A/N: Right, so remember when I said I was done with "Always"? Well, I lied. Actually, I didn't lie at the time...I thought of writing this literally thirty minutes ago. ;)

Some people really liked "Always," so I thought this would be a good addition.

"Twisted Scars" and "School of Skilled People": If people actually read my author's noted, they would know that I type my stories on my iPad. Now, said iPad is going through a rough time, being that it is an iPad 2, and only has 16 GB. I'd REALLY like a new iPad, because I really do use it for everything, but I can't. I can't write ANYTHING on the damn thing because it'so running out of space, and I can't reach my documents. So "Twisted Scars" and "School of Skilled People" are on a temporary hold. Plus, I'm half way into the next "Twisted Scars" chapter, and I'm at a MASSIVE writer's block.

So the deal is, if I don't get at least TEN reviews, I'm going to assume it's horrible and discontinue it.

Enough of my blabbering. Enjoy. ;)

Chapter 1: The Boy With The Amber Eyes

1996

It was cold, even for fall. The leaves started falling from the trees sooner than usual at Kingsbrook Elementary School. The blustery wind ruffled the pages of Clary's sketchbook. Her small six-year-old hand viciously tore out the now ruined page.

"Stupid," she muttered. She glanced around quickly, making sure no one her. Her mommy always told her not to say that word. But no one could possibly hear her from her place on the creaky old swing set. No, everyone else was laughing and running around with their friends on the blacktop. Clary Fray couldn't. She had no friends.

With a sigh, she turned back to her sketchbook. She flipped through her many drawings until she found a clean page. Most of them were pictures of her mom and her Uncle Luke, standing next to trees or holding her hand. She held her pencil tip to the page and just stared at it. Nothing. She pushed the book to the ground in a burst of anger and just stared at it. She watched as the wood chips blew onto the once white page in silence. "Why'd you do that?"

A boy with amber eyes blinked owlishly at her. His gold-colored hair was filled with wind-swept curls, some strands sticking to his forehead with sweat. His name was Jace, Clary knew. Jace Herondale.

He was the boy who kept poking his friend, Isabelle, in the back with a pen. He kept throwing paper across the room when their teacher's back was turned. He was the devil in the disguise of an angel.

"It wasn't working," Clary mumbled. Without asking, Jace flopped down onto the swing beside hers.

"Well, I wouldn't throw. the book," Jace said. The tone in his voice suggested that he came up and talked to random lonely girls everyday. Maybe he did; Clary didn't know.

"Well it's none of your stupid business." As soon as she said it, Clary blushed. "Don't tell Ms. Merry that I said that," she said quickly.

Jace tossed his head back and laughed. The sound seemed too beautiful to come out of a seven-year-old's mouth. "Your face matches your hair when you blush," he noted.

Clary touched her head protectively. "No. My face turns red when I blush. My hair has a lot of orange in it," she said matter-of-factly.

"Do you really think I pay a lot of attention in art?" Jace raised an eyebrow, something the little girl beside him struggled with.

Clary huffed and picked up her sketchbook. "I know you must learn something when you're not throwing papers at your friend."

Jace pretended to wince. "Ouch. I like you, Clary."

How the boy knew her name, Clary never knew. Jace stood up and offered his hand to her. "I'm going to play tag with Alec and Izzy. Want to join?"

Clary considered saying no. She wanted to sit and draw in her sketchbook like she usually did at recess. But she remembered how she longed to be like everyone else in her class—she wanted a friend. So she gladly accepted the golden boy's hand. Once she was standing, he shoved her shoulder, said, "Tag! You're it!" and ran. And Clary didn't hesitate to chase after him.

When she got home after school, Clary skipped her usual snack of a PB & J sandwich and rushed into room. She shut the door carefully and flopped down onto her bed, but not before pulling out her favorite set of Prismacolor colored pencils. She fingered them all delicately until she found that unused golden-mustard pencil. She hadn't thought of ever using that color—it had been too unusual a color for her to draw with. But a smile grew as she touched the pencil of the paper. With precision and grace that only she had, Clary sat in her room for hours and drew the boy with the amber eyes.

A/N: Fairly short, I know. I really hope you liked it! Remember, TEN reviews!