Hi, guys! So, as Maybe Someday comes to a close, I thought I'd post a story I've been working on for a long, looooooooooong time. Like, forever. It's bad. It's a two-part story, meaning that it will have a sequel, so yay! Exciting! Thanks to my beta, IWriteNaked, for cheering me on this whole year that I've been alternating between writing/planning this and then keeping it on hold for months at a time. I can't believe this is finally going up, but I'm pumped! Thanks to DeathCabForMari, who has heard us talk about this in our chat but hasn't read it, because you're awesome and I love you.

This story won't have a set update schedule, but I'll try to update anywhere from 2-4 times a month. Because of school, work, and life in general, I don't want to set a schedule. I don't want to end up disappointed when I skip an update, so I'll just say that 2-4 times a month, this will be updated.

I hope you guys like this!

"The gladdest moment in human life, me thinks, is a departure into unknown lands."

- Sir Richard Burton

Simon gives me the last of the many hugs he has been giving to me today. Honestly, it's not like I'm dying or anything.

Well, I'm kind of dying of excitement. But you know what I mean.

"Call me when you get there," he says to me.

"Simon." I put a hand on his shoulder. "You get to see me tomorrow. And, besides, it's only for three months."

"Only?" He scoffs. "That's a lot of time, Clary Fray. A dog's pregnancy lasts three months. New puppies will have been brought into this world by the time you get back."

I roll my eyes at his dramatics. "I'll see you tomorrow, Lewis."

"Yeah, yeah." He sneaks in another hug before walking away from the steps of my apartment building.

Despite my nonchalant attitude, I'm nervous. I've never even met Maryse Lightwood—the woman I'm going to stay with when I go to Paris tomorrow—and I've never been to Paris. The two things are completely foreign concepts. And, well, I kind of don't like change.

But I do love art.

The art program I'm going to in Paris takes two and a half months. My mom let me stay an extra two weeks to explore the city, which is super nice of her, since I'll be missing school.

But, well, who cares about senior year, anyway?

I walk into the building, going up the first set of the stairs before locating my apartment. Having an apartment on the second floor is sucky, but it's better than having a fifth floor apartment, to say the least.

My mom, Jocelyn, is sitting on the couch, watching TV. When she hears the door open, she turns, regarding me with a smile. "How was Eric's poetry reading?"

I cringe. "It was very Eric."

She gives me a tired smile. "Are you all set for tomorrow?"

I nod. "I'm insanely ready."

She stands up. "Your flight leaves at ten, so we have to be there at seven, and you get there at five of our time, eleven of theirs. So get sleep," she warns. "No staying up to talk to Simon or sketch. You'll have plenty of time for that in Paris."

I let my mom wrap me into a hug. It scares me to leave her here, but she'll always have Luke. "I know. I'm tired, anyway."

"I'll let you go to bed, then." She gives me a final pat on the back before retreating to her room.

I enter mine. It's a mess of clothes and art supplies, though Mom insisted that I don't take that many, because they'll give me what I need in Paris. Still, I want to take my stuff. It'll make it feel homier. I have a few books—most of them art-related and required reading for school—packed up as well.

I start gathering my stuff from the floor. The clock reads 9pm, and I'm exhausted. I just finished school yesterday, and Simon dragged me out of bed early today so we could spend quality time before my "big departure." He's so dramatic.

Spending the summer in Paris has been my dream for quite a while now, but it just didn't seem realistic. But it's the summer before my senior year, and I want to improve my artistic skills before I start applying to college, so my mom got in contact with her high school friend, Maryse Lightwood, who said it was no problem, and that she would love to have me stay with her the whole summer, and here I am, with my bags mostly packed and my heart ready to go.

Once everything is as it should be—bag fully packed, zipped, and with a lock—I change into my pajamas. My whole body relaxes as I slip into the comfortable material. I turn off the lights, tuck myself in, and will myself to sleep.

But I can't.

Traveling is one of my favorite things to do. Not that I get to do it much, of course, not since my dad passed away when I was just four. It may sound like the worst thing ever, but I don't miss him. I don't really remember my childhood. My earliest memory is of my first day at kindergarten, when I picked up a crayon and drew all over a table. It was awesome.

