City of Bones (The Mortal Instruments, #1)(8)

Jocelyn Fray was a slim, compact woman, her hair a few shades darker than Clary’s and twice as long. At the moment it was twisted up in a dark red knot, stuck through with a graphite pen to hold it in place. She wore paint-spattered overalls over a lavender T-shirt, and brown hiking boots whose soles were caked with oil paint.

People always told Clary that she looked like her mother, but she couldn’t see it herself. The only thing that was similar about them was their figures: They were both slender, with small chests and narrow hips. She knew she wasn’t beautiful like her mother was. To be beautiful you had to be willowy and tall. When you were as short as Clary was, just over five feet, you were cute. Not pretty or beautiful, but cute. Throw in carroty hair and a face full of freckles, and she was a Raggedy Ann to her mother’s Barbie doll.

Jocelyn even had a graceful way of walking that made people turn their heads to watch her go by. Clary, by contrast, was always tripping over her feet. The only time people turned to watch her go by was when she hurtled past them as she fell downstairs.

“Thanks for bringing the boxes up,” Clary’s mother said to Luke, and smiled at him. He didn’t return the smile. Clary’s stomach did an uneasy flip. Clearly there was something going on. “Sorry it took me so long to find a space. There must be a million people at the park today—”

“Mom?” Clary interrupted. “What are the boxes for?”

Jocelyn bit her lip. Luke flicked his eyes toward Clary, mutely urging Jocelyn forward. With a nervous twitch of her wrist, Jocelyn pushed a dangling lock of hair behind her ear and went to join her daughter on the couch.

Up close Clary could see how tired her mother looked. There were dark half-moons under her eyes, and her lids were pearly with sleeplessness.

“Is this about last night?” Clary asked.

“No,” her mother said quickly, and then hesitated. “Maybe a little. You shouldn’t have done what you did last night. You know better.”

“And I already apologized. What is this about? If you’re grounding me, get it over with.”

“I’m not,” said her mother, “grounding you.” Her voice was as taut as a wire. She glanced at Luke, who shook his head.

“Just tell her, Jocelyn,” he said.

“Could you not talk about me like I’m not here?” Clary said angrily. “And what do you mean, ‘tell me’? Tell me what?”

Jocelyn expelled a sigh. “We’re going on vacation.”

Luke’s expression went blank, like a canvas wiped clean of paint.

Clary shook her head. “That’s what this is about? You’re going on vacation?” She sank back against the cushions. “I don’t get it. Why the big production?”

“I don’t think you understand. I meant we’re all going on vacation. The three of us—you, me, and Luke. We’re going to the farmhouse.”

“Oh.” Clary glanced at Luke, but he had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring out the window, his jaw pulled tight. She wondered what was upsetting him. He loved the old farmhouse in upstate New York—he’d bought and restored it himself ten years before, and he went there whenever he could. “For how long?”

“For the rest of the summer,” said Jocelyn. “I brought the boxes in case you want to pack up any books, painting supplies—”

“For the rest of the summer?” Clary sat upright with indignation. “I can’t do that, Mom. I have plans—simon and I were going to have a back-to-school party, and I’ve got a bunch of meetings with my art group, and ten more classes at Tisch—”

“I’m sorry about Tisch. But the other things can be canceled. Simon will understand, and so will your art group.”

Clary heard the implacability in her mother’s tone and realized she was serious. “But I paid for those art classes! I saved up all year! You promised.” She whirled, turning to Luke. “Tell her! Tell her it isn’t fair!”

Luke didn’t look away from the window, though a muscle jumped in his cheek. “She’s your mother. It’s her decision to make.”

“I don’t get it.” Clary turned back to her mother. “Why?”

“I have to get away, Clary,” Jocelyn said, the corners of her mouth trembling. “I need the peace, the quiet, to paint. And money is tight right now—”

“So sell some more of Dad’s stocks,” Clary said angrily. “That’s what you usually do, isn’t it?”

Jocelyn recoiled. “That’s hardly fair.”

“Look, go if you want to go. I don’t care. I’ll stay here without you. I can work; I can get a job at Starbucks or something. Simon said they’re always hiring. I’m old enough to take care of myself—”

“No!” The sharpness in Jocelyn’s voice made Clary jump. “I’ll pay you back for the art classes, Clary. But you are coming with us. It isn’t optional. You’re too young to stay here on your own. Something could happen.”

“Like what? What could happen?” Clary demanded.

There was a crash. She turned in surprise to find that Luke had knocked over one of the framed pictures leaning against the wall. Looking distinctly upset, he set it back. When he straightened, his mouth was set in a grim line. “I’m leaving.”