I Hate You (IN EDITING)

This Summer

Clary sat at her desk, thick curls concealing the left side of her face from Jace Herondale, someone she really, truly disliked. And for Clary—a person who liked to see the good in people, rather than the bad—and saying that she truly disliked Jace Herondale, was saying something. Waiting for last period to end was like waiting for the merciless New York sun in summer to leave for the winter—an eternity.

The clock ticked like a bomb that would never explode and set the people free. She watched the minutes tick by with bloodshot eyes, having stayed up to study for her final exam of the semester that day—which she'd scored an A minus on.

She tapped her pencil in her open notebook, as the balding teacher drawled on about something—whatever he was talking about couldn't be that important: it was the last day of school, after all.

Clary snapped out of her daze, jumping back in her hard-backed seat when a piece of abused paper, balled up, landed directly in front of her, rocking softly on her notebook page. She pressed a hand flush against her chest, where her heart was thudding furiously with bat wings, which, unlike butterfly wings, were rough and not in the least gentle or giggle-worthy.

She knew it wasn't some "gift" from Jace, but rather an note from Isabelle, when, out of her peripheral vision, she caught the raven-haired beauty snapping her head forward, paying attention to Mr. Starkweather's lecture like her life depended on it. With delicate fingers, Clary picked up the scrunched up paper, unfolding it and praying to whatever resided in heaven or hell—or whatever was true—that the paper in her hands made no noise.

I'm driving you home.
-I

Clary felt her mouth straining as she tried to keep a straight face, facing the board at the front, where nearly illegible script was painted across the blackboard.

Her mind eventually began to wander off to thoughts of the house she'd be staying in throughout the summer, in Virginia. Sure, she had seen pictures before she and her friends had rented it, but things rarely looked as they did in pictures.

Clary could imagine swimming in the beach nearby, the breeze blowing and brushing her hair off of her bare shoulders. She could imagine drawing, drawing the lush wildlife growing wildly around the house. She could imagine drawing Izzy basking in the rich summer sun on the beach. She could imagine drawing Magnus, grinning madly at her through the barrier of glitter he typically wore.

Clary had all but swooned at her thoughts. This was going to be an amazing summer, unlike summers before, spent hiding away in her Brownstone, the only place in New York that seemed to have a functioning AC. And even then, it hadn't been cool enough.

Clary felt the sun burning her skin all over again at the thoughts; she quickly shook away the sweaty memories.

She looked around the classroom, wishing for it to be Magnus or even Alec, who she didn't talk to so often, to be sharing Mr. Starkweather's class, rather than Jace. Anyone but Jace.

The bell sounded, signalling the long-awaited end of eleventh grade.

Clary felt tears burning, felt the urge to weep at the wonderful sound.

But, she held back her tears, because no way would she allow Jace to see her so weak—or make a comment about it. She often wondered what she had ever done to him.

Clary swallowed the thoughts, shoving her notebook hastily into her bag, swinging it over her shoulder, not even bothering with the pesky zipper that was so worn it never kept the bag shut.

After what seemed like forever, Isabelle strode from the classroom, a particularly mischievous grin coating her chiselled features, and like a nasty cold, Clary caught the grin, gladly letting it crack her face in two.