There are three things you should know about me. One: I'm a redhead, not the bottle type. A redhead, with orange, flaming spirals that curl halfway down my back. Two: I don't hesitate to act or speak my mind. And three: I'm a schizophrenic, which, in short, means I'm crazy.
My name is Clary Fray, and I am sitting in the back of windowless van, on my way to The Institute. My hair is in a tight ponytail at the back of my head and my hands are zip-tied together behind my back. I look to my left at the guy who can't be more than two years older than me. My first thought is that he looks like a hipster Harry Potter. In a band T, tight fitting jeans, and retro. His hands aren't tied. Of course, I think, he didn't resist like I did.
"I hear they call this place the city of bones." I say, leaning towards him. The guy turns to me and his eyes mirror mine for a second. I wonder if this guy is a head case too.
"Do you believe everything you hear?" His tone is condescending, and I decide, in that moment that I don't like him. Or at least I shouldn't. But when I look him over, I see he's the cute kind of lanky and sadly, he appeals to my personal sense of tall dark and handsome. I decide it's best if I just shake my head in disagreement. I'm not sure I'll be able to speak in this state of realization. Realization that I'm sitting next to hot, Harry Potter, forget hipster.
I hear him chuckle and even the heavy sound of his laugh is condescending. I redirect my gaze to the front of the van and observe the winding gravel road.
"The Institute has a lot of names. City of Bones? I don't think that's one of them." Perhaps his voice is perpetually condescending.
I let out a huff of breath, but say nothing. He may be hot Harry Potter, but he is a total tool.
Jump his bones. I shudder as the voice booms through my head. Not now, not here. I think, or at least, I try to think, but the voice is coming to life. Don't be such a wimp, Clary. Ask him what his name is. Or do you plan on calling him hot Harry Potter when you scream out in-
"Shut up, Izzy." I mutter, hoping the lean hottie next to me doesn't hear. When I toss a tentative glance his way, I know I could never be so lucky. He's smirking.
"Izzy?" He asks in mock curiosity. "Who's Izzy?"
"What the hell are you talking about?," I ask, shrugging my shoulders and trying a confused look on my face. The last thing I need at The Institute is for everyone to call me crazy. Sure, sure, The Institute may be an asylum for "at risk" teens, but that doesn't mean they're all bat shit crazy, at least not like me.
"Sure," I hear his reluctance to drop the subject in the ice of his voice, but I don't dwell on it. Izzy is driving me nuts.
He wants us. Can't you feel the crazy sexual tension? Honestly, what is it with guys and redheads. It's like the ultimate male kryptonite.
I roll my eyes and will her to shut up.
"Almost there." says a gruff, old voice in the front seat. I can't see the face of the man sitting up there, but I can imagine he's rosy cheeked and wearing a crisp white uniform. I look down at my own clothes. I'm wearing a sea green tank top, black zip up hoodie and my best pair of flared jeans.
They gave me an opportunity to pack all that I could into one suitcase. Of course, I was preparing to run in the opposite direction when I saw the van pull into my mom's apartment complex, so I never packed a suitcase. I did, however, have my backpack, only because I carry it everywhere. If I had known running would get me treated like a criminal and zip tied the moment I resisted, perhaps I would have reconsidered.
Now though, as I look at my only possessions, I know I should have packed suitcase, even if I'd never intended to make it to The Institute. At least a blanket or a toothbrush.
Or a pack of condoms.
"Shut up, Izzy!." I whisper to myself, and then I want to slap my hand against my forehead, because I can hear the rumble of hot Harry Potter's laugh.
"Okay, Carrots, I'm definitely not hearing things. You're talking to somebody." He leans into me and I can smell the sweet scent of whatever detergent he washes his clothes with. "Are you going to the psych ward, Angel?"
You hear him, don't you, Clary? He's giving us pet names. I shake my head, back and forth, trying to force Izzy out and to tell hot Harry Potter to keep his mouth shut. I feel, rather than hear him laugh. His closeness is a bit foreign to me, not because I never wanted to be this close to a hot guy, but because my entire youth was spent bouncing around the country with my mom. That is, until the accident.
