Dear Isabelle . . .
Should he start with “dear”? It was the way you started letters, but now that he saw it, it looked weird and old-fashioned and maybe too intimate.
He got a new piece of paper.
Isabelle . . .
Well, that looked stark. Like he was angry, just saying her name like that.
Another paper.
Izzy,
Nope. Definitely not. They were not at pet names yet. How the hell did you start a letter like this? Simon considered a casual “Hey . . .” or maybe just forgetting the salutation and getting right to the message. Texting was so much easier than this.
He picked up the paper that started with “Isabelle” again. It was the middle choice. He would have to go with that.
Isabelle,
I fell out of a tree today.
I’m thinking of you while I’m in my moldy bed.
I saw Jace today. He may develop food poisoning. Just wanted you to know.
I’m Batman.
I’m trying to figure out how to write this letter.
Okay. That was a possible start, and true.
Let me tell you something you already know—you’re amazing. You know it. I know it. Anyone can see that. Here’s the problem—I don’t know what I am. I have to figure out who I am before I can accept that I’m someone who deserves someone like you. It’s not something I can accept just because I’ve heard it. I need to know that guy. And I know I am that guy you loved—I just have to meet him.
I’m trying to figure out how that happens. I guess it happens here, in this school where they try to kill you every day. I think it takes time. I know things that take time are annoying. I know it’s hard. But I have to get there the hard way.
This letter is probably stupid. I don’t know if you’re still reading. I don’t know if you’re going to rip this up or slice it in half with your whip or what.
All of that came out in one solid flow. He tapped the pen against his forehead for a minute.
I’m going to give this to Jace to give to you. He’s been trailing me around all day like some kind of Jacey shadow. He’s either here to make sure I don’t die, or to make sure I die, or maybe because of you. Maybe you sent him.
I don’t know. He’s Jace. Who knows what he’s doing? I’m going to give this to him. He may read it before it gets to you. Jace, if you’re reading this, I’m pretty sure you’re going to get food poisoning. Do not use the bathrooms.
It wasn’t romantic, but he decided to leave it in. It might make Isabelle laugh.
If you are reading this, Jace, stop now.
Izzy—I don’t know why you would wait for me, but if you do, I promise to make myself worth that wait. Or I’ll try. I can promise I am going to try.
—Simon
Simon opened the door and was not surprised to find Jace standing outside of it.
“Here,” Simon said, handing him the letter.
“Took you long enough,” Jace said.
“Now we’re even,” said Simon. “Go party in the Herondale house with your weird family.”
“I plan to,” said Jace, and smiled a sudden, strangely endearing smile. He had a chipped tooth. The smile made him seem like he was Simon’s age, and maybe they were friends after all. “Good night, Wiggles.”
“Wiggles?”
“Yes, Wiggles. Your nickname? It’s what you always made us call you. I almost forgot your name was Simon, I’m so used to calling you Wiggles.”
“Wiggles? What does that . . . even mean?”
“You would never explain,” Jace said with a shrug. “It was the big mystery about you. As I said, good night, Wiggles. I’ll take care of this.”
He held up the letter and used it to make a salute.
Simon shut the door. He knew most people on the hall had probably done everything they could to make sure they heard that exchange. He knew that in the morning he would be called Wiggles and there was nothing he would ever be able to do about it.
But it was a small price to pay to get a letter to Isabelle.
Nothing but Shadows
By Cassandra Clare and Sarah Rees Brennan
The world transformed into sliding grayness, everything still moving slower than James was. Everything was sliding and insubstantial: The battering ram came at him and through him, unable to hurt him; it was like being splashed with water. James lifted a hand and saw the gray air full of stars.
—Nothing but Shadows
I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them to be real.
—Oscar Wilde
Shadowhunter Academy, 2008
The afternoon sunlight was streaming warm through the arrow-slit windows of their classroom, painting the gray stone walls yellow. The elites and the dregs alike were sleepy from a long morning of training with Scarsbury, and Catarina Loss was giving them a history lesson. History applied to both the elites and the dregs, so they could all learn of the glory of the Shadowhunters and aspire to be a part of that glory. In this class, Simon thought, none of them seemed that different from each other—not that they were all united in aspiring to glory, but they were all equally glazed with boredom.
Until Marisol answered a question correctly, and Jon Cartwright kicked the back of her chair.
“Awesome,” Simon hissed behind his book. “That’s really cool behavior. Congratulations, Jon. Every time a mundie answers a question wrong, you say it’s because they can’t rise to the level of Shadowhunters. And every time one of us answers a question right, you punish them. I have to admire your consistency.”
George Lovelace leaned back in his chair and grinned, feeding Simon his next line. “I don’t see how that’s consistent, Si.”
“Well, he’s consistently a jackass,” Simon explained.
“I can think of a few other words for him,” George remarked. “But some of them cannot be used around ladies, and some of them are Gaelic and cannot be understood by you mad foreigners.”
Jon looked upset. Possibly he was upset that their chairs were too far away to kick.
“I just think she shouldn’t speak out of turn,” he said.
“It’s true that if you mundies listened to us Shadowhunters,” said Julie, “you might learn something.”
“If you Shadowhunters ever listened,” said Sunil, a mundie boy who lived down the (slimy) hall from George and Simon, “you might learn a few things yourself.”
Voices were rising. Catarina was beginning to look very annoyed. Simon gestured to Marisol and Jon to be quiet, but they both ignored him. Simon felt the same way as when he and Clary had set a fire in his kitchen by trying to toast grapes and create raisins when they were six: amazed and appalled that things had gone wrong so fast.
Then he realized that was a new memory. He grinned at the thought of Clary with exploded grape in her red hair, and let the classroom situation escalate.
“I’ll teach you some lessons down in the training grounds,” Jon snapped. “I could challenge you to a duel. Watch your mouth.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” remarked Marisol.
“Oh, hey now,” said Beatriz. “Duels with fourteen-year-olds are a bad idea.”