Sierra: Hmmmm...

I've never written for The Mortal Instruments before.

I do hope, at least, someone will enjoy this~

Serendipity

Chapter 1

Sola Clarissa

"You're too goddamn overprotective!"

Jocelyn, who'se now white-knuckled hands finally released the red plaid flannel, stumbled back a few feet, as if she'd been hit by some unstopable force that didn't release. In her reel, I took the chance to gasp and inhale, as if I'd been underwater far too long, just now breaking the surface to breathe in the sweet fillment of oxygen. Her face looked stunned, as if this fact was unknown and I'd been the only one to inform her. This couldn't have been the first time I'd said that, right? Surely it had slipped passed my teeth and lips during some other outbreak, in a moment of fitful rage, when I'd been too blinded by anger to filter what I was screaming.

"Clarissa Idelene Fray," she gasped, gripping the table so hard I thought it might snap under her relentless pressure. I almost flinched. She only addressed me by my full name when the line of right and wrong had been breached and I'd been the one to step over it. "How dare you curse at me. I am your mother! I birthed you, gave you your name, and loved and cared for you since your first breath. It's what I do. Are you still so naive to believe not all mothers feel this way?"

My fists clenched so tightly, nails digging into the smooth flesh as if they were sharp edged shovels. No, I wanted to scream. But what could that do? What could I say? Did I even know? My lack of knowledge about the world beyond my mother was presented to me then, whipping me hard as if to remind me I hadn't a clue if she were right or wrong, if I were truly undeniably naive. I guessed, however, not.

"You don't GET IT!" My voice rose one high-pitched octave, and I felt that boiling rage inside of me, as if it were a boulder coursing through my body, wracking every sensitive nerve painfully harsh. Though I was wrong; she was a mother. She did get it, but to admit to that would be to admit defeat. "How long do you honestly think you can keep me locked up in the so called "security" of this house?! I'm sixteen years old! I've lived long enough to be able to take care of myself, to earn an oportunity to at least go outside and meet someone that isn't you!"

Hurt flashed across her face, molding her stricken features further. I'll admit - even as I said it, seeing the pain registure through her hurt me, too. I couldn't help it, this unwanted sympathy I felt for her. But I couldn't ignore my anger, not now. Not when I felt as if I would explode if I didn't make my mother feel as bad as I possibly could.

"Is that how you feel? Is that why you snuck out of your bedroom last night, wandering the streets alone, trying to sneak into a club? A CLUB, Clary. The explicity of that action is unbearable! Do you know what it felt like, to get that call at two o'clock in the morning, from the police, exploiting your illicit actions?"

There she goes again; talking as if everything I do is such an unbearable mistake, that I can never do anything right. It felt, with each word, as if she were taking the knife of our relationship and stabbing me in the back, twisting and untwisting so many times, letting the ache of betrayal strike me down like lightning.

The familiarty of tears burned in the back of my eyes and a lump, forming slowly in the back of my throat, gradually got harder to swallow.

"Maybe I wouldn't have done that if you didn't keep me locked up in this goddamn house, not even letting me go to school, not letting me make friends, never allowing me the opportunity to live a life that didn't involve you. You're-" I broke off, realizing the entirety of what I was about to say, not caring anymore. She was hurting me, too. "Suffocating."

Jocelyn's eyes widened.

It wasn't the kind of widened that expressed excitement or joy, confusion, even. It wasn't shock, though, either. They widened with a certain furrow to her dark red eyebrows, a frown pulling at the edges of her lips, wrinkling her young face. She looked scarily enraged, misery swimming in her green eyes. Of all the times we've faught, this, I reckoned, was the first time her expression looked so menacing.

"Suffocating," she repeated, voice so low it came as almost a whisper. Her eyes locked with mine, though they fell quickly, her features unchanged. She looked as if she were focusing intently at me, though her eyes were glazed over, unwilling to flick back up to mine. I froze under her stare, unsure to continue or apologize, despite I meant it, with every fiber of my being.

"Yes," I breathed, unmoving. "Suffocating."

I bit my lip, hard. I shook my head so harshly I stumbled a bit to the side, which I was positive made me look utterly drunk to whoever else had decided to watch me from across the street. The recollection of our fight made a new-found anger bloom in my stomach, slow as a flower, and though slow, quite surely. My heart quickened in an attempt to not embarrass myself, for when I looked back at the house across the street, the few that had gathered around the lawn in luxurious looking lawn chairs inspected me with furrowed brows and confused expressions, as well as that all too familiar look of she's-horrifically-crazy strewn about each well-groomed face.

