How can you learn what's never shown?

Jace

I wake up with a splitting headache. I've been sleeping in various parks around the city, dodging cops, and showering in the school lockers for a month now. Today I'm waking up under a tree a mile away from school. My schoolbooks are in my locker in the school gym because I knew it would rain so I wanted to protect them. How'd I know about the rain? I have a library card which means I have access to a computer with internet. How did I get my schoolbooks in the school after hours? I may have broken in.

My stomach growls and a wave of nausea washes over me. I haven't eaten anything since one of the guys on the team gave me a packet of trail-mix yesterday. What's worse is I nearly passed out after practice. Part of me is glad I won't have to go to practice soon because the school year is almost over. The other part of me is worried about what I'll do in three weeks when it's over.

I've tried to apply for jobs all over the city but no one has found my application worthwhile. I guess no one wants to hire straight-A high school students with zero job experience. Or maybe all the jobs have been taken. I don't know. Maybe I'm not applying for the right jobs.

Walking to school is easy; it's waiting for the school to open so I can sneak into the locker-room that's difficult. Lucky for me the Lightwoods have not announced that they kicked me out. Not so lucky for me, the janitor has caught on that someone who isn't on the swim team is using the showers every morning. The doors are locked until the bell rings for everyone to go to their first class. That's terrific.

Izzy catches my eye as the doors open. She tries to pick through the crowd but I scurry away like the rat her parents think I am. Isabelle brings extra food and clothes for me every day. This doesn't make her a bad person. I don't hate her for it. The thing is, I'm done accepting charity from the Lightwoods.

Sitting in art class is awkward. I reek and my clothes are still damp from the rain so I'm cold. Unfortunately, I can't skip class because it's the last week to work on our paintings and I'm not done with mine yet. If I want to maintain straight A's, I'm going to need to complete this painting. It's a test grade.

It's worse when Clary sits beside me. My face feels hot with embarrassment because I know she can smell me. Of course this is the time my stomach chooses to growl. Food is hard to come by and I haven't had a proper meal in four weeks. I've lost weight and my jeans don't fit the way they should anymore. I had to make new holes in my belt to keep my jeans up. I can't remember being this hungry and worn out since I lived with my father.

I can't look at Clary.

Someone slips something into my hands. I look to see Clary handing me a sandwich wrapped up in plastic-wrap. Shaking my head, I try to give it back to her but she drops her hands. I almost drop my hands too, but my hands decide for me. I'm starving. I catch the sandwich before it can hit the floor. Then I put it in my bag.

"Thanks." I whisper. This physically hurts to say. It's not just because it hurts my pride; my throat feels like it's on fire.

"No worries." Clary smiles at me. She knows something's wrong. She hasn't approached me about it but I can tell she knows. Either she knows Isabelle, or she saw me sleeping in the cemetery last week. I thought I saw her there but I wasn't sure. Maybe I did. Maybe that's what the sandwich is for. Or maybe she's tired of hearing my stomach growl every morning.

We're allowed to listen to music during class. It's probably to prevent us from talking loudly. I no longer have any kind of electronic device to listen to music with, so I paint in silence. Clary finished her project last class so she pours over her sketchbook. She's always drawing in her spare time. I find this habit beautiful. I'm not allowed to say anything about it. Doing so would be endangering her, so I just focus on my painting. My painting is of Max's glasses on a crosswalk. One of the lenses is cracked. There's a speckle of blood on the crosswalk. Max is nowhere in sight. We're supposed to draw our worst fear. All I want is for him to be okay. My worse fear is for him to die on my account-like he almost died that day.

"Do you wanna listen?" Clary asks.

I look to see her holding out an orange earbud. I'm not sure what possesses me to do it, but I take the earbud and put it in my ear.

Clary starts a song with the words: "I'm holding on to what I know and what I know I must let go, but I would rather play a song for the eyes to sing along."

"Who's this?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Twenty One Pilots." Clary replies. "This song is called "Glowing Eyes"."

I nod in confirmation that I heard her. We listen to several other songs by the same artist. There wasn't a single one that I don't like.

"If you ever want to talk about what's wrong, you can talk to me." Clary says.

"I'm not good at asking for help." I admit.

"You can do it." She tells me.

"How can you learn what's never shown?" I ask.

"What do you mean?" She asks.

"My father never showed me how to ask for help." I admit, surprised I'm telling her this much as I fill in the rest of the truth in my head. I was punished when I tried.

"There's no shame in asking for help. You just have to ask." Clary looks at me earnestly.

I want to but the bell rings before I get the nerve. Instead, I hand her the earbud and say, "You have a good taste in music."

Then I escape.