Here's the actual first chapter! Thanks to Katwood5 for beta'ing. :) I hope you like it!

When a boy confesses love to you, I think there are usually two kinds of reactions. You can either a) smile and blush and say you love him and maybe even share a kiss, or b) run and hide and hope he does not find you.

Now, don't get too excited. No one told me they loved me, because that would mean that the world is ending. I'm not the one who gets the flowers and the boys and the presents and the puppy eyes from boys who are pretty much strangers.

Nope. That goes to my friend, Isabelle Lightwood.

Simon told Isabelle he loved her between lunch and sixth period, and she told me it sort of went like Iloveyoualotpleasedonotkillmeokaybye, because he didn't take a breath while he said it. She was confused, though, because there was noise all around them and he was panting as he spoke, so she might have mixed up a few words here and there.

Isabelle Lightwood did not smile and blush and say she loved him back, and she did not kiss him. But she also didn't run and hide.

No, Isabelle Lightwood just stared as he ran off—and then proceeded to show up two minutes late to class.

This is how I know about it: I sent her a text while looking up at the teacher to make sure he didn't find out about my texting, and then I glanced back at her. She told me everything: Simon, my best friend, the boy with the massive comic book collection who loves video games more than he loves porn, is in love with Isabelle. Not that I didn't already know that, but still. Shocking that he had the balls to say it to her.

When the bell rings to go to seventh period, which, unfortunately, the three of us share, I walk up to Isabelle's seat (which isn't a feat, since she sits right next to me) and raise an eyebrow questioningly. When she says nothing, I say, "Well?" and start tapping my foot as a sign of impatience.

She shoves the rest of her books into her bag, missing slightly, which she notices when she sees the corners of her three books sticking out. She attempts to do it once as she gives me a look of annoyance. "I told you already."

"What are you gonna say to him?"

"I don't know."

"We see him in, like, two minutes."

"I am perfectly aware of that, Clary."

"Well, you need to come up with something," I reply. I know he'll feel like shit if she doesn't.

"I know!" She stands up quickly. "I know, Clary. Jesus, you're like the annoying little sister I never had today."

It hurts, and she knows it. I've barely spoken to her all day—yay, period cramps!—and, even as I do now, I'm just looking out for both of them. She flashes me an apologetic look.

"Yeah, yeah." I wave her off. "I'll try not to be your annoying little sister anymore and hurry off to class."

"Which we have together."

"Glad you finally acknowledged that."

"Don't be mad," Izzy says, letting out a sigh. "I'm just stressed and tired, and I don't know what to do about Simon."

"Do you love him?"

"I don't know," she admits. "Yes. We've been dating for four months now, but I guess I'm just scared. He's a great guy, though."

"He is."

"I don't know whether I'm ready to make that decision. To tell him I love him and move this relationship to a whole new level."

"So tell him that," I say kindly. "Simon will give you time. Hell, he'll give you all the time in the world. Just talk to him."

She chews on her lip and hovers outside the classroom, as if stepping in automatically means facing Simon. I don't know if the nerves prompted him to go to the nurse for the rest of the day, but I don't dare check.

"Fine," she sighs, making her way in with me.

He's there, though he looks like he wants to throw up. He sits in the back, as we three usually do, and is looking sideways frantically.

I feel bad. He finally worked up the courage to tell Izzy, and now it's driving him crazy to not know. I don't think I could ever tell a guy that I like him, let alone love him. I think it would drive me crazier than it's driving him right now, actually.

"Hey," I say casually, as if I don't know about what happened between the two of them. "You okay? You kind of look sick."

"Do I?" he asks, seeming a little nervous. "I'm really tired."

"We need to talk, Simon," says Isabelle.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Want to give me a ride?"

"Okay."

The teacher claps her hands and tells us to sit down with an imperative tone. I take out my notebook and pencil, waiting for the usual information about US History to make its way into my ears, but instead the teacher waits. And waits. And does not speak.

So I snap my head up, and I see a breathtakingly gorgeous boy in front of the classroom, one that is surely making every girl want to die of happiness (or maybe mortification, considering how they look today) and making Isabelle possibly reassess her talk with Simon.

"This is Jace. He's a senior," the teacher says. "He just moved here from Paris."