Regaining balance, I gripped the handle of my rolling luggage, hoisting myself up straight, trying to make it seem like a was a normal, civilized being. Though I'm sure one of them was about two seconds away from calling the cops to report an attempted break in by yours truly. That wasn't the case, but if it weren't me in my own situation, I would concoct the same thought.

I'd been standing outside the house for about an hour and a half, getting slightly more agitated with every agonizing minute that passed. Every so often I'd reopen the white piece of paper, which had only an address and a phone number, which was painfully useless. I had no phone to contact anyone with, thanks to my ever-so-protective mother, feeling if I had no friends I had no use for a cellular device. Which was harshly true. But despite, I knew I had the right address, because no other house had the exact digits written, unless the numbers were wrong on the paper, which I prayed to God they weren't. I'd hate to have been screaming at some random fellow's house for the past almost two hours, trying to capture the owners attention, going around back to the high fenced backyard, finding the gate locked, trying every other visible door, not being tall enough to reach the windows set higher in its frame.

I was beginning to think perhaps no one lived there at all, which was probably why the people across the street were busy looking so perplexed at me, as if I were truly some un-informed maniac. At first when I'd arrived, I was shocked. This stretch of street, this neighborhood that sat so close to others, was one of the finest, richest looking ones around. It looked as if only old, wealthy, retired folks could afford and inhabit each and every house (though the family across the street looked fresh enough in age, groomed to perfection and whatnot.) Every lawn was cleanly and perfectly cut, green as the hue was ever getting, every patch neatly furnished, houses even more so.

This particular house, which rose at least three feet from the ground on a cement block, which I assumed was a basement, was completely, utterly, plainly white. Though a perfect, blinding, unscarred white. The layers of siding overlapping the other were vibrantly so, the dark gray of the roof clashing noticeably against it. A stone pathway bled from the sidewalk, up to four large, crescent steps that led to the door, each step diminishing in size the higher they rose. A porch lay adjacent, dark gray just as the roof, large enough to pass for the lining of a bedroom. Lights were strung about each pillar upholstering the porch, and miniature looking streetlamps, designed as sidewalk lights, encompassed the bottom of the porch, as well as steps that dropped near the edge of the house.

The house with which I'd been standing/sitting in its lawn for an expansive period of time. No matter how hard I knocked or kicked on the intricately designed front door, nobody bothered answering. There was no driveway, I'd come to realize. In fact, none of the houses contained a driveway. In front, at least. An alley behind each block held all of the cars and garages, and with the time accumulated from my wait, I'd been back there more than once, hoping each time a car to this house's driveway would magically appear. It never did.

Eventually I just gave up, heaving all of my suitcases and luggage onto the perfectly polished and colored porch, and sat, for what was now, I'd imagine, forty-five minutes. I'd gotten up to stretch my legs, and that's when the remembrance of my mother and I's fight slapped me, hard in the face. I couldn't believe her, not really, at least. We fought all the time. It seemed impossible that by this point, neither of us had attempted killing the other, though on many occasions I was deathly tempted. However, I refused to think past that point in our conflict, for the events that followed landed me here.

Brooklyn, New York. It was quite a change from the uneventful town of Billings, Montana, where everything was empty and land and grass devoured the state like a starving human would devour a hamburger. Going from a small population of one-hundred-thousand to a booming two-point-four millionwas quite the drastic change, considering I'd never been anywhere outside of Montana, never experienced real noise and the busy flow of an overpopulated city. Hell, I'd barely set foot in a school. My mother was in over her head, as was I. I was the one here, now, waiting. Waiting for my new "roommate" to arrive, let me in, let me share a living space. Waiting to be invited into the bustling life of a normal New Yorker, be introduced to my first ever high school, or school, in general, be in a town with people and events and socialism.

Waiting for a brother I've known existed but never met, to arrive at his impressive house, to let me into his life, him.

I've waited not-so-patiently for Jonathan Morgenstern, my sibling.