Anyway, because of my lack of traveling experience despite my humongous love for it, I'm nervous. I have the way airports work drilled into the back of my mind—thanks to Simon, who travels every summer and winter—but I still wonder if I'll fuck up. If I'll get on the wrong plane. If I'll miss my flight.

Oh my god, what am I doing?

Breathe, I tell myself, but I've already freaked myself out too much. My heart is racing, my mouth drying. The truth is, even though I love new stuff, I hate change. This is a change. This is a big, fat, huge change, and why did I agree to this? Why did I agree to spending an entire summer away from my mom and Simon and Luke and the city and oh my GOD, what have I done?

Relax. You're just freaking out. It's Paris. I listen to the rational part of myself soothe me. Seriously, I'm going crazy. I force my breathing to slow down until it's mostly normal. I'm freaked out because this is a massive mess of new things. New city, new language, new people…it's all kind of strange. Simon says not to worry, that I'll do fine, that Paris is for all the artsy people like me anyway, and I haven't found it in me to disagree, because it has been my dream for a while.

Except now. Mostly because I can't sleep. No sleeping = no dreaming.

I think of Paris and its overhyped streets (Simon has been to France and has announced that it isn't nearly as gorgeous as everyone thinks it is, but Paris could be made out of trash and I would love it anyway), of the Eiffel Tower, of all the art galleries and the movie theaters. I make myself relax until I slip from a daydream (nightdream?) to an actual dream, my thoughts fading into nothingness.

My mom looks like she's about to cry.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I mean, I know, it's my first time traveling alone and maybe she's all ohhh, Clary's growing up, but seriously? Tears? Come on, Jocelyn.

"Call me when you get there," Mom says, giving me hug. "Or write me an email if you can't call. And have fun," she reminds me. "This is an opportunity you need to take and enjoy and make the best of. Got it?"

"Yeah, Mom." I smile at her. "Seriously. I got it." I'm thanking her a million times on the inside for paying for my classes and funding the trip (I'm taking care of all personal expenses, though, so there's that), but I don't say anything out loud. It'd be too awkward and a little too emotional. "I got it."

"I'll see you in three months." She gives me another hug and a forehead kiss before walking off. I've checked in, and we're standing a few feet away from the security checkpoint.

It's Simon's turn. He pushes his glasses up—they fell and are now tilted, so they're uneven—and wraps his arms around me. "Don't have too much sex with hot Parisian boys," he warns me. "And beware of drugs. And kidnapping. You know, I've seen Taken, and—"

I smack his arm to shut him up. "I'll be fine. I'll email you when I get to the house."

"If they even have internet in France," he mutters.

"Simon," I say, exasperated, "you've been to France. Seriously, calm down."

He sighs. "I'm gonna miss you, Fray."

"Try not to cry in the car." I give him a hug, squeezing as hard as I can while standing on my tiptoes, and let go. "I'll see you in three months?"

"You definitely will." He winks at me, and I roll my eyes as he whirls around and walks away.

I go through security without looking back.

I get some food and wait at the gate. Unsurprisingly, I was able to get through this easily. I have no idea why I freaked out last night. I munch on my salad and listen to music until the flight starts boarding.

So yeah, Paris. Wow. I throw away the plastic container that held the remains of my salad and pull out the gum packet from my pocket. I unwrap and chew it, and life is veeeery exciting in those couple of minutes I wait in line and try not to make eye contact with people. I board the plane, find my seat, sit down (I have a window seat!), and wait.

I pull out my sketchbook and set of pencils. My music is still playing, and I know it'll be another fifteen to twenty minutes before we take off, so I start sketching the inside of the plane. I'm about to be done with the outline when a flight attendant politely tells me that I need to close the tray thing because we're about to take off. I apologize, close the tray, and shove my sketchbook messily into my bag.

