Your good 'ol disclaimer:

ϟ Disclaimer: I do not own Cassandra Clare. Nor do I own said author's couch, characters or works of great literary wonders. I also do not own the pen from which the wondrous goddess of all things hot and smutty, i.e., Jace, was conceived. Although my plan to obtain said pen is in progress.

Author's note: Hey lovelies! Fresh start for me on this account, so don't mind my pitiful excuse for a profile. So please, sit back, grab a beer/cup of milk (safer option), kick them summer legs up, and enjoy the ride. Rainbow unicorn for all reviewers.

FULL SUMMARY (because I refuse to let my greatness be governed by a 384 character limit) Hereeee you go:

The How-to-Guide for winning the Van De Garde Arts' Scholarship: 1. Do not accept an invite to a party the night before your admittance interview (particularly from Isabelle Lightwood) 2. If offered any suspicious smelling drinks at aforementioned party, reject. 3. If forced into transferring to a school for supernatural creatures seemingly plucked from a page of Twilight, veer towards closest exit sign. And 4. If your overly-attractive, overly-confident tutor tells you that you look like the 8th long-lost dwarf crossed with Little Red Riding Hood, and goes by the name of Jace, fire him. You have been warned. Clary, however, was not.

CHAPTER ONE: A night in bed with Spock

'Do you know what that smell is?' The man gave an exaggerated whiff of the fairly scent-less air, treating the three other people in the room with a first-class view of his untamed nostril hair.

Your body odour?

'That,' he raged on, 'is the smell of failure.' He scrunched up his face and waggled the thick, passion-fuelled eyebrows – which resembled fat, overstuffed caterpillars more than anything else – on his forehead. 'And it disgusts me.'

They watched unflinchingly as his fist landed onto the executive mahogany table, sending mini shockwaves through the precious wood. 'It's been four. Whole. MONTHS.' He bellowed, and then in a quieter, deadly voice added, 'Is there an issue?'

Ooh, not a happy camper.

Breaths drew in. Silence hung over the room, dripping with morbidity that seemed to physically weigh down on the clothes of the three other figures. They were clad in all black and stood respectfully at attention before the table, eyes cast downwards to avoid contact with the riled man on the other side. When no one else spoke, the figure on the left gave a curt, 'We'll find her, Sir.'

He shook off the black tassels of hair pasted to his face, perhaps in exasperation, and turned his backs to them this time, as if just the sight of the three figures was enough to expel him into the pits of hell. Then he tapped his foot. Once, twice, and then a third time. 'When I send you three out there, I expect results.' His voice was louder this time, edged with an icy tone of distaste.

'I know, and you'll get them.' It was the one in the middle who spoke this time, his voice a tone lower; more serious. He had this whole faux-confidence thing working for him, but the incessant foot tapping seemed to be quashing his efforts. 'Just give us a couple—' Hesitation leaked through his voice, and he cleared his throat to fight it, 'just a couple more weeks. Sir.'

The man spun around, and the three figures jumped. 'I'll give you one.' He said, and the voice was definitely louder this time. 'Now get out of my office, and the next time I see you, you'd better have the girl with you.'

'ONE MINUTE.' Clary held up a hand to silence her best friend as she rifled through a pile of paper, humming to herself. Her hand brushed passed a bundle of bills, and a flurry of paperwork avalanched onto her cat underneath the table, sending Mr Tiddybomboms diving for cover. He glared upwards, and his face radiated a 'pissed-off-cat' sort of look as he let out a sully screech of annoyance. Clary spared him a quick, sympathetic glance and a hasty pat of apology.

Simon frowned and pointed at the pile of paper now strewn on the floor. 'Aren't you going to pick that up?' He shook his head in disbelief when Clary ignored him, gingerly crouching down and plucking up the bits and pieces of junk, his hand heading straight for the trash can. He paused and looked at Mr. Tiddy in baffled contemplation, 'how does she function in this mess?' he asked it. The cat seemed to return his look of bemused annoyance.

'It's not mess, Simon,' Clary explained, turning to face him, 'it's a pretty pile of papery chaos.' She plucked an excessively pink pen in the shape of a flamingo out of the pen holder, and hastily scribbled out a message on a corner torn off her mother's bank statement: Hi mom, don't freak out. Just a reminder, I'm sleeping over at Simon's… She paused and looked back up at Simon, twisting her mouth in thought.

Clearly, fifteen years of friendship had counted towards something as he read her mind. 'Uh, say we're working on that project about medieval…uh, Hebrew culture together.'

Believable. Not that she would ever, ever in any alternate universe, take AP History. But, believable. Clary narrowed her eyes, 'You really can't think of anything better?'

He returned her glare, 'and you can?'

Clary shrugged and finished the note. She pinned the paper to the orange spray-painted corkboard beside their refrigerator, assessing it for a moment. She took a brief step backwards, tilting her head up and narrowing her eyes as if the message would betray her if viewed from a different angle. Once satisfied it remained faithful, she hurriedly followed Simon to the door, hitching up her stilettos by the straps, and snatching the keys off the door handle. 'Now we can go.'