I sighed, stretching my arm up, gripping that wrist with my other hand, pulling high, standing on my tiptoes. I was vaguely aware that my black tank top slid slightly up my stomach, exposing a few inches of skin, an action my mother would address as "inappropriate." I'd discarded my light green flannel, rolled at the sleeves, on one of the chairs on the porch due to the scorching heat of a blazing New York afternoon. The sun seemed to sink into my skin, burning me from inside out. I knew I was tanning, which was rich and rare, considering I'd never known any other ethnicity other than white to inhabit me.

I wondered what he looked like for the longest time, imagined meeting him, fabricated a fictional face to appease my curious mind. My mother, who left my father, Valentine, before I was old enough to remember, ever only gave me descriptions of Jonathan and Valentine, and never much else. She never explained why she left my dad, never showed me a picture of what either of them looked like, never gave me the slightest inclination of anything that pertained to them.

For the longest time, I convinced myself that's why she was the way she was, because she'd never accepted love, I guessed. Didn't have someone to make her happy.

I sighed again, let my arms fall, and just stood there, on the porch, examining the white boarderd curtained window that was carved into the outside of the house, the only window I could reach while standing on the porch, because I was eye-level with it. But a screen protected it, a screen I'd tried and failed to remove.

Across the street, the family seemed to be growing bigger, more and more people appearing out of nowhere, as if some party were being held. Their noise escalated at each person arriving. I tried drowning out there sound, singing lyrics from pop songs I'd remembered, since I didn't have a phone or iPod to play music off of.

After a while of yet more waiting, I pulled out my sketchbook from one of the bags of luggage; I'd remembered exactly which one I put it in, because it was my baby, holding many previous drawings I'd done from some spark of imagination. But when I sat down, pencil in hand, I found I couldn't draw a single thing. Not even a line, a start to something beautiful.

So I put it back, hid all the luggage somewhere along the edge of the house, and tried taking a walk. A risky move, but I was beyond restless, eager for something to do. I never got beyond rich looking neighborhoods and cleanness, though, because the wealthiness seemed to radiate off of every house, like heat might radiate off a piece of metal that's been in the sun for too long. When I configured the sun was burning through my light-wash boot-cut jeans too harshly, I headed back, surprisingly remembering the way I'd come. I headed back through the alley, though, to check if a car had arrived. Disappointed when nothing had changed, I went to the front of the house again. The smell of a barbecue drifted through the air, as elegant as the summer's slight breeze, and it was only then did I realize how famished I actually was.

It was the family across the street, who pulled a grill onto their porch, and were now cooking meaty items, letting the smell waft over to every other house in the neighborhood. With each inhale through my nose my stomach growled a bit, a warning that reprimanded if I didn't satisfy it soon, I'd be in trouble.

After some more of soaking up the heat of the sun, the hair at the back of my neck felt damp, due to how much hair I actually had, its length, its thickness. It fell down the length of my back like a waterfall, bright, bright red, brighter than I would have ever liked. So many times did I wish I could dye it, so the vibrant color could be tamed a bit, though my mother never allowed me to change my body. She thought its natural color was beautiful and, scolded me for not believing so, going into a lecture about how red-heads were becoming extinct, talking as if I were some kind of endangered animal. So all my life I lived with long, curly, thick, red hair, its abundance constantly annoying, tangling at every little thing I did.

I ran my hand through it, pushing it away from my face, letting it all fall behind my back.

As more time passed, I found I was beginning to get nervous. Outrageously nervous. What would Jonathan be like? Would I like him? Would he like me? Would we get along? The only other family member I'd lived with was my mother, and by no means did we exactly "get along." There's a certain exhileration in meeting someone you knew was real, though had never experienced before. Someone you've been told about all your life, never getting to talk, communicate, see. Eventually, the twist of nervousness in my stomach made me feel sick. I'd been nervous once I stepped on the plane, stepped off, rode a taxi here, waited. It settled a bit when I realized I was alone, though it was back now, engulfing me, making me shiver despite the heat of the sun.

My foot bounced restlessly, up, down, up down, fast, over my crossed legs. I gripped the arms of the chair tightly, inhaling and exhaling loudly, trying to calm myself. Without much success, I stood again, leafing an arm across my waist, placing my elbow against it, chewing anxiously on my thumb nail, pacing back and forth across the width of the porch.

Where are you? Where is ANYONE?

