Hi! This is the first chapter of TCATS and my first Fanfiction so it might take me a while to get a hang of things -sorry in advance haha! Also, i'm setting this story in Brooklyn but, being very British myself, if i get some words or 'highschool' stuff a bit wrong feel free to correct me x

Thanks :D

Chapter One: Introductions and Orange Juice

It is an normal Tuesday afternoon at a very average 2 PM and I am in a soporificly mediocre English class when I first discover I quite like the idea of being a cloud.

Imagine: you're mindlessly suspended in a lulling turquoise mass, the sun is heating your back and the mundane ,human world is far, far below you. At once, existence would be more peaceful and more thrilling. The landscape you would see; Lakes filled with still, black water reflecting there surrounding towering snowcapped peaks, cities still a light in the dead of night, neon billboards casting rosy shadows onto the moon darkened streets, or even boat filled harbours coated in dappling golden sunlight as the sparkling waves rock both crew an-

"Miss Morgenstern? Miss Morgenstern?" Mrs. Crippis' voice called out in a singsong tone, breaking my blissful daydream.

"Are you with us, Miss Morgenstern?"

"Yes, uh, yep, sorry" I manage to fumble.

Simon playfully yawned "unfortunately" under his breath from the desk beside me. I feel to conceal a smile and roll my eyes which causes him to push his glasses up his nose as a prideful habit of getting a reaction out of me. Thankfully, by this point Mrs. Crippis had completely refocused her attention on the common themes throughout the works of Shakespeare. English is an even that bad when compared to the horrors of history but you can still see why I would much prefer to be a cloud.

A worksheet is handed out that asks as to try to write in the style of Shakespeare about one of his key themes. I write about nature. I write about the simplicity of life as a cloud.

Then last period comes around and with it my daily dose of fear that is difficult to swallow with a dry throat but once you force it down it rolls around in your stomach making your cheek flash with itching heat. The fear of going home. Even today, when last period is chemistry, one of the subjects I understand, and my teacher throws a surprise test on our last topic, coils and uncoils in my stomach. You will find me one of the a few students to like a surprise test because any surprise that breaks the mundane every day of school is a plus from me. Especially in chemistry. Mr Bartholomew (all Bart as most of the student body call him) introduces the test as I walk through the door, test papers already set out on desks.

Simon isn't in my chemistry class which is my only problem; with the fleeting survey of the room and in awkward however at the entrance, I search for an agreeable seat. A hover that had only lasted 0.0047 seconds that was apparently a tortuously long wait for the self-proclaimed god walking – Jace Herondale. He pushes pass me with an impatient huff and upon impact I involuntarily flinch, having to clamp my arms to my sides instead of jumping halfway across the classroom. Somewhere in my body and old pain it has kindly been rekindled but I can't quite feel where.

He really isn't all he thinks he is I mentally scoff, but at least now I know he has an extremely effective elbows so I'll give him that. Two steps further into the classroom he pauses, as it's realising what he's done. He turns his head to me, opens his mouth as if to apologise and abruptly shuts it , turns back around and claims the seat next to the window on the far right the classroom. Uhhhh, what was that?

Taking a seat next to a girl called Maia who I knew vaguely through Simon, I realised that Jace hadn't looked in my eyes, his eyes had just blankly stared at the vicinity of my face. That's odd right? Actually, I have no idea what the 'norm' is for Jace Herondale and I have no motive to find out. Simon has an ongoing theory that the entire Herondale-Lightwood clan were robots but I rather believe that is just because he can't quite comprehend that Isabelle Lightwood is a living, breathing human person. I'm not too sure how I feel about the way Jace, Isabelle and Alec float above high school as if they were made for a higher purpose, but then again I guess I've never really thought about it.

I look to my left and see Maia, pen in hand scribbling away at questions on that history of the atom. Her hair is a burnt Bronze mass of dense curls and it falls around her face, draping onto the stark white paper. Looking at her stop writing and tap her pen on the desk as she scrunches her eyebrows together with the peculiar type of innocent ferocity that I think somehow only rightfully belongs on the face of a teenage girl, fills me with a sickening jealousy. And I mean literally sickening. I can taste sick in my mouth.

From what I knew of Maia, she is a loud, brave and boisterous girl who would never even think to be scared of the world and I rather think the world should be scared of her. Simon had once been quite smitten. But the acid in my throat wasn't a product of my jealousy of Simon's fleeting affection, it was rather born of my hot envy of the energy because she possesses from day-to-day, her fight or fight reflex. I saw it once in a corridor full of ninth graders, at Two verse one fight, well to verse a half really, and she stepped in without hesitating pull them apart and I assume give the perpetrators some kind of lecture but I already passed the spectacle, swept up in the flow of the student body.

