Hey, guys! This is MaxWaylandGrey updating for Camille. I was going to call her something else, but I think it would have been innappropriate. Thing is, this was supposed to be up on Saturday or yesterday, but someone gave me the wrong email. So, me—being oh-so smart ;)—found the right email that she wanted me to use. xD I swear, this chick. Anyways, awesome chapter! I have no idea when Camille will be back because she forgot to tell me such things. She didn't give me specifics of what to do here so... I'm rambling. Enjoy and review at the end! :D
"Clary." Someone's voice called her name, but she didn't know who. She felt like shit. Her head hurt—her whole body hurt—and she was a mess. She could tell before she opened her eyes.
Jocelyn stood in front of her bed. "Finally," she said sourly.
"Whaddaya want?" Clary's voice was slurred.
"Hungover." Jocelyn looked terribly disappointed in her daughter; not that said daughter minded. Said daughter grinned at the thought of hurting her mother by the means of disappointment.
"Me?" Clary didn't remember much. She remembered Jace. That she remembered a bit too well. She smirked, unable to help herself.
"Do you think this is funny?" Jocelyn snapped.
"Quite hilarious, actually."
Her mother was fuming. "You're grounded. You need to go out to the beach."
Fuck my life.
Clary's mother knew that the only way to really punish her daughter was making her go out—especially here. She was content with being locked up in her room, but her mother wouldn't have that. So that was always her punishment.
"For how long?"
"A whole day. You can only keep your phone."
"Fine," Clary said, voice even, though she was shaking with fury. "Get out."
"Do NOT speak to me like that."
"I need to change," Clary said, ushering her mother out of the room and slamming her door as hard as she could.
She wore a white tank top underneath an oversized belly-button shirt, one that was light, but gave her more coverage. She wore that along with black shorts and her converse.
Her mother didn't even glance at her as she strolled into the kitchen and ate breakfast in a corner. She had a bag with her. Wordlessly, she went into her mother's room and took out five twenty-dollar bills out of her purse. If she was going to punish her, she was going to have to try better.
She shoved some of her boredom food in there, too, and then she said, "Bye!" to nothing in particular and strolled out of the house.
The air was hot and humid, as per usual. Palm trees surrounded Clary's view. People were playing beach volleyball, but she didn't care. She wasn't going to the beach. She walked toward the left, toward the festival—the summer festival, one they held around here, according to her research. Research. She snorted. She had to do as much in order to figure out what the hell she was going to do in annoyingly sunny LA for three months. She kicked at the sand, rock music blasting through her headphones. She didn't look up, just at the floor. She didn't care if people stared. She knew she looked out of place. Honestly? She didn't mind. When she did raise her head, she was about to run straight into a little boy.
He wore glasses, his hair was brown, and all Clary could think of was Simon. He reminded her of him so much. The reminder made her miss him, and she was suddenly very anxious for him to get here.
"I'm sorry," Clary said, plugging her headphones out of her ears. "Are you okay? Where are your parents?"
"I'm okay," he said. "I'm here with my siblings."
"Max!"
The voice calling this boy was very, very familiar to Clary. She looked up at the girl approaching them, and everything suddenly clicked: she was Isabelle Lightwood, and he was Max Lightwood, the kid that was too young for the gala, but that their mother spoke so highly of. Clary smiled at Isabelle, her smile dying slowly as she saw who came behind her.
Jace-fucking-Wayland.
"Well," Clary said, already plugging her headphones back in again. "I'm sorry again. I'll make it up to you sometime."
"Nice to see you," Isabelle said to Clary.
"Same." Clary gave her one last, hopefully kind-looking smile before walking away, not even sneaking a glance at Jace. She tried not to think about his golden eyes, about his golden hair, about how his voice sounded the night before while he—
The festival wasn't really a festival, but the sight of it took her breath away. Bright lights shone from tents, lights of all colors. There were those mirrors that made you look skinny and fat, she realized with a smile, and went to try them. She discovered that it was mostly a place where people would ride in roller coasters, a place in which people could play those games where they have to break the bottles and they earned a gigantic stuffed animal. That was what was in the festival—which was more of a carnival—and Clary liked it. There was nothing like this in New York, not really. Not like it was here. And they wouldn't let her out of their sight in Montana, so she felt free.
She was free.
She went to the first game she could find—the one with the bottles—and tried it out. She played three rounds before finally giving up. She went to some stands and bought some shirts—needed for the weather. She played more games—and never won, not even once. As fun as it was, she would've liked to walk home with a bear that was about her size by her side.
