Homework was hard that night. Jace's pencil was obviously more potent than he even knew, bringing my fantasies from the bed to the desk. Not in a secretary-boss fetish way. I mean, from dreams to daydreams. Maybe fantasies was the wrong word.

Unfortunately, it appeared that my pathetic crush had been intensified by the day's events, leaving me with absurd hopes that perhaps, finally, he would notice (read: desperately love) me and that any moment now, he'd call and ask me to prom (he doesn't even have my number) or propose an elopement. (Oh, Jace…We're so young. I couldn't pos-Yes! YES!) It would be all his fault if I failed tomorrow's math test. Why'd he have to come so close I could smell him? In case you're wondering, he smells like warmth. Yeah. I said it. Warmth. Like sunshine. If sunshine was edible. Maybe vanilla sunshine.

I'm losing it.

I went to move the pencil away from me, hoping my reason might return and, along with it, my ability to differentiate equations. This was a mistake. Pencil in hand, I had an Ouija-board moment, unconsciously sketching out a total babe where my calculations should be. I also sketched him shirtless (um, also unconsciously).

Though I'd never actually seen his naked torso, I'm sure my drawing was highly accurate, for faces like his must be accompanied with an equally stunning, ab-ulous figure. Otherwise, the world would implode. Adonis simply cannot have a third nipple.

Mothers have a habit of walking in when they're not wanted. Mine happened to walk in as I was testing out the third nipple theory.

'Clary, have you…Oooh, who's that?'

'Um… No one? I just…made him up'

'Hey, he looks a bit like that boy you had a crush on when you were, oh, 13? The one from your class photo. What was his name again? Jarrod? No... Ace? Ace. That's what it was.'

Hmm. I did vaguely recall telling my mother, back when I was ignorant of the ways of high school and dazzled by my first sighting of that fine specimen of all that is right in the world, that I had found the boy who would be my husband. No longer so naïve, I had refrained from informing her that my little infatuation had lasted a few years and was in fact still going strong.

Though I could easily understand that a face like his could be so memorable (even at 13, he was a heartbreaker), why did she always have to remember the embarrassing things?

'Oh.'

'Is that him? He sure grew up well. I can see why you still have that crush. You know, I used to draw pictures of your father.'

I didn't really know what to say.

No, Mom, you've got it wrong. I don't have a crush. How juvenile. I'm just drawing beautiful, topless men due to my keen appreciation for pleasing aesthetics. As an artist, okay?

'What? No. No. I completely forgot about that guy. It's not him. That guy, uh, he actually grew up real ugly. Really unfortunate case of acne, actually.'

Pfft. What was truly unfortunate was the injustice that someone already so gifted had never, ever suffered a pimple.

'He piled on the pounds, too.'

Of muscle. Mmm.

'Clary! Be nice. I'm sure he's a lovely boy.'

I sighed.

'Sorry, Mom.'

She leaned close to the sketch.

'It is a pity that this isn't real. If I were ten years younger and he were ten years older…'

She paused, frowning at the image.

'Is that a third nipple?'