Sighing, I realized my lack of something to do was only going to make this process significantly harder. I needed something to keep me occupied, to weave my scattered thoughts into something comprehensible. I stole down the stained-brown stairs of the porch, feeling my hair flop carelessly on my back. I craved for a hair-tie but knew they were in some unreachable crevice of one of my suitcases, and attempting to find one was not energy I was willing to expend. The grass tickled at my feet, soft and gentle, and surprisingly cool. I peered over the ridge of the house's exterior, spotting my suitcases. Trying not to look suspicious, I walked over, savoring the shade the house produced, as covering as an umbrella in the rain. Gripping the handles of each case tightly, I made a montage of walking each one to the front of the wooden gate entrapping the backyard, blocking it off. I stacked them like lego's, being careful to steady each full, almost bursting bag carefully before venturing to retrieve more.

With the last suitcase, which was my fourth one, I set it adjacent to the previous ones, a stool to boost my minimal height higher.

The fence was about six feet, maybe five something, but I had no indication of height. My slight figure wasn't really a shape to compare something to.

First, I stepped up onto the suitcase flat on the ground. I hoped nothing fragile was in it, hoped I wouldn't hear the ever-so-rewarding crackle of an item crunching or shattering beneath my weight. No sound reverberated. Silently I thanked lucky choices. Extending my legs, I boosted myself up onto the other suitcases, which were horrifically unstable, wobbling at any uneven weight set upon one side or the other. Somehow I managed, by taking a leap of faith and gripping the top of the wooden fence, grasping so hard I felt splinters briskly sink into my skin, but I'd take that pain over the thought of breaking a rib on the ground. Physically I breathed out, relieved.

Absently I wondered if this was a bad idea. This could, after all, really just be some strangers house as to which I was attempting to break into. Technically. It was only the backyard.

Screw it.

My breathing eradicated when my foot groped for leverage, which it found on the bulge of where the lock held the gate in place. Rearranging my hands by spreading them apart, I inhaled sharply and pulled up, dispensing a large amount of my arm strength. Lactic acid rushed through my veins, burning harshly like the boil of the sun above. When my stomach made contact with the top of the wood, I exhaled loudly and fervently, breathing hard shortly after. My position was quite compromising. My heart thumped loudly in my chest, pounding on the cage of my ribs so hard I thought it would burst free. The only fear driving it was the fear of falling off. Every grip I had was exceptionally strong, holding me steady wherever I positioned it despite the slight tremble of my figure.

I placed my right hand above the other on the top of the fence, and riskily threw one leg over, so half of my body dangled on one side, and half on the other. This is where the real fun came into play. How was I supposed to carry out the rest of the process?

I wiggled slightly, inching myself closer to the edge, and grunted loudly when I slipped marginally, grabbing another section of the fence. The roughness of the wood made easy friction against my hands, and I winced at the pain it caused.

My breath came in hot bursts, mind unsure of what to do next with my body-

"What do you think you're doing?" came the quirky, amused, surprised sound of a leveled male voice on some side of the gate. I gasped, unsure which way it had emanated. Whipping my head to the side, I only caught the blurring image of a stark boy, with blindingly bright hair that reflected the very light of the sun before I lost my grip completely.

I only had a fraction to think, a fraction for the terrified words falling and pain to scream in my head, before my body made contact with a grassy, slightly soft surface.

At first contact I grunted, all of the air expelling from me in less than an instant. Instantly pain lanced through me, hot and quick and unstoppable. My side felt as if it had been hit with a baseball bat, and my head snapped against the ground so quickly I wondered briefly if it had actually happened. I realized it had when a headache started to swirl in the space behind my temple, a constant, relentless pounding.

Moaning, I rocked to one side, and then suddenly coughed. It was too surprising to take control over, and I coughed and gasped and coughed some more, begging for oxygen to fill my lungs. Finally when my fit was over, the realization that someone was on the other side of the gate slapped me in the face, and I struggled to get it, stumbling a bit due to light-headedness. I fell into the gate, heart pounding even more dramatically in my chest. My clumsy fingers fumbled for the lock, forehead pressed sharply into the splintery wood of the gate. A sort of strangled gasp left me before the lock opened and the gate was suddenly falling open.

