Hi hi! Here I am, with another update. Which I totally didn't almost forget. Because I know what day it is. Totally.

As per usual, thanks to IWriteNaked for being an awesome beta, and to DeathCabForMari and spikeyhairgood for being supportive and awesome and fantastic. You three are amazing, and, seeing as the year is coming to an end, I feel like I should publicly state that it has been a delight to get to know you guys this year, and I hope our respective friendships last for many, many more. :)

Thanks to all of you guys for reading this story. You're all amazing, and I'm grateful for all of you. Thank you for reading this story and sticking with it through its ups and downs, and for (maybe?) reading my crazy ANs this year. Thank you for supporting me and being awesome, and I hope you guys have had a nice winter break so far, and that you have an awesome new year.

*I wasn't going to post this, because it's unrelated to me and the story, but I find this issue incredibly important, and this particular situation incredibly heartbreaking. I'm sure that there are many more like this, and I'm sorry that I can't read up on every single one, but the case of Leelah Acorn has impacted me greatly. If you guys aren't familiar with this case, then please, please read up on it; all you need to do is type up her name on a search engine, and a bunch of articles will come up. I know that many of you out there are (or plan to be) parents (and this affects even the teenagers who are on this site and don't plan to have family or anything), and so it is important that you read cases like this one and understand that, regardless of your own beliefs and preferences, people are human. It's a very basic concept that people don't seem to comprehend in cases like this one. The way this girl was treated by her parents and the people surrounding her was cruel and inhumane, and if you could all please, pleaaase read up on her (especially her suicide note), and even donate to the causes she supports (all organizations that support transgenders), then that would be amazing. Like I said, there are an incredibly alarming amount of cases like hers, but this is the one I read today, and it is the one that impacted me, and it's the one I feel like I should share. We're starting a new year, and so, as a reminder, I just wanna tell you guys that it is important to be there for the people who need support and have a difficult time going through life because of mental illness or race or sexual preference. They don't get the support they deserve. So, even if you can't donate, please educate yourselves and read up on these cases and lend a hand to these people, because solidarity is an important value that goes a long way when it comes to people who have to suffer because of things that they simply can't help.*

ANYWAY, that's all. That was long, but necessary. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

"Have I told you that you look beautiful?"

Yes. When I first made my way down the stairs and met his eyes, it was as if the whole world fell apart. Sure, we couldn't make a huge deal out of it, because we're friends, but I saw it in the way his eyes lit up and he tensed up. And now he's saying it again, and I want him to stop, but I also want him to keep going, to tell me all of the things I dreamed he would.

Instead, I blush. Seriously. "Thanks."

Jace opens the door of his car, the car that is familiar to me now due to the many rides he has given me, and takes my hand. I'm not used to walking in heels, so I'm kind of nervous. I grip his hand a little tight and mumble an apology, but he says it's okay and walks inside with me.

The walls are an almost-blinding, pure white, making the paintings look more astounding the first time you look at them, as if the shock you feel brings them to life. They are dark, and colorful, and passionate, and they are everything people feel and hold inside. A canvas is a way of letting your feelings out for the world to see. I've loved coming to these things since I was little. I feel Jace looking at me, but I don't care.

My mom is off to the side, talking to some people about the art. I go up to a colorful abstract painting I can't quite make out. I never tried to interpret art, because I think that would ruin its effect on me. I look at it, and I let it tell me what to feel, and confusion hits me hard as I look at this one. There's happiness in the colors but sadness in the black lines.

"It's cool," Jace says. I know he doesn't get the art, but he's trying to. It makes me like him a little bit more.

He follows me around, and I let him. I like hearing what he thinks of the different paintings. I like knowing which styles he likes, even though he doesn't see that there is a pattern to some of the paintings he chooses. I like that seeing his reaction to art is my own way of studying him. That he has his charm and his looks and his ways to get the truth out of me, but I can get it out of him by watching the tilt of his head as he looks at a sad piece, or the way his eyes light up at a happy one.

