The kitchen was bright, cheerful yellow, the walls decorated with framed chalk and pencil sketches Simon and Rebecca had done in grade school. Rebecca had some drawing talent, you could tell, but Simon's sketches of people all looked like parking meters with tufts of hair.

A diary with no drawings of me in it? Where are the torrid fantasies? The romance covers?

Have you tried talking to her?" "No. We've been punching her in the face repeatedly. What? You don't think that will work?

Simon I've been trying to call you, but it seems like your phone is turned off. I don't know where you are right now. I don't know if Clary's already told you what happened tonight. But I have to go to Magnus's and I'd really like you to be there. I'm scared for my brother. I never ask you for anything, Simon, but I'm asking you now. Please come. Isabelle. Simon let the letter fall from his hand. He was out of the apartment and on his way down the steps before it had even hit the floor.

She looked up at him with a smile. The smile broke what was left of his resistance--shattered it. He had let the walls down when he'd thought she was gone, and there was no time to build them back up.

Let the sky rain potatoes," said a musing voice. "Let it thunder to the tune of Greensleeves.

Don't sulk. For someone with all the grace and coordination of a pregnant wildebeest, you did great.