I fell with it, surprised, and stumbled back out into the side of the front yard. And then my suitcases were there, right in front of my line of stumble, and I fell, YET AGAIN, over them. Reflexively my hands shot out to catch me, but that was unneeded. They fell in a line, cushioning the impact, and this time I yelped a little as my body was cradled into the bed of my own suitcases.

You. Have got. TO BE KIDDING ME! You're such an idiot. You're such a careless, stupid, reckless, clueless, CLUMSY IDIOT CLARISSA FRAY! What in the entirety of this completely normal seeming planet is WRONG with you?! Are you incapable of normality?! I was so wrapped in scolding myself I didn't notice him, his shadowed features looming over me. His face was so strikingly close to mine I gathered he must have been kneeling. My heart was already beating as hard as it could, which was impossibly hard, that at this point it simply just stopped.

"Hi," I blurted. What the hell? HI!? That's all you could produce? HI?!

His brows were furrowed. They were so light they were hardly there at all, little streaks of heaven curving about his forehead. His mouth was parted, lips a very pale pink, sculpted and protruding from the shape of his face, which was narrow. His nose was chiseled with a tip sharp enough to cut. The darkness of his cheekbones stood out the most, most likely due to the shadows devouring his face. And then there were those eyes - those impossibly bright, bright, bright green eyes. It didn't occur to me how eyes could be so green, so grassy. No one had eyes like that. No one but my mother.

And me.

"Jonathan," I breathed, inwardly hoping it was actually him, somewhat hoping it wasn't. I mean, I did just try to break into his house, and possibly made the biggest fool of myself, what with falling and tripping of the sorts. Then again, he did leave me waiting, all this time. He wasn't even there to pick me up at the airport like my mother had said he would be.

Abruptly my body shot up, fumbling over the suitcases to find even ground. My head throbbed, hand flying to lay against it.

"You!" I accused, pointing a shaky finger as I wobbled and stumbled, much like a drunkard. I shut my eyes briefly, trying to stop the world from spinning. "YOU'RE LATE!" I yelled. "You're so late! Do you know how long I've been here? You weren't even at the airport! You were supposed to pick me up! Did you just magically forget that? I waited you'know! But no, you weren't there, so I had to pay a taxi driver, which isn't FREE, to drop me off at this-" I waved my hands frantically in the direction of the house- "frickin' mansion, which I didn't have the slightest clue as to if it were yours or not. So I just WAITED, sitting here, wondering for hours where you were! Then I tried getting in, because patience runs thin, FYI, and then all of a sudden you just APPEAR?! Out of nowhere?! I mean, WHAT THE HELL JONATHAN! WHERE WERE YOU?! WHAT WERE YOU DOING?! How could you just forget to pick me up?!" My voice was hysterical.

"Clarissa-"

"NO!" I cut off his alluring voice, which was gentle, but I desired answers. "Where were you?" I was surprised at how stern I was being, especially since those were the first sentences in his life he'd ever hear me say. The first impression I would ever mold into my brother, the first pop of a steady mood he'd see.

"Clarissa, I need you to please calm down-" He took a step towards me, and I immediately stepped back.

"Djubah!" I blurted, not really saying anything, just keeping distance between us. It registered that this was him, Jonathan, my brother, my sibling. The one I'd been nervous to meet. A close proximity was not something I deemed to have. "Tell, me," I said slowly, eyes wide and wild and frantic, as well as my breathing.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, obviously suppressing a smirk that threatened to lift the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry you've been here all this time, but your mom-"

"She's your mom too," I interrupted suddenly. Why would he address her as if she had only birthed me and not him?

He closed his eyes then opened them again, continuing as if I hadn't said anything, "She told me that you would be arriving at nine pm, so this is a surprise to me too. I didn't know your flight would be early. If you honestly want to know, I was out at the store, getting food for when you got here, in case you were hungry or anything. I'm sorry."

Food... While the subtle growl of my stomach was getting increasingly harder to suppress, it struck me that I had not even known him more than one minute yet he had already bothered to worry whether I would be in favor of my essential needs. "My flight wasn't early," I said, confused. Nine? My mom told him nine? My flight left at eight this morning, with the arrival time of three o'clock here in New York, where I was again transported to Manhattan. There was only a slight delay in Denver, but not long.

My head buzzed, be it from the impacts, the confusion, or the shock of meeting my brother, this resigned God that I'd never been permitted to learn about.

Confusion scrunched his features as well. "What?"