Simon splayed his hands in mock surprise, muttering to himself, 'and here I thought we'd never leave before the end of the century.' He grabbed his coat and trailed after Clary, the keys to his century-old ride in hand.

Half an hour later, they found themselves in a complete standstill.

'YOU IDIOT.' Clary moaned, 'I said UPTOWN, you dumb sloth. UPTOWN.'

'Wait—' Simon yelled, his eyes wide. 'It's fine. It's fine, calm down, I can turn. Right… there.' He squinted, and poked his tongue out in consternation, as he swerved into the exit lane. His sudden move, evidently, was not met well by the other drivers who responded with a chorus of angry beeps, and the car directly behind them had to lurch back dramatically only to narrowly miss scratching their bumper. 'Just for the record, you told me to take a left on Baker's, and then a right at the lights and to keep going till I reached the highway, and then to take the seventh exit.' He said pointedly. 'And that's what I did.'

'What? I told you third!' She scowled. 'Seventh would take you to like…the Guadalajara desert.'

'You know what would help?' Simon replied mildly, trying to reason with her. 'If you would actually tell me where we're going, instead of ejecting phrases of mindless, cryptic babble right before every turn; maybe then we'd actually get there. I'm sure my bumper would also appreciate the sentiment.'

Clary snorted indignantly, 'Well if you'd actually listened to my mindless, cryptic babble then you'd realize they were directions, and then, you would realize that you don't need to know where we're going to end up, only how to get there.'

Simon looked annoyed. 'Oh, just tell me already.'

'A club.' She said vaguely, before finally deciding that she would free him from his agony. She fumbled for the invitation card in her clutch. As soon as her hand made contact with the card, she felt a tingling sensation being swept up through her fingers. She shook it off as excitement and flashed it at him, before bringing it back down to eye-level and reading it out to him—being the kind, generous friend she was. 'The Pandemonium Club,' she announced, '8pm, free drinks. Free hooks. Bring your A-game! Be there. X, x, love Izzy.'

The card, just like the sender, was absolutely gorgeous. The words were written in lacey pink tendrils, printed on a delicate, papery-satiny sort of material that felt nice under Clary's fingertips. It felt like it was covered with what Clary imagined the 1000 ply toilet paper they had in the guest bathrooms of the Royal Palace, would feel like. Reading the card through again, she began weighing her thoughts. The more she looked at it and the more times she re-read it, the more she was drawn in by the offer. It was like a little hand had materialized out of one of the glimmering tendrils, and pulled and tugged at her conscience until she'd relented. And then it continued to do its job by knocking out the little voice that kept reminding her that her interview with the Van De Garde Young Artists' Scholarship Scheme, was in fact, tomorrow evening. Clary generally didn't like creepy little hands reaching into her and messing with her soul, so she quickly shook off the thought and pocketed the invitation.

'Oh, my God, Clary.' Simon breathed, snapping her out of her trance. His eyes widened dramatically, seemingly super-ultra magnified by his glasses. It gave him this stunned doe-eyed look, and Clary couldn't help but laugh.

You see, Clary thought to herself, mentally preparing herself for the shit to hit. This is why I had devised a plan to keep you clueless until we got there and your keys were stashed safely in my clutch. And all alternate escape routes were eliminated.

Simon stared at her in disbelief. 'No—that girl… that oh-my-gosh-this-is-like-so-cute-and-that-is-like-also-so-cute girl's party?' His voice had gone comically high, imitating Isabelle Lightwood's overly chirpy way of speaking. 'THAT GIRL? Oh, please, Clarissa, please for the love of God, tell me that you did not force me to drive you to that girl's party? And you have that— that, Van-the-Car scholarship interview tomorrow! You'll never make it back in time.' He gasped.

'Van De Garde.' Clary shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, the heat plastering her plum dress to her skin as she pursed her lips. 'You do know there is this pedal that makes your car go faster, right? Yeah, well if you try putting your foot on it maybe we will make it back in time. It doesn't even start till, like, eight in the evening, anyways.' She flicked her wrist up to look at an invisible watch, 'that gives you… just over 25 hours to figure out that pedal.'

'Does this look like a magic school bus to you? I'm trying here, but there's only so much one can do with their Great Aunt's 1986 Toyota.' Simon countered. He gestured towards the window; once again, the traffic had come to a complete standstill. 'So when did you finally decide that clubs aren't really hellhole-ish pits full of dark magic and intense evil? I've never even heard 'Clary' and 'party' used together in one sentence.' He shook his head and pursed his lips. 'Never. It's unheard of.'

'Um, not true. So I'm not always in the mood to be rubbed up against by men marinated in their own BO, doesn't mean I hate parties.'

He shrugged, 'Well you rejected mine.'

'That's only because it was frog-themed.'

'Amphibian-themed.' He shrugged, trying to hide the hurt. 'I was twelve.' Then he frowned. 'So you said yes to that girl? And not me? Who is this Annabel chick anyways? Is she giving away free art supplies as party favours?' He didn't do well at hiding his self-satisfied grin.