The nerves are threatening to come back. Electronics are supposed to be off, but I always have a way of hiding that music is playing. My iPhone's on airplane mode, but one of the songs from the Pitch Perfect soundtrack is playing, making me feel slightly better. Thank god.

The song changes to "Sleeping With A Friend" by Neon Trees just as the plane starts to move faster, making me grip the edge of my seat. I'm not scared of this part, but the pressure makes my back press against my seat.

All my friends, they're different people
Anxious like the ocean in a storm
When we go out
Yeah, we're a legend
Coursing through our bodies 'til we're warm

And why mess up a good thing, baby?
It's a risk to even fall in love
So when you give that look to me
I better look back carefully
'Cause this is trouble
Yeah, this is trouble

The song keeps playing, but all I notice as we rise up into the air is how little everything seems when you look at it from up above. Like every little problem isn't a problem when you're in the air, because you can barely see the buildings, let alone the people. It makes me feel better, more relaxed.

I decide to finish my sketch. I have plenty of time to sleep—my flight goes directly to Paris, and it's almost eight hours long. I continue to sketch the details of the inside of the plane, stopping only when one of the flight attendants asks me if I want anything to drink. After my ginger ale is on my tray, I keep going like I never stopped at all. I wonder if I should've asked for coffee, but then I decide that it's better to save that for later, when I'll be tired and in need of something to boost my poor social skills.

I put away my sketchbook after an hour, having finished my sketch, and take out an art book Simon bought me as an early birthday present. I skim through it as I sip on my ginger ale, wishing I had a highlighter on me so I could make note of the different styles of drawing and whatnot. Oh, well. I guess I'll just have to re-read this in Paris.

Finally, nearing the third hour of our flight, I decide to take a nap. My music is still playing in the background—I play my soothing music mix, the one I use when I can't sleep but need to—and decide to focus on it as my head rests against the hard wall of the plane and I drift off to a light sleep.

The announcement that we're about to land is what makes me wake up. It's very sudden, very movie-like—I snap my head up, feeling lost and confused, and wait for the reality to sink in: I'm in France! Paris! Yay!

I take a piece of gum from my pocket and chew on it, opening the window to reveal the sky. I can't really see anything, because it's dark; it's eleven p.m., after all.

We start descending. Thankfully, the sky is clear of clouds, and it's not raining tonight, so there's no turbulence. As we go down further, I see the city lights. I see tiny buildings and the street divisions. Oh my god.

I'm in Paris.

As I start to make out little buildings and tiny cars, we land. It's never graceful, a plane landing, but this one hurts my back. I really have to pee, too. I love traveling, but eight hours of being stuck on a plane ain't exactly my dream.

It takes fifteen minutes for us to start leaving the plane. It's warm outside, probably in the 60s range of temperature, but I can only tell that much from the little breeze that flows through from the outside to the cabin's entrance. I keep walking, head down, suddenly feeling self-conscious. All of these people look like they're here for business—except one or two, but they look way older and more experienced than I do—and it makes me feel nervous. Maybe this was a bad idea.

The line for customs is huge. It takes twenty minutes for me to get to the front, and I answer the usual questions while my heart beats rapidly against my chest. What if he thinks I'm lying? Oh my god. This sucks.

I go down to baggage claim as soon as he lets me go. I'm scared of getting lost, but I just follow the people. Peeing can totally wait.

I get my super heavy bag from the carousel thing and wheel it into the bathroom with me, not trusting anyone who offers to look after it. My life is looking a lot better after I pee. I go down to the exit area, looking for the people that're supposed to pick me up. Mom showed me an old picture of Maryse Lightwood—she's skinny and tall, with black hair and blue eyes—but the picture was taken, like, twenty years ago.

I start to freak out after I can't spot her in the crowd. Damn it, why are there so many people? I tell myself to breathe and to keep looking, and, just when I'm about to give up, I spot my name written in block letters on a white piece of paper being held up by a girl looking a lot like the picture of Maryse my mom showed me.

I walk over to her. "Hi," I say. "I'm Clary." I point to her sign.