"I got here at three. I left early this morning. Are you sure she said nine?" I asked.

Fishing in the depths of his jeans, Jonathan produced a sleek black phone - an iPhone, judging by the apple on the back - and unlocked it, searching through something. Silently I cursed him and pouted out of jealousy. I wanted a phone.

Then there was a voice talking over it. Voicemail.

"Hello, Jonathan. I see you're busy right now. I wanted to inform you that your sister, Clary, will be arriving tomorrow at around nine pm, unless flights get delayed or something else comes up. Or unless she..." There was a sniffle, and then it seemed Jocelyn regained herself, voice only slightly shaky over the speakers. "Never mind. She'll be there. Please be there to pick her up. She gets hungry easily, too, so you should probably make sure she has food when she lands." She laughed a little breathlessly. Oh mom. "She's cranky when she's hungry, so please feed her, and please, please take care of her. My darling girl... Thank you, Jonathan. I know I've never been a part of your life, and I'm sorry I've kept you from Clary, but I hope you two have a chance to bond. Thank you..."

There was a linger, no beep indicating she had hung up, but finally there was. My heart constricted, and tears pricked my eyes. Mom... It hadn't occurred to me I would miss her, at least not yet, but already I did.

"See?" Jonathan asked, sounding exasperated. "I didn't know you would be here so early. Do you hate me now?"

My eyebrows shot up, a questioning glance. "Hate you? No, I don't hate you... You just scared the hell out of me is all." There was something so...almost utterly disappointing about our final introduction that made the nervous twist in my stomach unravel in a pile of dull strings.

He didn't say anything. At least, not for a moment's pause. He was silent. Then, there was a snicker. He tried holding it back, I mean really tried, the way he brought the back of his hand up to cover his mouth, which had been pulled into a smile. He laughed almost silently, and a surge of anger flared inside of me, and then, he just burst. Laughter spilled out of him like a waterfall, loud and genuine and undeniable. He doubled over, crossing his arms over his stomach, and my mouth gaped.

"Why are you laughing?!" I screeched. Seriously? Two minutes and he was already hysterical, falling into a fit of giggles and snickers. I was tempted to push him over.

"Y-you..you just...Pff haha!" He couldn't even talk. Embarrassment flushed me, and I didn't need a mirror to recognize the burn across my cheeks. I was blushing. I was definitely blushing.

Goddamnit!

I turned to the side, hiding my face, which scrunched with embarrassment and anger, behind the curtain of my bright red hair.

So much for sunny introductions and tours around live's. You've made quite the event of meeting your own brother.

"I'm sorry," Jonathan said, finally. "Are you okay? That fall sounded like it hurt..." This time, when he moved toward me, I didn't make much of a move to get away, though my body tensed at our closing proximity. Hesitantly, my head turned to look at him, blush draining from my face.

Eventually, between the tangle of my hair and the complex web of my thoughts (I wasn't sure which was worse) I exhaled a sigh that smoothed the frantic beat of my heart. It was lenghty, much needed, and impossibly exaggerated.

"I'm as okay as I think I'm getting at the moment," I replied, not a lie.

I had expected meeting my brother to be much more formal, breezy, smooth as warm honey spilling into a cup of tea. What I envisioned was a kind boy who toured me through his house, exploited the rules and secrets to break them, helped me to whatever need be. Of course, that would be such a mundane, cliche way to meet your brother, something I was impeccably used to in the hundreds of books I'd read. This... Was indeed a twist off the path, something interesting enough to make me wish it away, but there was no do-overs or second chances in becoming acquainted with a stranger. Briefly I considered the thought of amnesia, then physically shook my head, dismissing the twisted thought.

It started in the depth of my stomach, low and gurgling. Quickly it spiked into a growl of immense hunger, thrashing about in the emptiness of the bottomless pit that consumed me. Heat crawled over my skin, partially from embarrassment, partially from the humidity clothing me in a sheet of moisture. I shut my eyes tightly, feeling them crinkle in the crevice of my sockets, and bit my lip as they reopened, carefully studying Jonathan's face.

A smirk quirked the corner of his lips upward, toward his opalescent green orbs. "Hungry?" he asked, amused, perching an eyebrow above the other.

Without saying anything, a subtle nod bobbed my head, and my fingers raised to produce a millimeter of space between my index finger and thumb, silently saying "a little." My shoulders moved to an apologetic shrug.

