to my tormented friend.

"Si?" My voice is barely audible. I clear my throat. "I'm so sorry."

He groans into my pillow. "Fucking Maia," he mumbles.

I tentatively crawl over to my bed and haul myself up onto the memory foam mattress. Simon's face is buried in a pillow, and his entire frame is trembling.

"Are you crying?"

Simon wails, "Well, of course I'm crying. I basically just broke up with my girlfriend. How could I not be crying?" He clutches the pillow more tightly and releases a horrendously heartbreaking sob. Once again, I'm paralyzed, terrified that I'll say or do something that will only make Simon more upset. He looks so vulnerable, curled in a fetal position and crying a river. I feel bizarrely intrusive, like I shouldn't be seeing what I'm seeing, like this is a viewer-discretion-is-advised scene and I belong in the inappropriate audience.

But I'm his friend, and good friends comfort friends who feel as though their lives have become so askew that their world is about to crash down.

"Si," I whisper, hesitantly reaching out to give him a pat on the shoulder. He flinches away from my touch, and my heart sinks. "Um, I'm so sorry that this is going on right now. You don't deserve this, and Maia is a bitch and you're so much better than her, and...I seriously think you need some ice cream."

Ice cream? I internally chastise myself. How much more cliché can I get?

But, to my relief, Simon unravels himself and gently lifts his head up from my pillow. His face is pink and splotchy and he looks awful, but his puffy eyes suddenly light up. "You're damn right, Clary," Simon declares, his voice raw. "Maia is a bitch. I am so much better than her." He tosses my now tear-stained pillow aside and leaps off of the bed. "I am so." He ceremoniously wipes his nose. "Much." He straightens his black-blue plaid shirt. "Better." He drives his fingers through his disheveled hair. "Than that bitch." He grabs me by my forearms and yanks me up from my bed. I'm taken aback when Simon grins. His smile contradicts this tear-streaked face.

"Ice cream?" I ask.

"Hell yes."

A perk that comes with being friends with Simon, who's a junior, is that he can drive.

We pile ourselves into his cluttered chartreuse Chevy Sonic, throwing crushed water bottles, crinkled sheets of pizza coupons, and empty Kroger plastic bags into the back seat. Simon drives as aggressively as boils the rage bottled up inside his chest. We shamelessly tear through my suburban white-picket-fence neighborhood, nearly running over a couple of daring squirrels as they cross the road.

Simon drives through the typical cloudy Michigan evening in silence. Halfway down the main road, I turn on the stereo and blast his favorite song by Lorde.

"I'm kinda over getting told to throw my hands up in the air," Simon sings along, an octave lower than Lorde and slightly off-tune. I see a small grin break across his face, and my heart instantly warms.

We pull into the Tasty Twist parking lot blaring Lorde through our open windows. A couple sitting on the bench along the side of the ice cream shop turns to give us annoyed glances. Simon abruptly returns to looking tormented when he yanks the keys out of the ignition, brusquely silencing the stereo. He collapses onto the steering wheel and burrows his face into the crook of his elbow.

"I'm so sorry." I reach over and rub his shoulder.

"I miss the old Maia," whines Simon.

I swallow. Seeing Simon like this breaks my heart. Every last drop of his usual exuberance has been extinguished and replaced with pure, cold anguish. "Come on, Si." I gently coax him up into a sitting position. "I think you need a turtle sundae."

As we walk up to the fluorescent-lit blue and white ice cream shop, Simon drags his orange converse across the asphalt as though there are weights bound to his ankles. His head hangs, his shoulders sag, and his hands are clenched into fists in his jean pockets. It's weird seeing flamboyant Simon so deflated. To my disappointment, he doesn't brighten even the slightest when we settle down in red plastic chairs to eat his favorite ice cream sundae.

We hear the clink of a bell as the door opens and another customer steps in. I would have disregarded it if Simon's head hadn't suddenly snapped up and his eyes hadn't widened to the size of saucers. His plastic spoon slips from his fingers and clatters onto the table.

"What?"

"Don't turn around," Simon hisses.

Too late.

I twist around in my chair and my eyes land on Maia.