She swatted him with her clutch. 'Oh, says the freak who gave away Doctor Who tea infuser sets for party favours? And her name is Isabelle. We're friends. It's her birthday. I want to celebrate it with her. What's the deal?' Lies. Clary thought to herself. Even though Isabelle was nice—excessively nice, even— Clary had to admit that, in reality, Isabelle sat (or, more likely, stood proudly in her six-inch stilettos) somewhere between an acquaintance and a distant friend. Someone you'd walk past in the hallway and flash a friendly smile, a curt nod of the head. Simon, however, didn't need to know that.

He sucked air through his teeth, a dramatic questioning look marked on his face. 'Everything. Everything's the deal, and I'm not buying it.'

'Fine.' She shrugged, 'Believe what you will. She's actually possessing me and forcing me to attend her party on pain of social death. Does that make you less suspicious?' Clary joked, but even so, there was a tiny voice somewhere in the back of her mind that echoed the same confusion. She shrugged it off. Of course she'd elected to go on her own volition. Simon was just being his usual weird self.

'Then give me one legitimate reason why I shouldn't just turn this car around right now, and defend my rights to spend my night in bed with Spock.' A momentary pause. 'Spend my night in bed watching Spock.' Another pause. 'In a totally platonic way.'

Clary laughed. 'Well, it's Spock or Izzy. Your pick; but let me remind you, you've been crushing on her for, like, the last five months. Now's your chance to get within a ten-mile radius of her. Works out for the both of us.'

'Hey,' Simon protested, 'not crushing. Just… looking. At her. Sometimes. On the rare occasion.' He mumbled, not meeting Clary's eyes. 'Only as frequently as permitted normal by the standards of any hot-blooded male. Look, she's not my type anyways, she's just so ditzy and glitzy and glam...and a bit deficient in the brain's department for me. I like a woman of sophistication. So, in summary, not crushing. Just looking.'

'Well, I think you should stop watching people. First Spock, now Izzy?' Clary smirked, 'and, sorry, what was that? Isabelle not good enough for our lofty Simon, eh? You do realize that just because she doesn't acknowledge your existence, it doesn't make her mentally impaired. And she's not that ditzy.'

'I think 'deficient' was the word I used.' Simon said, matter-of-factly, 'And now you're defending her? What, you guys are best friends now? You never usually have many nice words to say about her crowd. Or anyone for that fact. You should really consider saving your kind words for more worthy people. Me, for instance.'

'But Isabelle's different.' Clary insisted. Oh, here we go again. Got to stop with the defending, Clary. Perhaps try the offensive. She cranked up the sarcasm. 'And I feel like sometimes,' she shot him a look, 'just sometimes, I like her better than you. Now, for example, is one of those times.'

He pouted. 'Well, now that's just hurtful,' he sobbed, wiping a non-existent tear from his face.

Clary sighed, 'I don't really know what it is, but she just… she makes an effort, you know? We were partners on that piece-of-shit Chem assignment Mr. Hopkins decided to make worth fifty percent of our grade, and she's actually smarter than you give her credit for her. And I think… I think, that maybe she's actually just genuinely… nice.'

'Either that, or she's just playing that card to help herself up the social ladder,' said Simon, 'and it looks like it's working. '

'But that's the thing!' Clary urged, 'She doesn't need to be nice. She can still be an irritating, whiny bitch like all her friends, and still have all the jocks and the mathletes bowing down as her faithful little minions. And there's three reasons: number one,' she announced, putting up a finger, 'she's hot. Number two, she has the best goddamn gazelle legs out—'

'And doesn't have the self-respect not to flaunt them,' muttered Simon.

'—and third,' Clary continued, 'she's hot.'

'You said hot twice,' Simon looked at her, 'and all three of your 'reasons' gravitates around her hotness.'

Clary nodded, 'my point exactly.'

And evidently, she thought to herself, not good enough for our own Simon. Oh, the poor man… the poor, deprived little man, withering in a whirlpool of his own denial.

Clary chuckled to herself, finger brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the invitation card, sending another bolt of something akin to excitement through her. She glanced over at Simon, who was still huffing in the driver's seat and trying not to look as anxious and eager as he clearly was. Oh yes, she thought as she turned back to watch the road, tonight was definitely going to be one for the books.

Eh? ;) So how was that for my first fanfic in God knows how long (3 years and two months, he says). SO, what do you say? Review? :)

I do hope you enjoyed it, and I really appreciate the time you've taken to read this. Also, just like to put out a special thanks to Melinda and Sam for their support during the writing process.

Next chapter shall be up within a jiffy. And no worries, Jace will show his fabulous face (MY GOD, THAT RHYMED) very, very soon, as will the charming Izzy, Alec etc. It will be really ace (too far?).

I've got a whole arsenal of little fanfic babies in store, so let me know what you think. In the meantime, any ideas for plot directions or feedback will be printed out and framed in gold. Thank you x