Nighttime had fallen by the time she started to head back. She decided to linger in a bonfire some people were having. Not too far away, yet not too near. She started to think of the things she'd gone through: boarding schools, years without a father, and now this. She shook her head. She didn't want to be her mother's prisoner. And she had to fight for her freedom. If it means losing her mother in the process, then so be it. Because, with a pang in her chest, she realized that her mother was already lost—she'd slipped away from her a long time ago, and there was nothing she could do.
She thought of happier things, like Simon, the only friend loyal enough to move every time Clary was expelled from a boarding school. His mother demanded Simon spent a week or two in her house, and then he could go to Clary's beach house. She smiled, thinking of how much that must've bothered him. She would see him soon, though.
And she would see Jace. For some reason, it made her stomach flutter, the newborn butterflies in it waking up.
She walked back to her house, still giddy. She hadn't felt so free in awhile. But then she decided that she needed to look happy when her mother saw her, not miserable—or maybe miserable. Yes, she decided. She would act like she looked miserable. Like a survivor. She did it, after all.
She opened the door to her house. Jocelyn stood there, waiting for her.
"Where have you been?"
"You," Clary said, pointing at her, "said to be out all day. And I was."
"It's one in the freaking morning!"
"I didn't know," Clary said, surprisingly meaning it.
"Go to your room."
"I suppose this means I'm not grounded. After all, I did what you asked me to."
"Just go."
Clary slammed the door shut—hard—in front of her mother's face.
After she showered and slipped on her pajamas, she lay down on her bed and started listening to music. One of her favorite songs came on, and she found herself humming the lyrics.
I feel happy,
I feel sad,
I feel like running through the walls.
I'm overjoyed,
I'm undecided,
I don't know who I am.
Well, maybe I'm not perfect,
At least I'm working on it.
Twenty-two is like the worst idea that I could ever have,
There's too much pain,
There's too much freedom,
What should I do with this?
It's not the way you plan it,
It's how you make it happen.
Clary wondered if being confused would stay with her forever. Like the writer of the song, she was sad and overjoyed and happy at the same time. She didn't know who she was. Well, she did, but she didn't think everyone else did. She was NOT perfect, and she wasn't working on it. But she knew there would be more of this to come, more of the pain and her mother's denial. She cradled her head between her hands and continued to listen, ceasing the humming.
It's such a cold, cold world,
And I can't get out,
So I'll just make the best,
Of everything we'll never have.
It's such a cold, cold world,
That has got me down,
But I'll get right back up,
As long as spins around.
Hello, cold world.
Girls and boys keep lining up,
To see if they can measure up,
And they look good,
And they feel wow,
But it will never be enough.
You say you're really hurting,
At least you're feeling something.
And we can hope,
And we can pray that everything will work out fine,
But you can't just stay down on your knees,
The revolution is outside,
You wanna make a difference,
Get out and go to get it.
And that was what Clary wanted to do. She wanted to go for it—to go for what she wanted. Her mother always wanted to be an artist, and that was where Clary got her talent from. That was who she wanted to be. She wanted to be free of her mother, free of her leashes and parties and galas; and Jace—this world—was not about to change that.
I won't change. I won't.
That was her last thought before she fell asleep.
/
Kaelie hadn't slept over. Her choice, not his.
He felt free—free of her, free of her games. She would be mad one second, and the other he was pinned against a wall and her hand was rubbing his crotch. He shook his head. He liked women he could understand, or at least women who weren't trying too hard to be clear.
He thought about seeing Clary last night for the first time since the night before. She looked different, more like herself, walking with her dark clothing and her upbeat music blasting from her headphones. She was beautiful.
Jace paused.
He'd never called a girl beautiful before. Pretty? Yes. Hot? All the time. Sexy? Mostly in bed, but no restrictions applied. But beautiful? No. He had never called a girl beautiful, and he'd just thought of Clary that way.
Oh, but she was beautiful. Her flaming red curls gave her a spitfire look. She could kill anyone with that glare; make anyone her slave with that voice.
"Jace!" Isabelle said, pounding on his door, snapping him out of his thoughts that were leading nowhere good. "Let's take Max to Clary's."
Jace paused. "Am I dreaming?"
Isabelle snorted. "You wish. Why?"
"Why are we going to Clary's?"
"She reads manga, so does he . . . I don't know." Isabelle shrugged and walked away, making her way down the stairs and yelling, "Max, you've got five minutes before I'm gone! You too, Jace!"
And, no matter how much he tried to deny it, he wanted to see her. He wanted to see her hair and hear her voice, wanted to feel pressured to be his best under her glare.