The girl gives me a hug that throws me off guard. Okaaaaay. So she's very affectionate. Got it. She lets go of me after I awkwardly pat her back. "I'm Isabelle Lightwood, but you can call me Izzy. My mom's Maryse," she explains, "but she's in London until tomorrow, so I came to get you instead."

She speaks really fast. How is she not out of breath? Honestly. "Nice to meet you, Izzy."

"You too, Clary. It is so nice to have another girl around." She rolls her eyes. "The boys are nuts."

"Awesome," I mutter.

"I mean, I have three brothers. One of them is adopted, but still. Anyway, they gang up on me all the time, and—well, you'll see." She grins and takes my suitcase.

"Oh, I can carry that," I say lamely.

"It's fine," she says. I'm kind of relieved. That thing's heavy, and Isabelle doesn't seem to mind.

We walk over to a cab. Huh. I guess she doesn't have a car. The driver, who stands smoking outside, puts out his cigarette and joins us in getting the suitcase into the trunk. Isabelle and I sit in the back, and she gives him her address. I don't catch any of it, of course, because all I know is how to say hello and my name is Clary Fray and I'm sixteen years old. I'm working on the other phrases, though. It's a good thing the art program's in English.

We make it to her house, which is…huge doesn't begin to cover it. It's like a castle in a movie or something. It's nuts, and I love it, and I swear to myself that I'm gonna draw it before I leave. Not that I can see it well right now, but still. I'm exhausted. That cup of coffee I wanted? I slept through the entire plane ride, so I didn't get a chance to order it, and now I feel like death with finger-combed hair. Amazing.

We take my bag out of the trunk. I clutch my tote bag and let Isabelle roll my suitcase past through the driveway and to the entrance.

"Fuck," she mutters. "I forgot my keys." She proceeds to ring the doorbell. "Someone has to be up. It's almost one, but still."

And, just as predicted, there is someone. Said someone has hair sticking up in every direction, and I'm pretty sure there's glitter on his face. I've seen weirder.

"Magnus! Thank god," Isabelle says, giving him a quick hug. "Take care of the bag for me?"

"Of course, sweetie." He winks at her. "And who is this?"

"Didn't Alec tell you?" Isabelle asks him. "This is Clary. She's gonna be living with us this summer. She's going to an art program here."

"Nice to meet you, Clary." He gives me a tired smile. "I'm usually more enthusiastic, but you interrupted a very private moment between me and Alec."

"It was actually Isabelle," I blurt out. "But nice to meet you too."

"Putting the blame on me, huh?" Izzy smiles at me and turns to Magnus. "She'll be staying across the hall from me."

I don't know what else to say, so I follow her in. The house is huge on the inside, of course, but it just has a lot of rooms instead of being an open house. The living room is the only open part, and it's huge, with three couches and a couple of ottomans. There's a huge plasma TV by the wall, which is nice.

"The kitchen's that door." Isabelle points to the right. "You must be starving."

My stomach rumbles. "I think that answers the question."

"Well, we can go to your room and get you settled in, and you can shower and get dressed or whatever, and then we can eat. Sound good?"

Despite my exhaustion, I nod. If I don't eat, I'll feel like hell in the morning. "That sounds good."

I follow her and Magnus upstairs. My room here is bigger than mine at home. It shouldn't surprise me, what with the size of this house and all, but it still manages to. It has wooden floors, and the window shows me the view of a lake. I have a windowsill (yay!), and a bookshelf (double yay!), which is pretty perfect. My bed is king-sized, I think, and there's a desk and a nice closet. I even have my own bathroom.

It's sorta kinda perfect.

"Do you like it?" Izzy bites her lip. "I pretty much decorated it last week, after classes finished. I love decorating, so this was just a side project."

"I love it," I say, even though I mostly love the actual layout of the room. It's good, though; it doesn't have neon colors and mostly focuses on solid ones, which are my favorites.

"Well, I'll let you get ready. Knock on my door when you wanna get some food?"

"Got it," I tell her. "Thanks."

Magnus left without me noticing. My bag sits on the floor, and I lock my door and lay it down, searching through it until I find my pajama pants and plain black shirt. Perfect. Thank god I showered this morning so I don't have to wash my hair.