Four years ago my mother began to homeschool me to keep my insanity private. It would have worked, truly, but about two months ago, I took Izzy's advice to heart and found myself in the principal's office of a prep school in downtown Manhattan, trying to steal answers to tests for a couple boys who offered my $450. It made sense at the time. I was small, they needed someone who wouldn't lead back to them and I wanted the cash. Well, Izzy wanted the cash so we could wear some seriously sexy pumps. I just wanted an adventure.
I got an adventure all right. I got an adventure right down to the police station. The two jerks forgot to mention that there'd be high security and cameras everywhere. I didn't stand a chance. The moment I climbed in through the office window there was a security guard waiting outside the opposing door. I was arrested mere minutes after I broke into the desk, and I never got my $450.
At my court hearing, I was given the choice between community service and coming to The Institute for two months. I guess no one should be surprised that I jumped on The Institute at first. I was drunk with the thought of socializing with actual peers again. Then I heard the rumors about this place, and I decided it was better if I tried to run. Too bad that was anticipated.
"We're here, you two." Says the voice of the burly man who caught me in two strides earlier today. Even without the handlebar moustache, I'm sure his outwards appearance would still scream pedophile. Izzy agrees. I shift in my seat as the van lurches to a stop and I lurch with it since the back seat benches don't seem to have seat belts. Two strong hands grab me by the shoulders before I fall out of the seat and pull me close to a firm body.
"I'm Simon." His touch sends an involuntary shiver up my spine and I can hear Izzy giggling and the contact. Possibly because I'm not used to this kind of contact and it shows on my cheeks, or because she's relishing in it.
"Er," I stammer as the door to my right slides open. "Clary." And with that I'm swept from one man's arms to another's.
"Alright, Miss Fray. Do you promise not to run?" The moustache man driving the car has one of his hands gripped around my upper arm. It makes me feel petite. And feeling small makes me angry.
"No," I say, agitated by the pressure on my arm. "Doesn't matter anyway, does it?" I glance down at the man's hand as he drags me up the stairs to The Institute, which to me looks more like a church than a shelter for troubled teens.
The inside is stone everywhere, and suddenly I feel like I've been shipped to Scotland to tour palaces for my punishment. The stone is yellowing and the air around me is a natural cold that sends shivers down my spine. To my right, Simon walks in carrying an old tattered up suitcase in one hand and a pillow in the other. All I have is my backpack that has been thrown at my feet and the clothes on my back.
"Welcome to the stone house," says a deep, foreboding voice in the distance and I turn to face a man coming from one of the three halls that seem to lead from this front lobby. His hair is a pale blonde, like a light bulb. And his physique makes me uncomfortable. If I thought the man clutching my arm was burly before, I don't think so now. The blonde man looks about as old as my mom. However, unlike my mom, he is handsome and a rough. My mom's delicate and gorgeous, but I just wouldn't put either one in the same league as the other.
"My name is Gregoff Valentine." he begins and the man holding my arm finally relaxes his grip to cut me free from the zip ties then leave. I realize then that I had lost feeling in my fingers. "You will address me as Valentine or Mr. Valentine." he smiles at Simon, but when his eyes slide to me, the curve of his lips straightens into a grimace. Yikes. "Am I clear?" I nod instantly, because it is damn clear that this guy is the boss of this place.
"Ms. Fray, you'll be escorted to the women's lavatory. Mr. Lewis, you'll be going to the men's. Wash up and we'll assign you rooms after dinner." As if suddenly bored with our presence, Valentine disappears down the hallway he came.
"We're in some serious shit, aren't we Fray?" asks Simon, who's smiling down at me mischievously.
"Or are you Izzy right now?" I shiver at the insinuation.
"I don't know what you're talking about." I look around the room, partially to look for my escort to the bathroom, partially to keep from making eye contact with Simon. I can hear him chuckling though, and I clench my fist ready to strike.
"Relax, Fray. For all you know, I could really like this 'Izzy' chick." that's it, I think and whirl around to punch Simon square in the jaw when a feminine voice calls out to me. "Until next time, Izzy." Simon winks.
I pick the backpack up from my feet and carry it with me towards the woman waiting patiently for my at the far left hallway.
"This way, dear." she says, and she reaches to take my bag from me but I shake my head and throw one more glance at Simon, who's grinning right at me. I flip my head back to my escort and smile to mask the fear rising in my throat. He knows.
He know and he thinks it's sexy. Why are you raining on my parade here?
"Shut up, Izzy."