Mostly, he wanted to take her lips and crush them to his.
He shook his head. Clary would never, ever fall for that. Another shake of the head while he dressed—a black shirt and jeans would suffice, he decided.
Why did he care?
He was downstairs in two minutes, running a hand through his hair and jogging to the kitchen. He took a bite of some leftover bagel and served himself orange juice. He gulped that down in two minutes as well, leaving him with half a minute to spare.
He was out the door before Max and Isabelle, and he didn't notice it until he heard her laughter from the house.
"You're already crazy about her?" She shook her head. "Damn, this is gonna be fun."
"Shut up." He glared.
"Too much fun," she repeated, and then she drove away—toward Clary's house.
Jace tuned his siblings out, concentrating on playing on the radio, which he didn't even know the name of. He stared out the window as the music blasted through the car's speakers.
She takes her time with the little things,
Love notes reminding me,
She wears red when she's feeling hot,
I have her, but it's all I got.
She looks best without her clothes,
I know it's wrong,
But that's the way it goes.
I don't know what she sees in me,
But I'm happy,
And she's happy now,
That she's with me,
And I'm freaking out,
Because I'm just so lucky.
And she makes me feel like shit,
But I can't get over it,
'Cause she's everything I ask for,
Everything I ask for,
And just a little bit more.
Everything I ask for,
Everything I ask for,
And so much more.
Jace shut his eyes. He wished he could say he thought of Kaelie naked, of Kaelie making him feel like shit. But the thing was, he didn't like it.
He thought of Clary: her nose ring, her red hair, her attitude. And he imagined her naked. When that thought—that image—crossed his mind, he looked away, embarrassed. Even though he'd thought like that of many girls before, it was weird to think of Clary like that. Because, as cheesy sounding as it was, she was different.
They pulled up in her driveway. It was empty, but somehow, Jace knew Clary was inside. Isabelle, Max and Jace exited the car, and the older girl rung the house bell twice before a man appeared in front of them.
"Fairchild residence," he said. "Who are you?"
"We are family friends, here to see Clary." Isabelle wrapped his arms around Max. At the mention of Clary, his eyes lit up, and he started to bounce up and down.
The guy eyed them before jerking his head and letting them in.
"Jocelyn?" Clary's voice echoed through the house. She was on top of the stairs, just like she had been the night she and Jace met, only she wore a simple t-shirt, some sweatpants, and her hair was messy.
"Nope. Way more interesting people," said Isabelle, a grin on her face as Clary raced down the stairs.
"Hi," she said, panting when she was down there. Her eyes slid to meet Jace's stare for a brief moment, and then she continued to pay attention to Isabelle.
"Max says you love manga. So does he, so he wanted to . . . talk about it? Was that it?" Her eyes searched confirmation in Max's. Very eagerly, he nodded and explained everything to her. They soon got into a deep, thoughtful conversation about manga. Jace studied her while she talked, studied the way her smile was soft, so unlike that night that it was a wonder he was standing in front of the same person.
"Do you have any cookies?" Max asked, rubbing his belly.
"Max!" Isabelle scolded.
"It's fine," Clary said to Isabelle, then turned back to Max and said, "The kitchen is right there," pointing to the hallway to the right side of the stairs. "Second door. You can't miss it. They should have something in there." She ruffled his hair a second before he took off running toward the kitchen.
Then she turned serious and looked at Jace. "What are you doing here?"
"Whoa," Isabelle said, "did I miss something?"
"Izzy, stay out of this," Jace told her, a bit too harshly. He didn't apologize. "They wanted me to tag along."
"If it's so painful," Clary said, rolling her eyes, "you can leave."
"Oh," he said, now standing as close to her as he could get, whispering in her ear. "But I don't want to."
Her heartbeat quickened, Jace noticed with a smirk. He stayed in the same position, not moving, not even one inch.
And then she narrowed her eyes.
"Fuck you," she said.
"You will," he said, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. "And you will like it."
"I sure as hell won't. And," she added, a smile forming in her lips, this one innocent, "you have a girlfriend."
Through gritted teeth, he said, "She won't be for long."
"Asshat."
"What?" For the first time in a long time, Jace looked as confused as he felt.
"You are an asshat, a dickhead, and you sure as hell don't deserve to be here, so get out." She walked over to the door and opened it for him.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious."
He stared at her, hoping the warm, happy Clary would return. Instead, there stood Clary, glaring at him and barking at him, yelling at him to GET OUT OF THE FUCKING HOUSE.
With a disappointed sigh, he did as told.
Why?
He didn't know.
But he was going to find out.