Jonathan gave the first hint of a normal, boyish laugh, then swung a set of keys around his finger, the white lanyard wrapping around it easily.

"Why don't I take you out to dinner, then we can come home, I'll give you the grand tour, though I see you've become quite acquainted with my backyard, and I'll show you your room," he explained, catching me off guard.

"We hardly know each other, and you're already inviting me to dinner?" My stomach flipped, mind whirling. Jesus, did I just say that? I couldn't stop it - it fell out, stumbling past my lips so quickly I hardly had time to regret not biting back the words. Whether the situation called for sarcasm or not, I threw it out there like a ball on the baseball field.

Jonathan, however, seemed to make light of my remark. "Don't start thinking you're that special, Fray."

Hm... I rolled that around in my head momentarily. Fray... It didn't sound right out of his mouth. His tongue slipped while attempting it, and it seemed he was trying it out in his mind, too, by the look of anticipation strewn about his features when he gazed at me.

I shook my head.

We were just breaking the boundary of "Hi, I'm blah blah blah and my personality is like this." Far too early to make up presented nicknames.

Jonathan shrugged, impossibly light hair stringing and spindling in all sorts of manners, mainly gathering above the line of his translucent eyebrows.

He lead the path to his car while I strung along, stuck in a daze, mind bouncing between the cauliflower clouds high above. I just met him, now I'm entering a motorized vehicle with him. I mean, what if he's a crazy driver? I've heard there's far too many people who live in New York that don't know how to drive. While the thought's never made me car sick, there's a first for everything, and many of my firsts were dropping like bricks here in New York.

"Oh, by the way," Jonathan said, speaking up, "I have another roommate. I wouldn't worry too much, though. I mean, he's out of the house a lot, so I don't think he'll bother you much."

My mind snapped back, slapping me hard in the face, just as his words had. "A... Another guy?" I asked, voice small, incredulous. That was never part of the deal. Living with two boys? Great.

He let a small chuckle breathe from his lips. "Yes, another guy. If you want, I'll tell him to leave you alone. I don't think he'll be too much of an invasion of your privacy though."

Don't think? Too much? I felt like fainting. "Who - what's his name?"

Jonathan clicked a button on his stilled keys, and his car, which had come into view quicker and fuller and more surprising than expected, beeped twice, the recognition of an unlocked vehicle. I was by no means good with cars, and I didn't have the first inclination as to where to begin deciphering one from the next, but this, by all knowledgeable standards, was obviously a truck. A ginormous, gleaming, pitch black truck with enough silver tracing the edges to run the world. It was blindingly dark, an odd combination, but the way the sun bounced light off the sides made the shadows it cast appear blacker against its charcoal hue.

"Jace," he said, and the word dropped in my brain once, rippling like a stone in a pond. "His name's Jace, but he won't be home tonight, so you won't have to meet him just yet."

It wasn't quite that I was concerned about, rather than the idea of being trapped in a living space with two kinds of the teenage male species. I grew up around a self-proclaimed clean freak, and boys were infamous for being the messiest of the human race. Especially teenage boys. Messy, hormone-induced, uneducated, one-track-minded sex gods that were the literal depiction of every girl's fantasy-but-not.

I grabbed the handle and pulled, and it gave way, swinging heavily open as I stepped back to give the large door room. My height to the truck was comparing a tent to a mansion. There was nothing to do aside from step on the foot ledge and take a leap of faith inside. The hot leather burned against my thighs, an immediate sensation I silently cursed. Beside me, Jonathan entered the drivers seat with easy grace.

"Gee," I half-breathed, half-muttered, using every muscle in my arm to shut the door beside me. The interior was hot and humid, forcing air out of my lungs faster.

"I can't wait."

Sierra: Um, might I just point out that Billings doesn't actually have any clubs or anything, because we're that boring, but lets all erase that fact and have an imagination for a moment.

Anyways, I doubt anyone will read this thing anyways, but there ya go. I will say that Clary is in for quite the unexpected surprise, for she might be seeing this so called Jace sooner than she realizes. Don't worry, if I actually continue this story, the next chapter won't be as boring. I can't say for its length though... I write excessively long chapters. I am incapable of publishing something short, do forgive me.

But, until next we meet~