It doesn't mean I'm in love with him. I know that. It makes me the kind of person who is getting to know another, very different kind of person. Izzy would give me a speech about how that is total crap and how I'm soooo into him, but that's not true. He's what I need him to be right now: a willing friend. He came here with me, and he's telling me what he thinks of these without caring what I think of him for it. He makes me laugh with some of his comments, and maybe he doesn't know that I'm studying him and knowing him by the second, but I do. And it's great. It makes me wonder when we're going to do this again.

My mom comes up to us. She's wearing a long, flowy baby blue dress. Her hair is tied up in an elaborate, elegant bun, and she looks as radiant as the sun. "Hi, sweetie," she tells me, giving us a warm smile. "Are you two having fun?"

It's ten. We've had fun—an hour and a half of looking at paintings and letting them tell me how I feel while Jace whispers his opinions, just for me to hear. But we're exhausted, and home is thirty minutes away.

I nod to my mom. "But we have school tomorrow," I remind her. "So we should probably head out."

She gives me a hug. "Drive safe," she whispers in my ear.

We step outside, the cold air hitting me like a ton of bricks. It's almost April, and it's still cold. Though I might consider it cold because I'm not wearing a jacket. Oh well.

Jace opens the door to his Jeep for me. A perfect gentleman. I thank him and step in. The truth is, tonight has been nice. It's the most relaxed the two of us have been around each other, save for the sleepover we had a couple of nights ago. It was my first actual sleepover with a guy. I hadn't thought my first sleepover with a guy would be an actual sleepover, but that comes to show you how much of life you can't predict.

We drive and talk about the paintings. Jace doesn't really remember the names of the painters, but that's okay. He remembers them as the "really ugly, depressing painting with a bunch of gray" or "the one that practically burned my eyes because it had so much damn color" or "the one that kind of made me feel confused for absolutely no fucking reason." It's nice to hear him say what he thinks about it without holding back. He doesn't have to whisper.

"Do you paint?" he asks me.

I ponder this. "I have," I answer. "I'm just more of a drawing kind of girl. I like sketching. Working with paint is messy. I love it, but it takes the kind of patience I absolutely do not have." It's true. The fact that painting is so damn hard is one of the reasons I'm hesitant to go to Tisch as an Art major: because I'll have to paint, and painting is just something I haven't even come close to doing well, let alone mastering.

"You should practice it more," Jace says. "Practice makes perfect, and I just know you can do it if you put your mind to it. You are, after all, stubborn. And determined."

"I'm gonna take all of those as compliments."

"As you should." He smiles as if I've told a semi-funny joke, in a way that is almost a laugh, but not quite. "I'm not trying to offend you, you know."

"I know." I fight the urge to bite my lip. It's my nervous habit, but I would be tasting lip gloss, which I kind of hate. "I want to practice it more. I want to be good enough for Tisch, so I have to, you know, get familiar with all the forms of art within the idea of art. But it's hard, 'cause I'm not good at it."

He waves me off. "You will be. Clary," he says, voice dropping, "you are one of the most determined people I know. If anyone can learn how to do this, it's you. Even if it's hard and you have no patience and you suck at it."

"Hey!"

"Your words, not mine."

I feel oddly flattered by his words. Sure, he basically threw my own words back at me when he said I have no patience and suck at painting, but then he also told me I'm determined. That I can do this. It may not seem like a lot, especially coming from a guy I hated with my entire life, but it feels nice now. Good. Welcome, even.

"Thanks," I say, hoping I'm not blushing. I blush easily. "Did you have a lot of homework?"

"I got most of it done," he says. "I just have an essay to write now."

"An essay?" I smack his arm lightly. "We could've come back earlier, you assnugget."

"Thanks for your concern in my academic career," he says, one corner of his mouth quirking upward, "but I'm okay. I can write the essay when we get there. Besides," Jace adds, "it was nice to spend time with you like that. I mean, I got to see what you're passionate about. It's cool. Especially since we're getting to know each other again. Being friends. The whole thing."

