Update! Enjoy!
American Thighs
Chapter 4: Songs Never Sung
Clary groaned as Isabelle yanked a brush through her curls, following it with the heat of a curling iron. Unlike Jace and Clary, Isabelle stayed in touch when she became a part of the New York's elite. Her beauty skyrocketing her to fame as a model.
"Can I please take a snapchat of your curls?" Isabelle giggled, holding the cellphone in front of Clary's face to capture her frizzy curls.
"It's not like I could stop you," the redhead grumbled, crossing her arms as Isabelle tapped a message with the picture. Millions of people had seen Clary in the worst lighting with the most embarrassing faces thanks to Isabelle's record number of Snapchat friends and Instagram followers.
"Nope." She popped the p as the set her phone down and continued to use her instruments of torture on Clary's hair. Clary had to admit it always felt nice when Isabelle took time out of her busy schedule to visit, the only person in her life that didn't let fame end their relationship.
Hence why Clary had succumbed to Isabelle's lengthy primping routine this Friday afternoon, listening to her old Fall Out Boy CD on repeat.
"We're the new face of failure," Clary belted out, earning a giggle from Isabelle as she joined in. "Prettier and younger but not any better off."
Clary leapt from the chair as Isabelle brought the hairbrush to her lips to belt it out. "Bulletproof loneliness—"
"You know," Clary said into the camera as Isabelle brought it out to film them, "this song made Isabelle want to marry a lawyer, so all you eligible bachelors might want to apply for Harvard's law school."
"Clary!" Isabelle could be heard crying in dismay as the video ended, making the girl in question erupt in giggles. "I can't believe you shared my secrets with the world!"
"Well, you don't have to post it." Isabelle cracked a grin.
"Of course, I have to. It's gold." Clary wondered how long her friend's story was going to be after today. "Speaking of gold," Isabelle began, leveling her gaze on Clary in the mirror, "Jace's auditions are today—"
"No," Clay's reddened lips stated firmly before Isabelle could even hope to continue.
"But—"
"No, but's, Izzy. He didn't even tell me he was back! I had to find out from Kelly and Michael."
"He kept those underwear," she said offhandedly, waggling her eyebrows.
"That's not the point I'm trying to—wait, the Michael Strahan underwear?" Isabelle nodded. "Does he wear them?" A shrug followed by a devious grin. "No, no, I'm getting off topic—"
"He's got the best abs," she added dreamily, showing Clary a picture of Jace in the offending underwear.
"Still not the point I'm—Izzy, Jace is your brother!" Isabelle waved one hand in the air, her thumb still scrolling on the screen of her phone as she reached for the mascara.
"Not technically. We weren't even born in the same country." Clary pressed her lips into a thin line, dodging Isabelle's distracted and armed hands.
"Maybe next time you'll want to open with the fact that he's adopted. Just a suggestion." Isabelle waved the wand in her fingers around, nodding thoughtfully as if to say it was a good idea. Clary sighed, snatching the makeup and sweeping it onto her eyelashes herself. "He didn't change a bit," Clary breathed, remembering the lighthearted moments of his childhood.
Isabelle nodded combing her fingers through her glossy hair. "When's the last time you talked to him, anyway?"
Clary just shrugged.
"Maybe the Christmas after he left," she pretended to contemplate, tapping an unpolished finger against her chin as she thought. "I don't know."
It was a blatant lie. She'd called Jace every day for a year after he'd vanished. Sometimes, his old manager responded, telling her to stay away, that what she had to tell him would just hold him back, that she was useless to him. Jace never answered.
Her hands rose, flustered. She'd always been close to Jace, which was saying something since he was a hard person to get close to. He barely talked about his past in London, only tidbits of slipped information here or there. He didn't talk about his parents' passing or the foster homes he grew up in. Yet Clary managed to find a way through the brick walls to his heart.
She tried not to let it hurt when he didn't visit or call, especially when he was in the United States. "You should try out for the show," Isabelle muttered again, reminding Clary why there was anger bubbling in her stomach. She couldn't lie to herself by saying she didn't want to join when she first saw his face on the television. She'd been playing her guitar and singing at hole-in-the-wall bars, earning tips on the nights she didn't work, but there was no way in hell she was good enough to tour.
"I don't think I'm allowed to." Isabelle scoffed.
"Why not?" Clary shook her straightened hair, resting her hands on the vanity.
"Because I know the rockstar."
"So? I know the rockstar, too, and I might still try out."
"You can't carry a tune." Isabelle's hand fluttered to her chest.
"How you wound me!" The girls shared a laugh. "Look, you don't have to go farther than the auditions, but I know you'll hate yourself if don't even try." Clary sighed, hating how Isabelle was always right. Isabelle, knowing Clary better than she knew herself, could see her conceding and clapped her hands.