The class nods, giving the teacher permission to continue. "He's new, obviously, but I'm sure that there are already plenty of people showing him around. I'll skip the getting to know you part, as I know you people hate that. Go sit wherever you want."

The thing about his name is that I have it memorized, engrained in the deepest parts of my brain. That name was basically all that came out of my mouth at the end of fall and start of winter, but it's impossible that this is the person it belongs to. Impossible.

There are only two seats available. There is one near the front, where you can basically feel the teacher's sweat, and there is one in front of me. I think we all know which one he picks, and he kind of ignores us as he does.

Well, he gives Izzy a quick once-over, but that's about it. I think she looks partly offended and partly flattered.

"Now, then, let's start class, shall we?"

The thing about new kids is that everyone is particularly interested in them if they start school after the second semester is well underway.

For example: it is January 30th, and there is a new boy. There are people whispering and girls blushing with excitement, and I know they're talking about him.

So far, he's kind of quiet, winking at girls who look at him and giggle and blush when he does so as well. It's kind of annoying to watch, really, because they are so obvious it hurts me. Like, if they wanted to tattoo I LOVE THE NEW GUY on their foreheads, it wouldn't change a thing.

Isabelle catches up with me at the end of the day, once she's done stuffing her books in her locker and slamming its door in the dramatic way she's done since we were eleven. "So I've heard things about this new guy."

Even though I'm not interested, and even though I know more than she thinks I do, I decide to humor her. "What've you heard?"

"No one really knows where he's from, but he knows seven languages, plays several instruments, has more experience than a professional stripper, and can sweet talk a girl like it's nobody's business. Oh, and his parents aren't together."

I try to suppress the urge to call her out on her bullshit, but I'm not so good at holding back sometimes. "You do realize this is complete and utter shit, right?"

"It might not be," she insists. "I mean, seriously, aren't you at least a little bit interested in him? He's hot."

"He could be a serial killer." But he's not.

"Do you have proof?"

Before she can answer, I do so for her. "No. Therefore, you can't tell me he's not a serial killer, and my point still stands."

She sighs as if her life were the most exhausting thing in the whole entire world. "You, Clary Fray, are impossible."

"That I am."

Simon joins us as we make our way to his crappy car. "What's up?"

"Your girlfriend has found a new man."

"Have you, now?"

"We're just talking about the new guy," Isabelle says.

"We should stop talking about him," I mutter.

"Why don't you like him?"

"It's complicated."

"Can't be that complicated."

"Okay, guys," Simon cuts in. "Stop arguing. Clary, I'm giving you a ride, right?"

"Yep." I climb into his car as soon as he unlocks in. "Jon's sick, which is why he missed school today."

We don't say anything. Well, they do. Isabelle and Simon talk about a lot of things: the new guy, what they're going to do on Friday, whether or not to bring lunch to school tomorrow or whatever. I zone out, wondering whether or not I should tell them, but the mere thought of it makes my heart race and my mind spin, and I know that I can't do it.

Because Jace Wayland is here.

AP US History is slow the next day. Jace sits down in front of me, and I wonder if he knows. If he remembers. I never sent him a picture of what I look like—it was part of the anonymity of the project—but I wonder if he remembers that I'm a junior, and that I have red hair, and that I'm taking AP US History.

I decide to tell Izzy. I mean, why not? I have to tell someone. People are still buzzing about the fact that he's new, and a few girls are checking him out as I pull out a piece of paper and write down what I have to say to her.

I have to tell you something about the new guy.

I pass it over to her, praying the teacher doesn't turn around. I watch as Izzy reads the message and writes something before passing it back to me.

What is it?!

I stifle a laugh before realizing what I'm gonna tell her.

He's the Jace Wayland. Paris. Pen pal. You know.

I pass it back to her and hold my breath. Her eyes widen and she sucks in a breath, and Jace turns his head ever-so-slightly, only to see her covering her mouth to keep from gasping. She's looking at me.

Are you serious? she mouths.

I nod, curls bouncing. "I wanted to tell you before," I whisper, "but I was just in shock and didn't know how to say it."

"Holy shit."

"Ladies," the teacher says, clearing her throat. "Care to share what's so interesting that it has you talking in class?"

