I've always found popular people annoying. They are so shallow, I can't stand it. They dislike people just because they're different. They all look the same. In short, they are conforming douches. In my opinion. So of course, I hated Jace Wayland.
That morning, the beginning of everything, I saw him in the hallway. I was walking to Honors biology when I passed him as he was heading the other direction. On either side of him were his foster siblings, Isabelle and Alec Lightwood. Jace's parents had died in a car accident when we were in fifth grade, so his father's best friend and his family took him in as their own son. Ever since then, Jace had been a humongous asshole.
With their tall, thin frames, dark hair, and deep blues eyes, Alex and Isabelle fit the popular crowd perfectly. The new in thing was 'punk', though the music they called punk was so far from the real thing you could tell not one of them had ever even glanced at a Black Flag CD. With his golden hair and eyes, Jace stood out in the popular crowd, but he was so good looking and conceited, it didn't matter. As I rushed by him and his friends, I remember thinking, How annoying that the most shallow people in the world are usually the best looking. It's not fair.
Walking past them and forgetting about it, I made my way into the biology room. It was the last period, and I was pretty cheerful. I plopped down in my regular seat next to my best friend, Simon. "Hey, Fray," he greeted me.
"Hi, Simon." I leaned over, trying to read what was on his paper. "What are you writing?"
"I'm not writing anything," he told me with a look of disgust. "Eric is. Unfortunately. Poetry, to be specific. If you can call it that." The last part was a mutter.
"That bad?" He nodded. "What? Is it about when Sheila Barbarino bends over?" I smirked. "He probably enjoys that."
"God, I wish. It's about… his longing for certain activities."
"Ew." I shuddered. "Why are you reading it?"
"I didn't know it was about that!" Simon said indignantly. "At least he didn't use the word 'loin' this time."
As I snickered, the Biology teacher, Ms. Wilkes, entered the room. "Did everyone finish their essays on cells on time? I hope so, because you get to read them to the entire class today!" As everyone groaned, she said cheerfully, "Surprise!"
As his awful luck would have it, Simon was picked to go first. As he walked to the front of the room, I gave him an encouraging smile. FML, he mouthed silently, and I grinned. Poor Simon. Grabbing my sketchpad from the bottom of my stack of school crap, I began to draw, as he said dully, "Cells are tiny pieces of our bodies. While they are not the smallest thing you could break down, they can be seen only through a microscope…"
I didn't hear anything after that. I was in my own little world, and it was considerably more interesting there. My hand moved across the paper, and as I watched, a girl's head formed, then a body, then arms, legs, hands, feet… Detail after detail appeared as I thought of what to create. She was young, about ten years old, with a sweet face, and beautiful, curly, short blonde hair. She smiled, but her eyes were haunted, as if she knew a terrible secret that no one else did. I began to imagine that secret as I gave her clothes, and then the shrill sound of a school bell rang. I jumped slightly. How has it been half an hour? I wondered.
"Those of you who have yet to share may do so tomorrow. Happy Thursday, everyone!" Ms. Wilkes called as we flooded out of the classroom.
"How was my essay, Clary?" Simon asked me curiously.
"Uh… very well written and… informative."
"Liar. You didn't hear a word I said. You were too busy drawing." His eyes shined knowingly, and I felt a little guilty. I should have been listening like a good, supportive friend. But really, who wants to hear an essay on cells, for crying out loud?
"Sorry. But if it helps, I would listen if I thought you actually cared," I told him.
"Well, it might help," he said. "A little."
"Good. Let's go, my mom said I needed to come straight home today." She'd been acting really strange, saying that she had something she wanted to talk about. I was concerned; lately she'd looked so drawn out and worried. I hoped we weren't running low on rent… but surely not! She'd been selling more paintings than ever. She, like me, was an artist. My step dad, Luke, always said that we were the most talented artists he knew of. But I doubted that.
With Simon at my side, I strode down the street to the subway, taking large steps to make up for my short legs. "So," he said, "what's wrong with you?"
I blinked, surprised. "Huh?"
"Why are you so worried?"
How did he know I was worried? "I'm not. I'm fine."
"You are not fine," he said firmly. "I know you. What's going on?"
"I don't know," I told him honestly, unable to lie to him. "My mom seems really stressed, and she said she needs to talk to me. I just hope everything's okay."
"I'm sure everything's fine," Simon reassured me in that familiar, comforting voice of his. "I mean, she would've told you earlier if it was something serious, right?"
"I guess," I murmured, but I wasn't really sure. By that time we'd reached the subway, and we boarded our train. The entire ride back I was silent, looking out the window as the dirty walls outside passed by, blurring together, with no defining traits to tell how far we had gone.
Simon patted my shoulder as the train came to a stop where we would get off. "I'm sure everything's fine," he repeated, as we slipped off the train and up the steps out of the subway, in the direction of my apartment.
"I know." But I had some gut instinct telling me there was something very, very wrong. In a short time, we reached my apartment complex. "See you tomorrow," I said, forcing a smile.
He grinned back. "Yeah, see you. Call me once you find out what's going on."
I nodded agreement, and entered my building. The lobby was dim, lit only by a small sky light at the top of the ceiling. I raced up the stairs to my door, and after unlocking the door, I went into my apartment.
My mother was sitting on the couch, waiting for me. I dropped my pin-covered backpack on the ground as she said, "Hey, sweetie, how was your day?"
"Fine, for it being school. Yours?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
She swallowed. "Clary, I have something I need to tell you."
"Yeah, Mom?" I sat down next to her, hands clenching with nervous energy.
She gave me a weak smile, and she said the last thing I ever expected her to say: "Clary… I have cancer."
A/N: CLIFF HANGER! XDDD And just clearing things up… I'm pretending Jace was actually Michael Wayland's son for now. So yeah. XD I'll try to finish chapter one soon!