I just feel so tired all the time. My feet start dragging a few years ago and I don't think they have stopped.

This all took a few seconds of thought before I opened my topic quiz and put black biro to white paper. Somehow I still finished with 20 minutes left (according to the big white hanging clock at the front of the classroom) -as I said: chemistry I just kind of get. I flick back through the paper idley but I'm already pretty sure they're right so instead I turn to the back of the paper and pull a pencil from my pencil case. Doodling was one of my favourite in lesson pass times, or as my history teacher likes to call it "distraction".

Just as I put pencil to paper a loud sound of chair scraping on the floor came from the back right of the classroom. Out of instinct I whip my head to the sounds origin. Jace Herondale, again, out of his seat, walking to the teachers desk at the front of the classroom. I turn back around.

"Mr. Herondale, please remain in your seat" implores mr Bartholomew, pointing at the clock but he sighs and rubs his eyes when Jace keeps walking towards his desk.

Bart has given up the battle before it has even begun.

Jace throws his test right onto Mr Bartholomew's keyboard and it turns towards the door.

"Mr Herondale" he calls again, louder this time but still with the same undertone of helplessness. He rolls back from his desk and turns his chair so he can follow Jace with his eyes. Alas, it's no use and Jace is out the door.

Bart, with another sigh, turns back to the paper on his desk. He picks it up and flicks through it. Which I assume is the check the Jace actually finished, before just placing it onto a large pile of marking.

Casting my eyes downwards once again I try to remember if this is what is expected of Jace, or if this is out of the ordinary and something has ruffled his wings. Finally, I put pen to paper and it is only when the bell goes signalling the end of the day do I notice to reeling fear my stomach and the sketch unfocused eyes on my page, staring somewhere over my left shoulder.

Simon walks halfway home with me, as usual. We walk along on the main road littered with shops and he talks about the new Star Wars film coming out-something along the lines of "I hope Daisy Ridley is good, I mean of course she will be, right? They wouldn't have hired her if not but I just don't think I'll be able to handle it if this film flops". Simon is the talker and I'm in the listener. Most of the time I don't have any idea what he's talking about

"Si, you know ive never seen a star wars movie,"

"Gasp," and yes he has a habit of saying 'gasp' instead of actually 'gasping'. With a hand on his heart and a look of feigned horror, he continues:

"Clarissa Morgernstern has officially committed the worst crime of all. Written in act two paragraph 27 of the law for all 17 -year-olds - punishable only by orange juice"

He finishes and stops on the pavement.

"Orange juice?" I question incredulously, a little smile at Si's classic antics managing to spread on my lips. Instead of answering he darts into a shop a few metres back, leaving me on the pavement to check my watch. It's 3:42. I have to be back by four, it's okay I'll make it. Simon reappears two minutes of me tapping my foot and wringing my hands later with two little bottles of orange juice.

"What's this for?"

"Act 2, paragraph 47-"

"-27-"

"-27 decrees it the only suitable punishment"

"You didn't get me orange juice when I said I haven't watched Fight Club" I say raising my eyebrows. He shifts his weight from foot to foot.

"well, truthfully Clary, and don't take this the wrong way," he adds hastily, "you've been looking a little peaky today and I read in health class, well actually it was just some book about vampires, that orange juice is a good restorer of energy." Finishing with a sigh, he casts his eyes downwards.

"And I bet-"

"I'm fine Simon-" We both start at the same time.

"I knew you'd say that" he murmurs, eyes still on the pavement.

There's a lump in my throat. It's the anniversary of my mothers death today. She died three years ago now so maybe it's like tri-anniversary or something. Her hair was soft, dark like a midnight sky, and when she kissed my forehead and said good night it would tickle my face. The light on my ceiling gave her a halo of the brightest gold and her eyes, reminded me of the honey-coated warmth of security. I remember she was at least half a foot taller than me but not much else. Her eyes and hair I cling onto. Every little memory I have of Lily Morgenstern is coated in a fuzzy gold- the kind of gold that coats your eyelids in a dozy sleep.

It's the anniversary of mums death and that makes tonight a danger night.

Simon, I realise, has already taken his turning off the mainstreet before I can say sorry for being such an ungrateful friend. Three minutes from home and I hope in some sort of freak accident this Brooklyn sidewalk swallows me whole.