He's right. I mean, do I feel guilty for dragging him out for so long when he has an essay to write and will probably go to bed at, like, three in the morning due to a mix of late arrival and procrastination? Yes. I feel slightly guilty for that. But, at the same time, he's right. We had fun. We've barely had fun together since he got here, mostly due to the fact that I hated his guts, and I finally had another good moment with him. We're building our friendship. Sure, school's important, but what's school and learning if you don't have people you care about to share your accomplishments with? Who are you and in what way does school matter if you face everything alone?

It's nice to have friends, is what I'm saying.

"Anyway, don't feel guilty." He shrugs. It's like he can read my mind. "I'll finish it up quickly. It's easy."

"What subject is it for?"

"It's for AP English," he says. "It's a literary device essay on a play. Whatever. Not important."

The thing is, it is important. If Columbia sees that his grades are slipping, he might not be able to go. I've heard of that happening. Of people not being able to go to a school because they thought that, after they got accepted, school was a joke.

I tell him this, and he laughs. An actual, I'm-amused-by-you laugh, which surprises me. I must be really fucking hilarious if this is the laugh he's giving me. "Clary," he says after he catches his breath. "Oh my god. I am not getting my acceptance withdrawn because of an essay. Besides, I'm DOING the essay. I'm writing it. Turning it in. The whole deal. So please, PLEASE stop freaking out? Because we had fun, and my academic career is totally safe."

I feel kind of embarrassed, but I don't let it show—not in my expression, anyway. But he can totally tell, because there's shame in my voice. "I just, you know, I don't want to be the reason you do something crazy. You can say no to me. That's part of being friends and trust and all that crap we need to work on."

He nods like this is not new to him, which I suppose it isn't. Sure, he's a teenage boy, but he's clearly not dumb, and he has more experienced in the life department than I do. "I know. I can do all those things and I'll be fine. You're not the kind of person who would bitch at me if I didn't express myself. But, Clary, I wanted to go tonight."

I nod. "Okay. But you better ace that essay."

He pulls up in front of my house and gives me his signature grin. "Got it."

I say goodnight and get out of the car by myself. I walk up the driveway and into my house. The whole bottom floor is empty, so I make my way up and into my room, nearly falling down when I see my bed. My feet are killing me, and I'm sure I'll be exhausted in the morning. I feel like I ran a marathon, even though all I did was walk around and look at paintings and say what I thought about them. I don't know. Thank GOD I finished homework before Jace picked me up, or I would've been more screwed than possible.

I take off my makeup and clothes and change into my pajamas, brushing my teeth with a dazed, zombie-like look on my face. I wish I could skip this whole thing and go to sleep, because I feel like my legs are made of jelly and I weigh a hundred thousand pounds. I send my mom a quick text telling her I made it home safe, and then I send a text to Jace telling him to finish the damn essay. Smiling, I connect my phone's charger to my phone, turn off the lights, and tuck myself in, grateful for the chance to finally—finally—sleep.

I'm dying.

Why do people ever let me make choices?

It's morning. Yep. Mooooorning. That hasn't hit me, though, but I think that's because I'm avoiding the hitting. I do not—do NOT—want this to hit me. I want to use a stupid excuse, like, "Oh, I overslept because I was tired from the gala" or something. Truth: I am exhausted. My eyes burn when I open them, and my body still feels like it's made of jelly. I feel like I have bruises, too, and I groan at that. Why is there school today? Can't I skip?

I drag myself out of bed, knowing the answer to that already. No fever? I have to go to school. I brush my hair and teeth and shove everything I need into my bag. I take my phone and shove it into the pocket of my hoodie as I make my way downstairs. I take an apple, not really hungry, and make my way out, knowing well that my brother's already waiting for me in the car.

"Are you coming to our game on Friday?" he asks between bites of his bagel.

I raise an eyebrow. "You guys play on Friday?"

He frowns. "Yeah. I thought Jace told you."

I shake my head. What does it mean that he didn't tell me? Is that a bad thing? Maybe he just forgot. Deep breaths, Clary. Do not freak out. He's earning your trust. You can't accuse him of anything. "Nope."

"There is. So," he says, "are you coming?"

Am I? It's their last game, that much I know. And the two of them will be there, and my mom and Luke probably won't be, so, of course, I nod, telling my brother that yes, I will be there.

Let me know what you think! xo