Before she could squeal, Clary interjected. "I'll think about it, okay?"
Isabelle smiled wickedly. "You don't have much time. The auditions are in three hours, and I've already signed you up." Clary glowered, but Isabelle was unfazed. "I'm going to pick an outfit for you!" Clary dropped her head onto the countertop with a loud smack. Fighting back the memories surfacing behind her eyes.
Of course this makeover was one of Isabelle's schemes to infiltrate Clary's love life. They always were. Groaning, she opened her laptop and searched for a song to sing.
X.O.X.O.X
"I hate that you talked me into this," Clary growled, yanking up the leather boots Isabelle had forced upon her feet, stuffing the toes with tissue so they didn't wiggle around so much.
"You would have always wondered, babe," she replied, open-mouthed as she applied mascara in her compact mirror. "Besides, when you're famous we can be like Taylor Swift and Karlie Kloss."
"I don't do pop." Isabelle chuckled, snapping the compact shut and stuffing it into her purse as the Lincoln Towncar arrived at the Javits Convention Center. She was thankful she didn't have to drive the beat-up Cavalier that was a graduation present from the Lightwoods, not caring to relive the memories that accompanied its stained cloth seats and torn floor mats.
Pulling up to the front, a crowd parted to allow the sleek black automobile room to pass. Thousands of people milled about, taking pictures, coloring signs, and disappearing into the stacked glass cubes that reflected the New York skyline.
"Selife!" Isabelle bellowed, turning them around so the building was angled perfectly in the background. Clary tried to smile, her mouth running dry as the reality of the situation hit her. She was going to see Jace. She was going to sing for Jace. She was going to pass out. "Okay, so we're just going to check you in, and then wait." Clary nodded, straightening the high-waisted black leather shorts Isabelle had all but yanked up Clary's legs.
She stumbled after the model, her short legs unaccustomed to Izzy's beautiful lank. They wove in and out of crowds as they disappeared into the masses congregating in Hall E, the chatter a loud hum, no words decipherable above the roar of a million voices. Everyone was here for a chance, a shot at fame. Clary was here breaking, wondering why she'd given in to Isabelle's insane logic.
"Clary Morgenstern," Izzy was telling a gray-haired woman seated before a laptop, grabbing a few papers and Clary's contestant number before squealing her way to an empty bench. "Put this on," she commanded, but immediately took it away when Clary attempted to press it to the sheer white blouse. "On second thought, you don't really need it. Jace will know who you are." Clary glowered. She was kind of hoping he didn't recognize her and think she was desperate.
"Okay, so this is kind of Fox's rip on The Voice. There are four judges," she began explaining, ticking things off on her fingers. "Their chairs will all be facing backwards, but them turning around has nothing to do with you moving on. After the allotted amount of time, one chair will turn, then the next, and so on."
"The first to turn will be Magnus Bane, the stylist. He will judge your appearance, make sure you have the look." Isabelle shrugged. "Don't worry about that. You look great." Clary fingered one of the black extensions clipped into her hair. "Second will be Maia Roberts. She's judging your persona, your stage presence. She wants to make sure you not only atheistically compliment Jace, but socially compliment him as well."
"The third one is the hardest," she whispered. Clary wondered if it was supposed to be a secret or if Izzy just wasn't trying to alarm her. "Jordan Kyle, Jace's manager. He's going to be listening for the sound. One sour note, and you're out."
"You know who's last. He has the final say. Always." She leaned back, plastering a smile on her face. "As long as they don't stop the music, you're golden—well blackened with some red and green mixed in—oh, you know what I mean." Upon seeing Clary's terrified expression, she'd begun rambling.
"What if he sees me and remembers why he abandoned me in the first place? You know how humiliating it would be not to make it past the auditions."
"You're a shoo-in. Even if Jace is blind to how amazing of a person you are, he can't miss how mesmerizing it is when you sing." Clary smiled lightly. "I'm serious, Clare. You'll be fantastic."
They heard her number being called over the loudspeaker. "Go get'em, Tiger." Clary didn't glance back, knowing Isabelle was performing some highly ridiculous cheerleading move behind her back.
Instead, she followed the directions to the interviewing room, waiting patiently on the designated x for the camera to turn her way. "Alec?" she gasped as the interviewer's diamond-blue eyes met hers.
"Clary! Isabelle was hoping you'd come try out!" Clary shrugged.
"She basically gave me no choice."
"That sounds like Isabelle." They laughed gently, before a microphone appeared between them.
Clary sighed. "I'd appreciate if you didn't mention my history with you guys. Not yet, at least."
"Of course," Alec nodded solemnly, pushing shaggy black hair from his face, a hole in the sleeve of his sweater. Some things never changed.
A camera appeared from around the corner. "What do I say?" she asked stupidly after Alec had been blinking at her expectantly.