Valentine Morgenstern lives in a gated community. Valentine Morgenstern co-owns an investment company. Valentine Morgenstern knows every senior police officer (and their wives) by name. Valentine Morgenstern is untouchable but, I, most definitely, am not.

I think Simon has guessed at it, the way his eyes darken every time I flinch or grimace lets me know that in some un-confirmed way: he knows. He knows the way Valentine's hand will clench more easily on a Friday night after one or two glasses of whiskey or the way the vase on the kitchen island gets replaced almost every month or the lock on my bedroom door that can only be opened from the outside. I think he knows. Yet, he hasn't said anything which is why I still allow myself to keep him around. Who am I kidding, I'm pretty dependent by this point. I also think I love him, in a totally, unchangeably platonic kind of way. He is the one constant that I will never find boring.

The Morgenstern Manor is an old house full of wooden beams and creaking staircases. There are two stories plus a large attic that used to be mum's art studio. It's a pretty open layout with lots of mirrors which Valentine asked the interior decorator to install in order to make the house 'more modern' but I always suspected it was just so I never knew when 'Big Brother' was watching me.

If I cook well tonight maybe, just maybe I'll be able to postpone the inevitable. With this glimmer of hope in my mind I hang my bag in the entryway on my labelled hook and get to work chopping a near multitude of veg. Some steamed, some roasted – just how he likes it. Whilst they cook I check I check the entryway for muddy shoe-prints and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding when there's nothing to be seen.

Reading the roman numerals of the clock on the wall it's 4:45, he's due home at 5 on the dot so I remove two marinading steaks from the fridge and set them on the hot griddle.

The clock ticks to 5. The table is set. No sign of him. Must be stuck in traffic.

5:10. I've plated the food. Still no sign.

5:15. The food is cold. The traffic must be really bad. This won't help his mood.

At 5:25 the black Mercedes rolls through the tall black gates and approaches the house. There's something else about Valentine Morgenstern that I cant be the only one to sense: every time he walks into a room everything turns cold.

Simon would liken it to something along the lines of the 'Dementor effect'.

So when he opens the door I feel my blood begin to crystallize. His body fills the doorway as he stands there looking at the table, then his eyes look to mine and pin my entire body frozen. He drops his suitcase to the floor.

"Steak?" he asks as if the world feels sour to his tongue.

"I marinated it yesterday so I thought…" trailing off only because I couldn't seem to force anymore words around the ever-larger lump in my throat. There's a short silence, this, I feel, is it : The Calm Before The Storm. I exhale.

"I like steak, thank you Clarissa." I have to bite my tongue before I let out a crude 'What?'. My eyes are surely not still in their sockets.

He has sat at the table and, noticing my silence, said: "You don't have to eat with me, take your plate to your room if you like" all the while I haven't moved an inch.

"No, I don't mind. I can stay down here." Responding cautiously is a failsafe, a net at the bottom of a shadowed drop.

"Clarissa, don't make me repeat myself, you can take the plate."

So I do.

My chest feels light, airy, like I can actually breath. I leave my bedroom door ajar and pull my A3 sketchpad onto my desk whilst a strip of cabbage hangs from my mouth. I paint Simon in acrylics, a portrait of him in his brown jacket, glasses askew against a green and blue background. The colours are vibrant and every touch of my brush carfeul. I stick it to my wall with blu-tac, among homework projects and even my favourite poem, printed in black and white.

Then, for the ninth time in nine years, I sketch Lily Morgenstern. The pencil touches have to be feather light or it will refuse to look like her at all. Last year, I used watercolours – watered down until they were barely there and splodged different shades all over the sketch; highlighting in gold leaf. Gold leaf borrowed from the art lab for a homework assignment.

Today, the acrylics, oils, charcoals, watercolours and watercolour pencils all lie their blankly on my desk. After much deliberation, I decide on the charcoals and commence the creation of an expanse of sharp lines and soft, soft shadows. The sky outside is pink by the time I've finished and I'm happy with the likeness.

I scribble my signature in the bottom right like my art teacher told me to do before flipping it over and, in sooty black, scrawling 'I love you Mom'.

I couldn't stomach the steak in the end.

So that was the first chapter... eeeeeek! Bit of an emotional whirlpool but lets hope Clary finds dry land x.

Let me know what you think & i'll try to respond next chapter (coming soonish?)

This is the curtain call of The Calm And The Storm: Chapter One.