I'm done in fifteen minutes. The ends of my hair got wet, but oh well. I knock on Isabelle's door after sending my mom and Simon respective emails letting them know that I got in okay.

"Come in," Isabelle calls out.

I step into her room. It's about as big as mine, which is good. She's on her laptop, typing away. "Sorry," she says, looking sheepish. "I'm just emailing Mom, letting her know you're here."

"It's okay," I tell her, inspecting her room. She has a lot of black stuff, but her room doesn't look like an emo girl's room or anything. It's actually kind of nice and mellow—or it would be, if she didn't have her bras all over the place and a couple of Zac Efron posters up. I didn't think a girl like Isabelle would still be into Zac Efron—or have posters of him up on her walls for everyone to see—but I roll with it.

"Okay." She stands up. "Let's go get some food."

We walk downstairs, our footsteps making the floorboards creak. The kitchen has brighter lights than the rest of the house; they're almost fluorescent.

"Do you want a grilled cheese sandwich or something?"

I nod. "Okay."

"You know, the super annoying thing is that my idiot brother forgot to take his keys tonight, so I have to stay up to open the door for him." She shakes her head. "He's such an idiot."

"I thought your brother was upstairs."

"There's three of 'em."

"Where are the other two?"

"One of them is sleeping—the youngest, Max, who's nine—and Jace, who's the same age as Alec, is at some party. I don't know." She shakes her head again. "I usually go with him, but I just haven't felt up to it lately. He's kind of been overdoing it." She spreads butter over a slice of bread. It makes a sizzling sound when it meets the hot frying pan.

"He sounds interesting," I say. "It sucks that you have to stay up, though. When does he usually get in?"

"An hour or two, probably."

"I could stay up with you, if you want."

Another shake of the head. "You need sleep. When does your art program start?"

"A week," I tell her. "And then I have a week or so after it's done to do more stuff."

"We can go shopping!" Her eyes are shining with excitement. Oh god. "This is so exciting!" She's all but squealing. Seriously.

"Sounds great." My enthusiasm is just off the charts today. "I usually sleep until late, though."

"I'll let you sleep in tomorrow," she promises me. "Besides, I usually don't wake up until noon during the summer, so all's good."

Finally. Something we both do.

We eat our grilled cheese sandwiches and sip on orange juice in silence. She asks me a couple of things, like what grade I'm going into this fall (I tell her I'm gonna be a senior), how old I am (sixteen), what my favorite movie is (all-time favorite is Heathers, but current favorite is Stuck in Love). We keep going at it until I let out a yawn and she tells me to go to bed.

"I'll keep interrogating you tomorrow," she says with a wink as we walk upstairs, and we say goodbye and shut our respective doors.

The bed has never seemed more comfortable. I feel like it's swallowing me up. I connect my phone (which is still on airplane mode) to the WiFi (which you don't need a password for, thank god) and check quickly to see if my mom and Simon have emailed me back. When I see that there are two new emails, I decide to read them, even though I'm so tired that my vision is blurry.

From: simonlewis123

To: clareefray

I'm so glad to hear that you got in safely. Get some rest. Skype date tomorrow at midnight of your time?

From: clareefray

To: simonlewis123

I'm in bed! You're on for the Skype date, though. We'll talk tomorrow. :)

I click on my mom's email, bracing myself for some long rant about how she misses me. Either that, or a one-word reply.

From: jocelynfray

To: clareefray

Hi, sweetie! I am glad that you got in okay. Please let Maryse know; she told me this morning she was going to be in London and that her daughter Isabelle would pick you up. Anyway, I am sure you will want to get some rest. I will talk to you tomorrow. Sweet dreams! I love you.

-Mom

From: clareefray

To: jocelynfray

Hey, Mom. Isabelle emailed Maryse already. I'm in bed, yeah. Talk to you tomorrow. I love you too.

After finally replying to all of their messages, I set my phone down on the nightstand and bury my head in the comfortable pillows, letting sleep come to me.

Let me know what you think!