My cheeks turn the color of my hair as I shake my head. "Sorry."

Because I'm a good student, she lets it go. I spend the rest of class doodling and pretending that I can't feel Jace's presence, that I'm not aware of every little thing he does, of every breath he takes.

The bell rings, and I'm ready to bolt, but the teacher says, "Jace, Clarissa, could you stay behind for a moment?" and I want to die.

"What class do you have next?" she asks us.

"AP English," I tell her.

"Free period," Jace says. "They're still working out my schedule."

"Clarissa, I'll send your teacher an email. I need to talk to both of you."

I can't look at him. I don't even know what to panic about. I'm freaking out because he's here, beside me, the boy I spent hours thinking about only four months ago, the boy who lived in Paris and has never camped and whose dad and stepmom got divorced. I'm freaking out because I don't know if I did something wrong, and I don't know what to do.

"Done," she says, closing her laptop's lid once she sends the email. "Sit down."

I'm fairly sure I'm shaking as I sit down. Jace takes the seat next to mine, dropping his bag on the floor. It doesn't make a sound; he probably only has notebooks in it.

"Clarissa," she says, and I wish she wouldn't say my name, "you're one of the smartest kids in class. Responsible, too, which is why I chose you."

"To do what?" I ask.

"I was checking the material from Jace's class, and it seems that he's a couple of chapters behind. He didn't cover some of the things we did, so I was wondering if you could tutor him, catch him up on the details we've learned."

Before I can stop myself, the words stumble out of my mouth. "Why me?"

"You don't have to do it," the teacher says. "I just thought you would."

"I'll do it," I say, hating myself for it. I hope this pays off when it's time to ask for recommendation letters in the fall. "Can you give me the information for his lesson plans, please?"

"Definitely." She hands me a binder. "Everything's there. Thank you so much, Clary."

I freeze when she mentions my nickname. Teachers call me Clary all the time, but it's the fact that she says it when he's there. I don't want him to know.

I set the binder down on my desk. "Um, when should we start?"

"Now would be good," she says to me. "Did you bring your book?"

I nod. "Of course."

She hands me a library pass. "Let me know how much you cover by tomorrow. After today, you'll have to do this after school."

"Got it," I tell her. "I'll report back tomorrow."

"Thank you."

I pick up my bag from the floor and the binder from my desk. Jace and I walk to the library together, neither one of us saying anything. I remember how much I longed for this—well, not this, but for a chance to meet him in person and say all the things I kept bottled up inside, like I think you're amazing or I know you're not okay with half of the things in your life, and I want to be one of the things you're okay with. I wanted to have so many conversations with him in person, but the last thing I want is to make eye contact right now.

The librarian takes the pass from my outstretched hand. We sit in the back, where it's quieter.

"We should probably work out a schedule first," I say, setting the binder down. "Since it's gonna take some after school work."

"Do you know when soccer tryouts are? I wanna make the team, but—"

"I'll find out," I say, pulling out my phone and calling Jon, who is, tragically, still sick.

"Hey, little sis."

"When are the soccer tryouts?"

"Didn't peg you as the athletic type."

"Shut up and tell me, you moron."

"What a nice way to treat your sick brother."

"Jon."

"Fine. They're in two days," he says, sighing. "Why do you wanna know, anyway?"

"There's a new guy, and I'm tutoring him, and it's complicated. Go back to sleep. Oh," I add, "and order pizza, will you?"

My brother makes a noise of agreement laced with exhaustion and hangs up.

"They're in two days. Thursday," I clarify, taking out my planner. "They're from three to five, I think."

"Thanks for finding out for me." He gives me a devastatingly cute smile. He has dimples and everything, and it makes me want to die. It's the kind of smile that charms girls and makes them want to do reckless things, and I hate that he's giving it to me right now. It lasts for only a second—a show of gratitude—but it's etched in my brain forever. There's no way I will ever forget that smile.

"No problem."

"So when should we do this?"

"I can't stay today," I say, managing to sound apologetic. "My friend's giving me a ride, and he also has to drop off his girlfriend, so I can't make them stay."

"I could give you a ride."

"You drive?"

"Well, yeah."

"Didn't you just move here, though?"

"Yeah, well, my parents are in the middle of fighting for custody, so this is all bribery."