"Just the usual. Name, age, hometown. That stuff."
"Okay, I can do that." She tried desperately to tame the flush in her cheeks, but settled for bringing her mane around her shoulders to blend it all together. "I'm Clary. I'm twenty-four and from Brooklyn."
"Perfect," Alec beamed, turning the cameramen away from her. "You're up next, Buzz." He used her childhood nickname from when her older brother had hacked all her hair off and she ended up with a buzz-cut on her first day of kindergarten.
She breathed heavily, steeling her nerves as she stepped onto the stage.
Blinding white lights washed out her skin as she clacked across the empty stage, her freshly sharpened red nails wrapped around a microphone one of the stagehands had given her, clinging to it for dear life. She felt entirely naked in the rocker-themed outfit she'd been given. She bit one of her red lips, hoping it didn't transfer to her teeth.
"I hate you, Isabelle," she mumbled under her breath, eyeing the four backward-facing chairs. The rules were simple: Sing for the judges. If they don't stop the song, the contestant moves on. She cast a sidelong glance at Alec, who gave her a motivational nod, his smile glittering in the dim, backstage light. He was so much the nineteen-year-old boy she remembered before he'd flown off to UCLA, pursuing a degree in electrical engineering. His calming and friendly personality must have driven Jace to ask him to announce the contest. Or maybe he just missed his brother. She sure knew what that felt like.
She took another breath, sweeping her gaze across the filled room, all eyes on her, mouths silent as the music began playing.
You made a mistake
On the day that you met me and lost your way
You saw all the signs but you let it go
You closed your eyes
She stared at the back of his chair, his name printed in big black letters, the 'X' unlit above it. He didn't know it was her, didn't know she was standing right behind him, breaking all over again. She steeled her nerves, walking to face the crowd as she began to pour her soul into the song.
I should've told you to leave
'Cause I knew all the time you couldn't handle me
But you're hard to resist
When you're on your knees begging me
She closed her eyes, bringing her fist to her heart as she leaned forward, swaying with the music, fighting back the tears with her closed eyes. She couldn't do this, couldn't face him.
I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally
Can't help myself from hurting you when it's hurting me
I don't have wings, so flying with me won't be easy
'Cause I'm not an angel, I'm not an angel
Her heart lurched as the first chair turned, the allotted amount of time passing for the stylist to see her, to see if she had the right look. Magnus Bane, as the back of his chair had said, was dressed head-to-toe in a forest green, velvet suit, topped off with a sparkling green top hat. She glanced away, knowing it was rude to stare, and ignored his peculiar cat-eyed gaze as she continued to sing, relieved that he didn't punch the button to stop the song.
Hate being that wall
That you hit when you feel like you gave it all
I keep taking the blame
When we both know that I'll never change
She fought back laughter at the swaying crowd, watching some attempt to sing the unfamiliar lyrics as others just moved with the music.
I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally
Can't help myself from hurting you when it's hurting me
I don't have wings, so flying with me won't be easy
'Cause I'm not an angel, I'm not an angel
The second chair whirled around, Maia Roberts, the publicist and assistant. Clary tried to project humility, a polar opposite to Jace, who radiated arrogance. Maia's brown eyes were narrowed, curly chocolate tendrils escaping from the severe bun at the back of her head, framing her tanned face. Her plum claws scraped across the big red button but didn't apply any pressure.
I wasn't always this way, I used to be the one with the halo
That disappeared when I had my first taste
And fell from grace, it left me in this place
Now I'm starting to think maybe you like it
Jordan Kyle, the new manager, turned around with a smirk, only an echo of the kind that so often adorned Jace's face. His sandy-brown hair was shaggy, hazel eyes flirtatious as he straightened his tie. He was there for the sound, to find the perfect contrast between the opener and the headliner. His hand didn't even inch toward the button.
I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally
Can't help myself from hurting you when it's hurting me
I don't have wings, so flying with me won't be easy
'Cause I'm not an angel, I'm not an angel
Clary couldn't look as time came for the final chair to spin, for her to meet those aged golden eyes that once were brimmed with endless comfort and security and now held infinite loneliness. So instead, she turned to the crowd, spreading one arm out wide as she moved her arms in time with them, singing for herself rather than the panel of judges. Her eyes slipped shut as she belted out the last lines, ears lost in the eruption of applause as she finished, her chin tucked against her chest as the music died. In that moment, she'd forgotten about Jace, forgotten about the crowd around her, forgotten about the television show. It was just her and her chest heaving up and down as the notes faded, just her and the strength growing inside her.
I'm not an angel
I'm not an angel
I'm not an angel
I'm not an angel
Ugh, so close, yet, so far. The song is I'm Not an Angel by Halestorm!
All My Love,
BallinBlonde21