"Holy crap," I mutter, then blush. Damn it. "Okay, thanks. So we'll stay until four today?"

"Sounds good."

We make a plan. Today it's until four, and Friday until five again. We'll figure out the rest later.

But then it hits me: I'm at the library, tutoring Jace Wayland, and I think he knows who I am, and I definitely know who he is, but I can't even try talking to him. I don't know how to bring any of it up. I can't casually mention the emails—I just can't—and I don't know what to do.

"Okay, give me a sec," I tell him, taking out my notebook and flipping through the binder. I have the notes for everything, basically, but I feel unprepared and pressured, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

"You okay?" Jace asks.

"Fine," I mumble. "It's just a lot to cover, and I don't even know how to teach."

"How about I read a lesson and then we discuss it and stuff?" he asks, and he's sitting so close to me that I can't breathe. "Sound good?"

"Sure." I slide my book over to him and give him the number of the first chapter and lesson. "Let me know when you're done, then."

I look for my notes and try not to freak out. The bell rings, and I know Simon and Izzy are gonna be looking for me.

I decide to call Isabelle. "Hello?" she asks. "Clary?"

"In the library," I say. "I'm, uh, not riding home with you guys today."

"I'm going to the library."

"No—"

"Going."

"Lightwood."

"Fray."

I hang up, knowing there's no use. "Sorry," I say to him. "I should be quiet. You're, um, reading and all that."

"I don't mind. The quietness sort of distracts me more, actually."

"Good to know, because my friend's loud, and she's coming."

"What?"

But there she is, before I can answer his question: Isabelle Lightwood, the only girl who comes to school wearing stupidly high heels and dresses that are one centimeter away from violating the dress code. My best friend. I want to run with her as soon as she comes in, but she comes looking for answers.

"I'll, uh, be right back. Finish the lesson."

"Yes, ma'am."

He is going to kill me.

"Clary—"

"Come on," I say, walking over to the other side of the library, hiding between the stacks of books that haven't been categorized yet, the new arrivals.

"He's it?" Her eyes are perpetually wide.

"Yeah," I mumble.

"What're you doing with him?"

"Tutoring him. Teacher's orders."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I wish."

"He's hot."

"Isabelle!" My cheeks are on fire. "Seriously!"

"Nice butt, too."

"Go get your boyfriend and tell him I'll see him tomorrow."

Izzy hesitates. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine."

"You're freaking out."

"Go, Isabelle."

"I'll call you later."

"Okay."

"Be careful."

"Got it."

"Wait." She narrows her eyes at me. "Who's giving you a ride?"

"Um."

"Clarissa Adele Fray," she says. "Tell me that boy is not giving you a ride."

"Isabelle—"

"Clary!"

"Go home."

"But—"

"I can handle it."

"Oh, I have no doubt that you can. But you shouldn't have to."

"Go," I tell her, glaring until she holds her hands up in surrender and backs away.

I walk back to my table, wanting to die. "Sorry," I tell him. "She's, uh, mad at me."

"Why?"

"I lied to her. Accidentally."

"Accidentally?"

"Well, I didn't mean to lie. It wasn't even technically lying."

"What was it, then?"

"Withholding information."

"Lying by omission?"

"Lying is such a horrible term," I say, but he's right. I lied to her. I lied to her about a lot of things, but that's not even what she's mad at me for. "There's more to it than the lies, anyway."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"No."

"No?"

"Did you finish the lesson?"

"Um."

"That's what I thought."

She's mad at me because, even though he stopped talking to me, even though he broke his promise, I went back to him.

"Are you mad at me or something?"

I shoot daggers at him. "Just finish the lesson."

"Clary."

"Jace."

"Clary."

"Finish the lesson already," I snap. I sigh, shaking my head. "Sorry, I just—this whole fight with my friend—I don't know."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Trust me, no." I laugh nervously. "You can help by finishing the lesson."

"You're just like a teacher."

"That's sort of the point."

"Fine, I'll read the lesson," he says grudgingly, but he's smiling.

I hope you like it! So far, my plan is to upload a chapter per week, so yeah. :) Let me know what you think so far! See you next week, when I figure out which day I'll actually be posting stuff (probably either on Sundays or Fridays). xo